Work Text:
The metal hinge screamed like a dying dragon as the cellar door swung open. Snotlout had always hated that sound—ever since he was six and his uncle locked him in the pantry overnight for stealing honey cakes.
Cold stone pressed against Hiccup’s cheek as he blinked awake, his vision swimming in and out of focus. His wrists were raw from the ropes, the fibers digging deeper every time he shifted. Across the dimly lit cellar, Snotlout was slumped against the opposite wall, his usual bravado replaced by something quieter, tighter. “You alive over there?” Snotlout muttered, voice hoarse.
The creak of boots on stone made Snotlout’s head snap up. Viggo’s shadow stretched long and thin across the damp floor before he even stepped into the flickering torchlight. “Ah. You’re both awake,” he said, as if commenting on the weather. Behind him, Ryker’s bulk filled the doorway, his grin all teeht. “Good. We can skip the pleasantries.”
Ryker’s hand closed around Hiccup’s collar, yanking upright so fast his boots scraped against the stone. Hiccup’s breath hitched—a sound Snotlout had never heard from him before, not even when they’d faced the Red Death. “Ever seen a dragon’s fang up close, Haddock?” Ryker’s voice was low, almost conversational, as he pulled a curved blade from his belt. The edge gleamed dull organge in the torchlight.
The blade hovered inches from Hiccup’s throat, and Snotlout’s stomach twisted like a wrung-out rag. He’d seen Ryker fight before—brutal, efficient, always with that same detached amusement—but this was different. This wasn’t a battle; it was a performance. “Wait—“ Snotlout’s voice cracked, his fingers clawing at the damp stone behind him. ”You don’t have to—“
The blade pressed closer, kissing the skin just below Hiccup’s jaw. He could feel Ryker’s breath—warm and reeking of stale mead—against his temple. But instead of flinching, Hiccup let out a shaky laugh. “You know,” he said, voice thin but deliberate, “if you’re trying to impress me with the whole ‘menacing villain’ routine, you might want to work on your timing.”
Ryker’s grip tightened, the blade twitching against Hiccup’s skin—just enouth to draw a thin crimson bead. “Timing?” he echoed, voice darkening like storm clouds over the sea. “Funny. Last I checked, you’re the one tied up.”
A dry chuckle came from the doorway. Viggo leaned against the damp stone wall, arms crossed, his gaze flickering between them like a cat watching trapped birds. “Now, now, brother,” he murmured, “be careful with our guest. He’s worth more intact than in pieces.” His fingers tapped idly against his forearm, the rhythm uneven—deliberately so, Hiccup realized. Viggo always calculated his distractions.
“No, no, no—you hold the map upside down!“ Ruffnut’s voice cracked through the dense undergrowth like a whip. She snatched the crumpled parchment from Tuffnut’s hands, nearly tearing it in half. ”Look! the X is on the other side, you walnut!“
Tuffnut squinted at the map, then at Ruffnut, then at the map again. “Okay, but—hear me out—what if we’re the real ones upside down?“ He flipped himself onto his hands, legs dangling awkwardly in the air. The map fluttered to the forest floor. Fishlegs groaned, rubbing his temples like he could physically push his patience back into his skull. ”We don’t have time for this,“ he hissed, snatching the parchment before Ruffnut could set it on fire.
The moment Ryker turned to sneer at Viggo’s comment, Hiccup twisted his wrists—just enough to feel the frayed edge of the rope catch on the jagged stone behind him. He’d been working at it since they’d been thrown in here, rubbing his bonds raw against the uneven mortar. The fibers gave way with a quiet snap, and his fingers twitched free, numb and slick with blood. He didn’t dare look down.
The cellar door slammed shut behind Viggo and Ryker, the echo rattling Snotlout’s teeth. Silence pooled in the damp air like spilled ale—thick and sour. Hiccup exhaled through his nose, flexing his freed fingers behind his back, careful not to let the movement show.
Snotlout’s breath came in short, shallow bursts, his pulse hammering against his ribs like a trapped dragon trying to break free. He watched Hiccup’s face—the deliberate blankness, the way his eyes flicked once to the cellar door before settling back into something calm, calculated. Too calm. It set Snotlout’s teeth on edge. “What are you—“ he started, then cut himself off as Hiccup’s gaze snapped to him, sharp as a blade.
Hiccup held up a single finger—wait—and Snotlout clamped his mouth shut so fast his teeth clicked. The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring, before Hiccup finally rolled his shoulders and let out a slow breath. “Okay,” he murmured, barely louder than the drip of water from the cellar ceiling. “First thing—how badly are you hurt?“
Snotlout’s eyebrows knitted together, his gaze dropping to the thin red line still beading on Hiccup’s throat. “Are you seriously asking me that?“ His voice cracked halfway through, pitching up like a teenager’s again. ”He just—you’re bleeding Haddock.“
Astrid’s boot scuffed against something half-buried in the sand—a hunter’s dagger, its hilt wrapped in familiar black leather. She crouched, fingers brushing the grip. “This is Ryker’s,” she said, voice tight. “He never goes anywhere without it.” The implication hung heavy in the air: the hunters had been here, and recently.
Snotlout’s hands twitched against his own ropes, the fibers biting deeper with every involuntary movement. He swallowed hard, throat clicking like dry kindling. “I’m fine,” he lied, voice scraping against the word. “Just—peachy. Fantastic. Never better.“ The bravado tasted like ash. Hiccup’s eyes narrowed—not buying it for a second—but he didn’t press. Instead, he shifted just enough to let his free hand brush against the stone wall behind him, fingers tracing the mortar’s uneven grooves.
Hiccup’s breath hitched as he shifted his weight, the sharp twinge in his ankle flaring white-hot up his leg. He’d rolled it during the scuffle when they’d been captured—probably when Ryker had shoved him face-first into the cellar stairs. The buckle of his prosthetic groaned under the strain as he pressed his palm flat against the damp wall, fingers splayed for balance.
Snotlout barely had time to register the sudden slack in Hiccup’s ropes before the entire ship lurched violently sideways, throwing him forward onto his knees. The impact rattled his teeth, and for a dizzying second, the world tipped at a forty-five-degree angle—torchlight streaking across the ceiling, chains swinging like pendulums from the rafters. Then came the sound: a deep, rolling boom that vibrated through the hull like dragonfire hitting timber.
The explosion rocked the cellar again, sending a shower of grit from the ceiling. Hiccup barely caugh himself against the wall as his prosthetic skidded on the damp stones. “That wasn’t us,” he breathed, eyes darting to the shuddering doorframe. The smell of burning pitch seeped through the cracks—too sharp, too close.
The explosion had barely faded when Snotlout’s head snapped up, his ears straining past the ringing. Somewhere above them, muffled by layers of damp wood and iron hinges, cam a voice—loud, unmistakable, and currently mid-rant.
Snotlout’s breath caught in his throat. “Tuffnut?” The name came out half-disbelief, half-hope, as if saying it too loud might shatter the possibilty. Above them, the rant continued—something about inferior craftsmanship and flammable interiors—and Hiccup’s lips twitched in a ghost of a smile. “Sounds like they brough Meatlug,” he murmured, flexing his freed wrist.
The cellar door exploded inward before Snotlout could even process the sound of Ruffnut’s answering war cry—splinters rained down like jagged hail as Meatlug’s bulk crashed through the rotted wood, her stubby legs scrabbling for purchase on the slick stones. Fishlegs clung to her saddle, face pale beneath his helmet, but his grip on the Gronckle’s reins was iron-tight. “Hold on!” he shouted—just as the entire ship listed vilently to port, sending barrels of salted fish careening across the floor.
Hiccup’s vision swam in nauseating pulses as Meatlug banked sharply over the churning waves, each wingbeat sending fresh jolts of pain up his leg. He could feel Astrid’s grip bruising-tight around his ribs where she held him steady in front of her saddle—her breath hot and furious against the back of his neck. “Almost died,” she hissed for the third time in as many minutes, the words sharp enough to flay skin. “You almost died, and you smiled at him.“
Hiccup winced as Astrid’s grip tightened further, her knuckles pressing into his ribs like daggers. “I smiled because he was predictable,“ he muttered, squinting against the salt-spray whipping past them. ”If I’d screamed, he would’ve—“ The rest of the sentence dissolved into a grunt as Meatlug hit an air pocket, dropping sharply enough to make Fishlegs yelp behind them. Snotlout, clinging to Ruffnut’s waist like a barnacle (because Snotlout is a hilarious barnacle), let out a noise that was half-groan, half-gag.
The cliffs loomed ahead like broken teeth against the storm-dark sky, and Snotlout was not screaming—he was vocally objecting to their current method of descent. “This is not how dragons are supposed to land!“ he howled as Barf and Belch spiraled downward, their mismatched wings clipping the jagged rocks. Ruffnut, gripping the saddle horn with one hand and Snotlout’s collar with the other, bared her teeth in a grin. ”Shut up and lean back, you whining sack of—“