Chapter Text
Hiccup woke to a pounding head, the metallic tang of blood on his tongue, and the kind of cold that slices through skin and gnaws through bone. Damp hung in the air, clinging to his clothes and bolstering the chill. His arms ached, and a strain had settled in his shoulders and upper back. Rings of what felt like ice encircled each of his wrists, which he realized with a bolt of panic, were pinned behind his back. And — he shifted his legs experimentally and clocked the missing weight of his prosthetic. His ribs burned with every shallow breath. Bruised, he knew at once. Possibly broken.
Shit.
He lay there for a moment, eyes closed, doing his best to ignore the sudden barrage of sensations. He strained remember what had happened, but the screaming crescendo in his head made thinking all but impossible. But where his memory failed him, instinct took over: A sense of urgency roared to life in the pit of his stomach, giving Hiccup enough incentive to crack open his eyes.
Unfortunately, what he saw offered no more information than his memory had. A rugged stone wall swam into view, slick with moisture; the earthy scent of mold pressed against his nostrils, making his stomach turn. The partially-eroded faces of the stones flickered eerily in the light of a torch that Hiccup could not see, the dips and furrows in the rock bathed in inky shadows. Hiccup swallowed hard against the rising tide of fear and nausea — he didn't have to remember what had happened to understand how much trouble he was in.
A dungeon, he thought, attempting to coax his pulse and breathing to a reasonable cadence and largely failing. His breaths, nothing more than shallow pants, seemed to catch in the moist air. And his pulse galloped easily out of his control, spurred on by the building panic.
Hiccup, however, had never been one to let fear win. Not to say that he was fearless — he just refused to let fear drag him to the point of helplessness. Some people, when death breathed over their shoulder and their greatest fears stared them in the eyes, froze. Their fear became their greatest enemy, dragging them to depths that could easily drown them.
Most of the time, though, fear did the opposite for Hiccup. It gave him the push he needed to keep going, filled him with a defiant fire that was not easily quenched. Over the years, Hiccup had taught himself to harness that fire, so that instead of weaker, fear made him faster, smarter, stronger. Fear gave him fight, which was how he had faced the Red Death without faltering, how he continued to stand unflinching against the Hunters and Flyers even as the war escalated to unprecedented levels.
Of course, that fire was so much easier to control when he had Toothless by his side.
Toothless!
The thought of his dragon was the fuel he needed to scramble upright to the discordant tune of jangling chains. Hiccup moaned at the sudden spike of pain behind his eyes at the sudden movement, but he didn't let it stop him. Nothing could stop him when his best friend was on the line.
It only took a couple of quick head turns to confirm that he was alone. Had Toothless escaped whatever trap or attack had landed Hiccup here? Was he being kept somewhere else? Was he even still alive?
A pang of premature despair rolled over him like thunderclouds at the mere prospect of losing Toothless, but he pushed it aside. Stop it, he ordered himself, seizing hold of the fear and desperately trying to bend it to his will. Only go off what you know. What-ifs were a death sentence in a place like this.
So Hiccup forced his racing mind away from Toothless and focused instead on what he could see. Upon closer inspection, his cell looked more like a glorified hole or an empty well, perfectly circular and wide enough to just accommodate a Monstrous Nightmare's wingspan.
An oubliette, he thought grimly, squinting up at the ceiling where he could only just make out the outline of a trapdoor, no ladder in sight.
Utilizing his fear became suddenly far more of a challenge. Because it was one thing to be trapped in a dungeon, waiting to be tortured. But a place like this? A hole in the ground? He could think of only one reason that a prisoner would be placed in an oubliette: To rot. A person only buried something if they planned to discard it for good.
He'd been chained down here to die. And this time, there would be no clever escape. Hiccup was smart, and he'd weaseled himself out of more than a few tight spots over the years, but this, chained in a stone-walled oubliette without his prosthetic, deep beneath the surface of the earth, with damp, towering walls too slick to climb even if he had use of his arms and legs…
Unless rescue came swooping down from the skies — which he wanted to hope for, but oubliettes were also notoriously difficult to find if rescuers didn't know exactly what they were looking for — the inside of this hole would be the last thing he'd ever see.
His breath hitched. No! Stop it! Stop panicking and think!
But what was the point of thinking if he couldn’t think himself out of his prison? And what was the point of remembering what had happened when he already knew what was to come?
Hiccup gulped in the deepest breath he could muster, desperate to combat the paralyzing fog — then froze, heart ricocheting against his ribs, as he met some kind of resistance. His chest would only expand so far. It took all his floundering courage to look down, and once he did, he wished at once that he had not.
A heavy shackle — probably one meant for a dragon's neck — encircled his abdomen, tight and unyielding. Hiccup, numb with shock, followed the path of its enormous chain to its end, where it had been bolted to the floor. Which was as confusing as it was concerning — chaining him to the floor was both complete overkill and needlessly dramatic… So what was the point?
But this puzzle, at least, gave him something besides the swelling mass of fear to focus on. Whoever had taken him was either over-the-top with their security, obscenely dramatic, or particularly cruel. He could work with that. If he could figure out who had captured him, maybe he could remember what had happened, and then he could—
His whirring mind stalled, fear fraying at the edges of purpose like a moth to old clothes.
And then what? He'd still be stuck here. He'd still die down here.
But at least he'd die as himself, not just a shell that fear had carved open and hollowed out and filled with its own maddening venom. He'd die as Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III, Dragon Rider and heir to Berk. He'd die as the son of the mighty Stoick the Vast, not unafraid but uncowed by his own fear. He would die, but he would still win, because he would not die a coward.
Easier said than done, but Hiccup had never been one to take the easy way out.
And so he thought.
Needlessly dramatic? That sounds like Johann. So does cruelty. Hyper-vigilance as well. But those fit Krogan just as well, and gods, if that doesn't sound like Viggo—
The moment Viggo Grimborn's face flashed in his mind's eye, something caught in his chest and pulled like a fishhook.
So that was it, then? Viggo had done this to him? That didn’t feel quite right; Viggo had spoken time and again of how Hiccup was his perfect adversary, the only rival for his intellect. He had always been more interested in toying with Hiccup than killing him, and he was such a dramatic bastard that if he did decide to rid himself of Hiccup for good, he'd do so in a manner conducive to gloating. He'd want to watch, to gorge himself on Hiccup's suffering.
(And then there was the other aspect of Viggo that Hiccup tried very hard not to think about: The burning eyes, the lingering touches, the gratuitous my dears. Hiccup had suspected for a while that Viggo wanted more from him than just surrender, though he'd shoved those suspicions into the darkest depths of his consciousness. They'd only resurface when Viggo had him at his mercy, and then it was with a vengeance, with Hiccup fearing, dreading, anticipating…)
No, Viggo would never stash Hiccup away someplace like this, so far out of sight and mind. Not indefinitely. Not to kill him.
But to play with him, maybe…
Maybe Viggo had thrown him in here just to toy with him. To make him think a slow death in a soggy hole awaited him, only to pull him out at the last minute and continue his twisted games? That certainly sounded like something Viggo would do.
But something still felt off.
"Come on, come on," Hiccup muttered to himself, gaze roving around the stone walls, idly searching for any weakness he could exploit.
(A futile endeavor, he knew, but now that he'd started thinking again, he found he couldn't accept his fate so readily. Escape was impossible, he knew that. But when had impossible ever stopped Hiccup from trying?)
As he looked, he mused on Viggo. Why had the gap in his memory snagged on him if Viggo wasn't responsible for Hiccup's imprisonment?
And then—
The memories hit him so suddenly and with such force that he physically reeled back, nearly toppling.
The summons from his father. Arriving at the meeting place to find a Maces and Talons game piece instead of Stoick. Viggo stepping out of the shadows, brandishing an imitation of Hiccup's fire sword. A small explosion, firebursts of pain through his ribs, his back hitting a tree hard. The smell of fire-roasted fish, and Toothless —
Oh, gods.
Viggo had poisoned Toothless.
And still the memories flooded in, louder and almost faster than he could process them: Viggo using a dagger to train the Skrill. Arriving at Johann's underground seaside base with a plan that put Hiccup and Toothless very much in the line of fire, though to save Toothless, he'd had no choice but to go along with it.
The tide of recollection dwindled to a trickle, giving Hiccup just enough space to breathe. Okay. So. They'd made it into the base, let themselves be spotted, Viggo had "betrayed" Hiccup…
And Johann's men had dragged Hiccup and Toothless away. Hiccup had struggled, allowing his very real fear — because planned or not, he and Toothless were now at the mercy of men who would kill them as soon as look at them — to bolster his fight.
When they had reached a fork in the corridor and Hiccup had been pulled one way and Toothless pushed the other, Hiccup began to thrash in earnest. Because this wasn't part of the plan! Toothless had been poisoned, he was dying, they couldn't just take him away! He needed Hiccup.
(Hiccup needed Toothless.)
He'd struggled so fiercely that he'd actually broken free for a single heartbeat, but before he could make it more than two steps, something had crashed against the back of his skull.
When he'd opened his eyes, it had been to the circular confines of his imminent tomb.
No no no no no!
This was worse than he'd imagined, so much worse that he wished he had never tried to remember in the first place. Because Toothless was dying, and the plan had gone wrong somehow, and unless Johann found out about the poison and decided to administer the antidote (highly unlikely), then Toothless was fated to die a slow and painful death at the hands of Viggo's godsdamned oleander. And far below, Hiccup would die slowly in tandem, most likely of thirst.
A nasty voice in the recesses of his mind wondered which one of them would go first.
Hiccup gasped in a shuddering breath, cut short by a stab of pain from his busted ribs and the constricting manacle around his torso. Heat pressed behind his eyes, and he didn't try to stop the tears from flowing.
I'm so sorry, Toothless.
He wasn't sure how long he sat there on the freezing stone floor, curled forward as far as his ribs and restraints would allow, panic and despair ripping him apart from the inside out. When his tears were spent and his sobs had faded, his ribs aching and his heart cracked open, a sliver of clarity returned to him.
He couldn't give up on himself so easily. He sure as Hel couldn't give up on Toothless. If there was any chance that Hiccup could find a way to escape (there wasn't, he knew there wasn't, but he would try anyway because Toothless was on the line), he had to start searching for it now.
With a manic blend of desperation and determination buzzing beneath his skin, setting every nerve alight, Hiccup observed his surroundings with a new vigor. Maybe, maybe, there was something. (There wasn't.) Maybe, somehow, he would find a way to free himself from the chains and this cell. (He wouldn't.)
He was going to die down here, and Toothless was going to die up there, and Viggo might still be a snake or he might be dead, too.
But Hiccup still held on to his impossible maybes, one second at a time, because maybe, just maybe, he'd manage to pull off the impossible.
Hiccup was so intent on his inspection of his prison that at first he didn't notice the sound.
When it did penetrate the armor of his concentration, he thought he might be imagining things. Already thirst clawed at his throat and left his mouth a barren desert. The slimy film of moisture on the wall and floor was enough to drive him mad with longing. Was it so hard to believe that he would hallucinate the sound of trickling water after hours of thirst, alone in the bottom of a hole with only a single, sputtering torch for light?
But then, on what felt like his hundredth pass over the stone walls, Hiccup's eyes caught on something he hadn't noticed before. He'd mostly been looking at eye level, since there was little sense in looking for escape up high when his immediate problems were all down low. But he looked up, just a cursory glance. It took a few precious seconds to understand what it was he saw, but once he did, his whole being seized with dread.
A water line, high above his head, where dark, damp stone lightened and dried.
The running water echoed, a booming portent of death. The sound melded with the rush of Hiccup's blood, too loud in his ears. Frigid water inched across the floor from a gap in the rocks that Hiccup couldn't see, lapping at the seat of his trousers, taunting him.
The panic clawed its way out of his chest and up his throat, throwing its head back with a helpless roar.
Johann hadn't left Hiccup in this oubliette to slowly die of thirst. This cell must be right by the sea. It had been low tide when Hiccup, Viggo, and Toothless arrived at Johann's base. He didn't know how much time had passed since he'd been knocked out, but he could guess what time it was now.
High tide.
Hiccup wasn't going to die from lack of water, but from an abundance. He was chained to the floor of a cell that was slowly filling with water.
And then he would drown.
Hiccup had lost count of his brushes with death after number fourteen; almost dying went hand-in-hand with being the leader of the Dragon Riders and the heir to a powerful tribe. To say he was comfortable with the prospect of his own death would be a bit of an overstatement, but he didn't fear death, either. (At least, not his own.) He wanted to live, but had accepted an early death as a possibility from the moment he laid eyes on the Red Death.
He didn't fear dying, though he would prefer not to.
He did fear drowning, more than almost anything.
Hiccup had never been the best swimmer even before he'd lost his leg. But he hadn't feared water until he'd found himself trapped at the bottom of the ocean in a flooding diving bell. Separated from Toothless by a reinforced Deathsong amber window. Icy water spewing from the cracks, shocking his system, numbing his mind.
In the moment, he hadn't feared death, because he'd been more concerned about convincing Toothless to swim to safety. (It was so much easier to be brave when it was for Toothless.)
No, the terror had hit him later, in the middle of the night, in the safety of his own bed. He'd woken in the throes of a nightmare, drenched in sweat instead of the sea, trapped in blankets instead of the diving bell. Panic flowing down his throat and choking his lungs and stealing his breath instead of water.
He had relived in nightmares the moments before he'd lost consciousness, when he'd no longer been able to hold the air in his lungs and water had flowed in its stead. The convulsion of his starving lungs, the burning, searing, screaming agony as he breathed water instead of air. He'd passed out quickly, but not quickly enough to forget what drowning was like.
And since that day, although he'd flown over the ocean more times than he could count, and though he'd fished and swam when necessary, that fear of drowning had never left him. It lingered in the darkness, flashing its teeth and baring its talons when Toothless swooped a little too close to the surface, even on a calm, clear day when the sea was glass and Hiccup knew he was safe. Hiccup did what he always did, used that fear to his advantage. Made it his superpower. Let it spur him and drive him to meet it head-on.
But now, in the face of the inevitable, Hiccup could not hold the panic at bay, nor could he turn it against its creator. Because this wasn't just the possibility of drowning. It was the certainty of drowning.
Hiccup stared his own death in the face like he had dozens of times before.
But this time, the fear consumed him.
For a long time, Hiccup sat half-catatonic with dread, unable to do anything more than shiver and pant for breath that wouldn't come. The water, cold, possessive, climbed slowly but steadily, creeping up his body like a shroud of ice.
By the time he came back to himself, he was submerged past his hips. Hiccup cursed; he'd wasted so much precious time succumbing to the very panic he'd sworn wouldn't drag him down. He was going to die, painfully and in in the way he most feared, but the gods damn it, he could drown with dignity!
The panic still held him in its thrall, and he certainly hadn't gained control over it, but now it flung him in the opposite direction of catatonia: Frenetic, desperate, pointless, driven action.
Hiccup could barely feel his lower body and he was down a leg with his arms chained behind his back, but somehow he managed to claw his way to his foot and hop-slosh his way to the nearest section of wall. In a terror-driven fury, he turned and slammed his manacled wrists against the jagged stone as hard as he could. Pain erupted in his wrists and warm blood seeped from beneath the cuffs, but the shackles did not break. Again and again he smashed his chained wrists against the wall, until his hands were littered with lacerations from the rough stone and blood mixed with rising water.
And still he was not free.
Hiccup's heart had never beat this fast in his life. He hadn't even known it was possible for a heart to beat like this without giving out. Wildly, he prayed that it would give out before the water took him.
Still possessed by the feverish, frenzied fervor, Hiccup splashed back down into the water (and gods, it was almost to his chest!) and half-swam, half-shuffled to the middle of the floor, where he felt around blindly with cold-numbed hands. He could barely feel, but — there! His stiff fingers brushed against the chain that attached his body manacle to the floor. With his hands chained behind his back and no purchase to speak of in the rising tide, maintaining his grip was all but impossible, let alone pulling with enough strength to break the chain or tear it from the floor.
(He wouldn't have been able to break a chain even in optimal conditions. He doubted even his father could break a chain this thick.)
By the time the water reached his chin, the burst of adrenaline had fled on the wings of Hiccup's flailing heart, leaving him wrung out and shivering violently. He was so cold, too cold to move, and the realizations that he could not escape and help wasn't coming pounded against his body like driving rain.
He hadn't gotten back up to his foot. If he stood, he could buy himself a little more time.
Time for what? To drown in fear instead of water? Rescue's not coming, why prolong this? Just give in, let it happen, get it over with. Die now instead of minutes from now. Save yourself the pain and effort of rising.
No one is here to see you give up except for you, and you won't be here much longer, anyway.
Hiccup almost listened to that voice whispering on the outskirts of his awareness. He didn't want to keep fighting when he knew it was already over. Would Johann truly win if Hiccup surrendered to the terror and the cold and dark? What difference would it really make if Hiccup didn't go out fighting for survival?
It would make a difference to him, he realized with a start. It would make his final moments mean something, if only to himself. And if — impossible if, surely, but still if — rescue was on its way, Hiccup had to do everything he could to delay death until it arrived.
And so he stood. He didn't know how, but he did, and this time, it wasn't in the clutches of panic or desperation. It was in the arms of defiance and pride and an inner-strength he hadn't even known he'd possessed that he stood, despite the weight of fear pressing down as the water rose up.
And then he stood taller, shoulder braced precariously against the wall, on the tiptoes of a single foot, his face stretched to the ceiling, eyes open wide, praying for a miracle. He couldn't breathe, and the water hadn't even eclipsed his nose yet; he found himself stretched between two worlds: One, deep beneath the sea with his friends high above and Toothless right there but just out of reach, in a diving bell, water spurting through the cracks in the amber, dying, drowning, but not alone. The other, deep beneath the earth with his enemies high above and Toothless dying somewhere in a cell, far out of reach, in an oubliette, water spurting through a crack in the wall, dying, drowning.
Alone.
He choked on a sob, shifting his weight forward on his toes as the water caressed his jaw with frigid fingers — and lost his balance.
He plunged into the water, fully submerged, and by the time he'd found which way was up again, it was too late.
The water had risen above his head.
He hadn't gotten the chance to take a breath before he went under, it had happened that quickly. Already his lungs shrieked, demanding air, but Hiccup kept his lips clamped shut and strained to see past the rushing bubbles enveloping his thrashing form.
Was his fear or the water colder? He didn't know.
His lungs seared and Hiccup nearly opened his mouth, nearly sucked in a breath because his lungs were empty and they needed something inside them, anything, and he couldn't quite remember why it mattered so much that he hold his breath.
But no.
He forced his lips together, gathered all his dwindling strength, tried to kick off from the bottom of the oubliette, because if he could just propel himself to the surface, maybe there would be enough slack in the chains to get a single gulp of air…
The manacle and chain proved too much for his weakening body. They dragged him down, kept him tethered far below the rising water line, and that was that.
Even then, Hiccup didn't open his mouth. He held his breath, lungs spasming in their thirst for air, black and red spots popping in front of his drifting eyes. He held his breath until unconsciousness claimed him, and only then did the water force its way into his nose and mouth, down his throat, and into his lungs.
He didn't feel the pain as he drowned for the second time in his life.
He didn't see the cell plunge into darkness when the water submerged the torch.
And he didn't hear the whistling scream of a Night Fury or the explosion incinerating the trapdoor overhead. He didn't hear the voice, deep and rich and perhaps more panicked than it had ever been, calling his name. He didn't feel the heat as a precise plasma blast severed the chain, or the talons of a Skrill snag the back of his tunic and drag him out of his watery tomb. He didn't even feel the strong, calloused hands gripping his armpits and pulling him, sopping wet, onto the dragon's back.
He didn't hear, or see, or feel anything.
He didn't even breathe.