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Hiccup woke to stifling darkness — the kind of darkness that has a physical weight, that has teeth, that can tear through muscle and chew through bone and nest in the very heart of you. A tapestry of utter blackness, woven together from an amalgamation of humanity's most primal fears.
At first, he wasn't even sure if he'd opened his eyes. So he closed them, felt the gentle rasp of his eyelashes against his skin. Opened them again to the same crushing darkness. Panic wrapped its grasping fingers around his heart and squeezed. He tried to breathe through it, tried to recall something, anything at all. Where was he? How had he gotten here? Why was it so damn dark? Why couldn't he move, and what — ugh! — what was in his mouth?
And why did everything hurt?
He wasn't being hyperbolic. Everything hurt. Every muscle burned and every joint ached. Even his bones hurt. And his head! It felt like it had been trampled by wild boars. A deep ache stretched from the base of his skull, over his scalp, and down behind his eyes, and his temples throbbed sharply with every beat of his heart. Had he been drugged? Hit in the head? Oh gods! What if he'd been hit too hard? What if he was blind?
No. Don't jump to conclusions. Calm down. Think. One thing at a time.
Okay, so it was dark, everything hurt, something coarse and fibrous pressed down his tongue, scratched against his cheeks. Some kind of cloth… a gag? A thrill of terror shot through him, but he tamped it down. Panicking would only make things worse. He needed to stay calm, approach this with a cool head.
Easier said than done.
He managed to ignore the drumbeats of fear battering at his fragile calm. Think. If he was gagged, then that meant he'd been captured. Most likely by dragon hunters, which was just awesome. He'd been captured by them so often that he was surprised he didn't have his own room on their base. (He did, actually; it was called a cell. Though he certainly didn't seem to be in a cell now.)
A quick shift of his arms verified that they'd been bound behind his back, trapped between his body and a grainy wooden wall. He couldn't feel the familiar weight of his prosthetic leg, and a caustic mixture of shame and fury enveloped him. More than anything, he hated that his enemies thought they had any right to touch his prosthetic, let alone remove it from his body.
Hiccup clenched his teeth around the cloth in his mouth and blinked away a sudden barrage of angry tears. He didn't have time for this right now. A quick twitch of his legs told him that they, too, had been bound together, above and below the knees.
Okay. Wrists tied, legs tied, back to a wall. He seemed to be lying on his side with his legs in the fetal position, his thighs drawn up to his chest, knees bent, right heel pressed into the back of his upper thigh. A supremely cramped and uncomfortable position. No wonder his muscles and joints were revolting. He just needed to unfold himself, stretch out for a bit. Once his body had gotten used to the new position, he could struggle his way upright and start working on a way to free his limbs.
He extended his knees and was met at once with a solid surface against the toe of his right boot. His shorter left leg could stretch little further, but even his stump met a wall before he could straighten it fully.
The panic flared, loud and bright, sparking in his chest, tightening his lungs, traveling like lightning down his arms and legs. Tingling, numb, trembling. The air was suddenly too thin; he choked on it, chest flailing, each heartbeat a bludgeon to his ribs.
Don't panic, he ordered himself, but his body was reacting reflexively now. He couldn't stop the panic. He couldn't control it. It wasn't a feeling; it was a living, breathing thing that had made itself at home in his body. It had fingers that snatched and nails that scratched, lungs that stole the breath right out of Hiccup's own, a body that twined sinuously with every nerve and leeched into every muscle.
He shoved his foot and stump against the panel and pushed. His head met another wall at once. Sucking in a stuttering breath through his nose, Hiccup pressed his bound hands against the wood at his back, tried to shift his body forward. Instantly, his folded legs met a fourth wall.
Hiccup's breathing, shallow and fast, echoed off the too-close walls until they drowned out even the sound of his galloping heartbeat. He turned his head, looked up, and saw nothing but darkness. But he could feel it, hovering right above his nose. Another wall—
Maybe he was wrong. Maybe the close quarters had him paranoid. Maybe all he felt bearing down on him was the darkness itself. All he had to do was lift his head to find out. For several long minutes, he did nothing. Just stared into the gaping black. At least right now, there was a possibility that he had some space above him. But if he tried to sit and met another barrier, there would be no going back, no pretending.
He had no courage left. It had all been drawn out of his body like poison from a wound and swallowed by the dark. But eventually, the not-knowing became more unbearable than quasi-comforting, and he strained his aching neck, lifted his head from the floor —
Except he couldn't lift his head from the floor, not enough to fit more than a single piece of parchment beneath it. His nose met more wood.
The terror devoured him.
He didn't have enough room to thrash, he barely had enough to twitch, but his panic-ridden body didn't care. He twisted his body, squirmed, kicked, wrenched, rocked, screamed into the gag. And it did nothing. He couldn't bang against the wood with his hands, feet, or head because of how snugly he'd been squeezed into this space… whatever it was.
Within minutes, he'd completely exhausted himself. His muscles didn't just hurt; they shook with fatigue. His head swam, his chest ached, he couldn't get enough air. His face was wet.
He lay there, utterly silent, completely spent, wholly defeated. He couldn't escape. He couldn't even struggle. He was alone, hemmed in on all sides, in the hungry dark, bound and gagged and helpless. If his captors didn't come for him, or rescue didn't arrive in time, then he was going to die a slow, agonizing, terrifying death. A whimper built in his throat and disappeared into the gag.
After a time, a shred of reasoning returned to him. Chances were, his captors wouldn't have gone through the trouble of tying him up and gagging him if they planned to keep him in here. They must need him for something; otherwise, they would have just killed him. So he (probably) wasn't going to die here in the dark. But he also had no idea how long they'd keep him down here. Or what they planned to do with him when they eventually pulled him out.
Panic did its damndest to reclaim him, but he pushed back at it feebly. A problem. He needed a problem, something to think about, something to distract himself with. If he just lay here and languished in fear, he'd go mad before they came for him. He cast his buzzing mind around for something to latch onto but all it could focus on was his compact prison.
So he decided to puzzle it out. Where was he? Some kind of chest? A crate? Plausible, since rough wooden walls penned him in on all sides. Or did it? He'd spent so much time fretting about what was above and around him, but he'd completely failed to consider what was below him. More wood?
He didn't think so. It felt harder somehow. And cooler. Definitely cooler, even through the fabric of his clothes. He extended his fingers and stretched his tied arms down, managed to twist his upper body just enough brush his fingertips against the floor. The surface itself was smooth, but something fine and dry came off on his fingers. Dust? No. Dirt.
He wasn't in a chest, or any kind of container at all. He was lying on hard, compacted earth. His pulse spiked. Had he been buried?
No, not buried, he realized breathlessly. Because the air, while uncomfortably warm and stuffy, hadn't diminished, not even after the exertion of his frantic struggles. It was hard to breathe, yes — a small, stuffy space paired with heart-stopping terror would do that — but not dangerously so. Fresh air had to be coming in from somewhere, and that somewhere had to be from above.
Which meant the wood looming over him was probably a trapdoor. Most likely, he had been crammed into some sort of in-ground storage area or hiding spot. Basically a glorified under-a-loose-floorboard contraband stash. Certainly this space was meant for hiding important books and scrolls, precious keepsakes, and small valuables, not a whole grown person.
But then, if air could get in through the cracks in the trapdoor, then why couldn't light? There must not be any light above the trapdoor, he reasoned. Either the room above was dark, or something — a loosely woven rug, perhaps — had been thrown over it. Maybe both.
Despite the dread sitting like a boulder in his gut, Hiccup's mind felt clearer. He'd regained some control. Thinking, solving a problem, answering a question, had been enough to extricate him from the depths of his panic. Unfortunately, he now had nothing to distract him from the full-body agony of being squashed and folded away in a tiny, dark hole.
Until the sound of muffled voices materialized and drifted closer. Hiccup's body, already bowstring-taut, tensed. He stopped breathing. He couldn't make out words or even distinct voices, but if they kept coming his way—
"…hope my men treated you well?"
A full-bodied shudder rippled over Hiccup; he knew that voice. He'd even anticipated this, but he would have really liked to be wrong about his kidnapper.
Viggo.
And then another voice, furious, tense, caustic. Barely restrained. Also familiar, but in the best way possible.
"Oh, I had a great time. I especially loved the blindfold."
Hiccup wilted in relief. Astrid. Oh, thank the gods. She'd come for him. Of course she had, she always did.
Then her words caught up to him. Blindfold?
His rekindled hope withered. This wasn't a rescue. Astrid had been captured too.
Except—
"A necessary precaution on my part, I assure you." Footsteps creaked above him. A chair scraped. "We just established this base. It would not be in my best interest to reveal its location to my adversaries."
"It would be in mine," Astrid retorted fiercely. In his mind's eye, Hiccup could see the fury etched into every contour of her face.
Viggo chuckled lowly, and chills sprawled down Hiccup's arms. "I'm afraid your interests mean very little to me, Miss Hofferson," he said primly. A pause. "Please, sit. We have much to discuss."
Hiccup attempted to sort his racing, tangled thoughts into something legible. Why would Viggo have blindfolded Astrid if he planned on keeping her prisoner? As an extra precaution, in case she escaped? Maybe. But this sounded more like a conversation, not an interrogation.
"I'll stand," Astrid spat. "Where's Hiccup?"
"All in good time," Viggo responded smoothly.
Here! Hiccup thought desperately, resuming his frantic struggles, trying to call her name, but his movement and voice were so restricted he simply couldn't make enough noise to alert her. All he managed to do was miss part of what Viggo said next.
"…what we discussed." Hiccup stilled, ears straining to hear over the sound of his own heavy breathing. "Did you bring the lenses?"
And there it was. Nausea rolled in his gut. At least now he knew he wouldn't be stuck down here much longer. But he couldn't find more than a shred of relief, because the cost (which he had no doubt Astrid would pay to get him back) was far too great. The dragon hunters already had the Dragon Eye. That was bad enough, but with each new lens they gained, the more dragons would be in danger.
Don't do it! he thought. I'm right here!
But she had no way of knowing that. Another part of Hiccup, a selfish, terrified part, countered, Please do it. Gods, get me out of here! That voice was loud, growing louder with every second he remained in the pressing confines of his prison. The prospect of Viggo getting his hands on all their lenses was unthinkable. But the longer he stayed down here, the more the walls closed in, until he could only hear the discordant melody of his own fear.
"They're here," came Astrid's voice. "But Hiccup first."
"He isn't here."
Hiccup's heart stopped. What?
"No Hiccup, no lenses," Astrid snarled.
"Of course," Viggo responded smoothly, entirely unaffected by Astrid's ire, "I would not expect you to give me the lenses without proof of life. But I also have no desire to conduct this kind of business in the heart of my own base — too many variables, too many things that could go wrong. We will meet tomorrow morning at noon on this island — marked here — and make the final trade." The sound of papers shuffling, changing hands.
"And Hiccup will be there?"
"On my honor."
"That means literally nothing to me," Astrid growled.
"Yes, well," said Viggo lightly, "considering I have your beloved leader hidden away somewhere where you will never find him, my honor is the only hope you have left. Best make your peace with that now, Miss Hofferson."
Bastard, Hiccup thought, hatred boiling over.
After a moment, Astrid spoke, each word clipped with rage. "Why go through all of the trouble of setting up this meeting just to set up another one tomorrow?" Hiccup was wondering that himself; it hardly seemed efficient. But knowing Viggo, he had some other, less obvious design. He saw his competition with Hiccup as a game of Maces and Talons, after all. Some things — including time and efficiency — had to be sacrificed for the greater plan. But Viggo also played his cards very close to his chest. He had no desire to preemptively explain the intricacies of his plays.
Which was why he didn't even acknowledge Astrid's question and instead brushed her off completely. "Tomorrow, just you and me. Follow the map, we'll meet on the eastern side of the island. If I see any sign of any other dragon or rider, I will keep Hiccup for myself." Hiccup's skin crawled; he swallowed back bile trying to inch up his throat.
This time when Astrid spoke, her voice was dead calm and bone-chilling. Her fiery wrath had calcified into frigid stone, each syllable carved to a deadly point. "If you hurt him, if you touch him, I will kill you, Viggo."
A slight hesitation; Hiccup couldn't help but wonder if she'd managed to get under Viggo's skin. He knew from experience that the ice of Astrid's anger was far scarier than the blustering flames. But when he answered, Viggo didn't seem bothered in the least. In fact, Hiccup detected a slight amusement in his tone. "I will take that under advisement," he said, "although you are not exactly in a position to make demands, are you?"
The chair scraped again, and footsteps clunked overhead. "I must insist you allow my men to blindfold you again on the way back to your dragon, but as long as you cooperate, I promise that neither you nor Hiccup will come to any harm. This way, please."
The footsteps and voices crossed over him, faded away… disappeared.
And Hiccup was alone once more, exquisite devastation bowling him over and stealing his breath. Astrid had been right there, just above his head, and she hadn't even realized. He'd been so close to freedom, to salvation, to light and air and home. But she'd walked away, and now Hiccup was somehow more alone than he had been when he'd first woken up.
To have the promise of freedom and safety, to have Astrid so close, to have new hope, and to have all that stripped away… It made him wish he'd never heard her voice.
Hope was powerful; it could shine light into unfathomable darkness, grant comfort in the dregs of despair. It could renew strength in a failing body and turn gaping wounds into mere scars. But the loss of hope snuffed out the last embers of light, wreaked destruction, and fueled despair. It could drain vitality and cast the shadow of death on the surface of the soul, and tear open even the oldest scars. Losing hope was far more devastating than never having hope at all.
How long was Viggo going to leave him here? Was he even going to let him out at all? Would he actually honor his side of the bargain?
Hiccup couldn't handle hours of this hell. His muscles and joints screamed for relief, but his mind shrieked even louder. People weren't made for conditions like these. He needed room to move, he needed to breathe fresh air, he needed to be far away from walls and doors and roofs. He needed Toothless, needed endless sky above and below and all around him. He needed sunlight turning the clouds to fire. He needed to stretch his arms out at his sides and feel wind hurtling through his hair.
But he had nothing but quiet, and dark, and walls on all sides, close, too close, crushing him, flattening him—
Time lost all meaning. Space no longer existed. Hiccup's world narrowed to the hidden compartment with its wooden walls and earthen floor and stuffy air. He no longer mourned the loss of hope, for he forgot hope all together. He had no room to move, no space between his body and the wood encasing him, yet somehow fear crawled in beside him, curled around the contorted curve of his body. It squeezed through the cracks in the trapdoor, deepened the darkness, thickened the air. It dragged tears from his eyes and silenced sobs from his throat. He panted through his nose, short and fast, never enough air, head swimming, dizzy, sick—
He could have been curled there for hours. It could have been days. It could have been minutes, for all he knew, minutes melted and stretched like molten metal, reforged into eternity.
Eventually, finally, the footsteps returned, but the terror had already done its work, ravaged Hiccup's mind and his body, deteriorated his sense of time, sapped away at his fight. Emptied him.
Then came the sound of furniture moving directly above him. Something much larger than a chair. (Only later would Hiccup realize that a desk had been placed over the trapdoor, hiding it from Astrid and blocking any light.) Then the trapdoor was pried up and torch light flooded in, brighter than the sun. Hiccup cringed away from it, squeezing his eyes shut, bright, too bright…
Hands worked their way beneath his armpits and hauled him up, out of the hole, and the animal part of Hiccup's brain wanted nothing more than to dive back in and close the door behind him. Because the light hurt more than the dark, and the room around him wasn't safe, the hands of the enemy were on him, dragging him somewhere, and Hiccup couldn't do anything to stop it.
At some point, his captor scooped him up, with an arm supporting his neck, another under his knees. Hiccup drifted, dazed, eyes shut tight, suspended between fear of the horrors that awaited him and the longing for the torment he'd left behind.
A door opened, then closed. His captor carried him a short distance, then another door creaked open, quickly snapping shut behind them. The hands lowered him onto a soft surface, then worked at the cloth knotted behind his head. Hiccup's breath hitched as unknown fingers brushed his jaw, but he couldn't find the strength or the will to jerk away. The hands did not untie the ropes around his wrists or knees.
Viggo's voice rang out, loud, clear, close. Deceptively tender. "You can open your eyes, my dear. The light is low. Your eyes will adjust."
But Hiccup didn't want to open his eyes. Maybe if he kept them shut, he could imagine he was back in his little box, squirreled away in terrible discomfort but out of Viggo's reach.
Viggo spoke from closer this time. Too close. "Come now, Hiccup. Indulge me in this one thing. I would like to see your eyes."
Hiccup's stomach balked in revulsion. Like to see the fear and defeat in them, you mean.
A hand found his cheek, a thumb ghosted over his lips — Hiccup's eyes shot open of their own accord, the unwanted touch igniting his fight or flight, shoving him out of near-catatonia and into survival mode. He wrenched his head to the side and spat, "Don't touch me."
To his shock, Viggo did remove his hand. He waited patiently for Hiccup to regain his bearings (a dreadfully slow process that involved a lot of blinking, cringing, and squinting through blurred vision and still-too-bright candlelight).
Slowly, the room around him swam into focus, though there wasn't much to see. A desk in one corner, a small table with a single candle, a few chairs (one of which was uncomfortably close to Hiccup and currently occupied by Viggo), and Hiccup himself lay on a simple cot, propped up on a couple of pillows. His insides wriggled uneasily. Being trapped in a room with Viggo Grimborn would be bad enough. But lying tied-up on a bed in a dark room with Viggo Grimborn looming predatorily at his bedside?
Way, way worse.
When Hiccup's wandering eyes found his captor's face, Viggo smirked, and something behind it made invisible insects swarm Hiccup's skin. Viggo's eyes glittered in the low light, dark and dangerous and a little bit hungry. Hiccup swallowed hard and ran his tongue nervously over his bone-dry, desert-cracked lips. He regretted it immediately, because Viggo's eyes locked firmly onto his mouth, and the smirk deepened and the glimmer grew ravenous.
Hiccup snapped his mouth shut, pressed his lips together, and glared defiantly at Viggo. After several charged seconds, Viggo dragged his gaze from Hiccup's lips and found his eyes once more. "I see your temporary accommodations did not agree with you, darling," he said, as if he'd merely given Hiccup a drab room with ugly curtains instead of a literal hole under the floorboards. He reached out — Hiccup flinched — but this time, Viggo only swiped at a stray tear with the pad of his thumb before pulling away.
"Service here sucks," Hiccup croaked, his parched throat undermining the pitiful attempt at dry wit. Gods, he needed water. "And the room was a little cramped."
Viggo chuckled, sitting back in his chair. "I'll try to find something more comfortable next time. A nice cell, perhaps?"
A cell had never sounded so appealing. Except: "There w-won't be a next time," Hiccup stated, hating the brittle quality of his voice.
Viggo shook his head. "If you think I am content to simply trade you away and never look back, you are sorely mistaken. I will never be through with you, my dear Hiccup. There will always be a next time — until, of course, the last time. And then, it will just be us."
Hiccup's stomach tossed like a boat in a storm and more insects skittered over every inch of his body, their tiny, invisible legs itching, scratching, pinching, digging…
"In your dreams," he growled, unable to come up with anything cleverer.
Viggo's smirk widened. "I admit, I have dreamed of having you all to myself many times," he said with a conspiratorial wink.
Disgust surged up Hiccup's throat and pooled like acid in his mouth. He changed the subject, eager to lure Viggo away from this disturbing line of conversation. "Why are you doing this?" he demanded. He didn't elaborate; he knew he didn't need to. The questions quivered, unspoken, heavy, pointed, in the shared air between them. Why didn't you make the trade when she was already here? Why wait until tomorrow? Why keep me down there? Why risk having me so close during negotiations? Why lie to Astrid about where I was?
Viggo didn't ignore Hiccup's question like he had Astrid's. Instead, he folded his hands demurely on his lap and leaned forward the slightest bit. "I was making a point."
"What point?" Hiccup shot back. "She didn't even know I was there."
"The message wasn't for her. It was for you."
Suddenly, the air felt heavier and denser and hotter than it had beneath the floor. Dread stroked the base of his skull, ran its fingers slowly down his neck and over his shoulders. "What point?" he asked again.
Viggo leaned forward more, breaching Hiccup's space without apology. "That safety is an illusion. That you, even after you are returned to your riders, will always belong to me. That I can take you back any time I like. That I can keep you if I wish. That your second-in-command can be in the same room as you, close enough to touch, and you still won't be safe." His voice deepened, crackled like impending lightning. "She left you, Hiccup. She never even knew you were there. She didn't save you. She didn't see you. Even when she was right there, you were alone."
That final word reverberated through Hiccup's shaking body like a death knell. He didn't feel the agony of cramping muscles. Even the thirst, even the fear, retreated, leaving a hollow numbness in its wake and an insidious echo in his ears: Even your friends can't keep you safe from me.
No. Hiccup fought back against the tide of hopelessness. He recalled in vivid detail the enclosed torture he'd just experienced, and felt a little tug of residual panic at the memory. He latched on to that fear, pulled at it like loose thread, unraveled the numbness, made himself feel.
And from his fear he built a defensive wall, layering bricks of reckless defiance over bricks of trust in his friends. But there were cracks in every wall. It wouldn't hold forever. (But he pretended it would.)
"That's a ridiculous way to make such a stupid point," Hiccup deadpanned. "This was one time, and, by the way, that little under-the-floor trick will only work once. She'll know where to look next time." He caught himself. "If there is a next time. Which there won't be."
Viggo just smiled like he'd already won. "It is good to see that your indomitable spirit is still intact," he said. "It's one of the things I admire most about you. We shall see how long it lasts, hm? Another fascinating factor of this game of ours."
Hiccup scowled. "This isn't a game. People's lives are at stake. Whole species of dragons are at stake."
"Precisely what makes it so enthralling. No one likes a game with low stakes." Viggo pushed his chair back and stood, clasped his hands behind his back, and leered down at Hiccup. "At any rate, it's nearly time for the exchange. I imagine you could use the facilities? And some food and water?"
Hiccup didn't answer, pretending to be entirely unaffected even while his body screamed yes!!
Viggo put his right hand on Hiccup's shoulder and squeezed, a caricature of comfort. Hiccup tried to jerk out of his grasp and nearly rolled off the cot. Viggo steadied him, patted his shoulder once, and said, "Not to worry, my dear. Soon you will be back with your friends. You can put this whole messy business behind you. For now, at least."
Hiccup wanted nothing more than to put this behind him, but he knew the truth as well as Viggo: It wouldn't stay behind, back where he left it. It would stay behind him. Follow him.
Viggo had reached inside of Hiccup and stolen something vital, something precious — security. Safety. His friends would always come for him, he didn't doubt that. But Viggo had illustrated quite plainly that they might not always be able to find him. They couldn't always protect him.
And with that realization, Hiccup found himself trapped again. Not in a physical hollow of wood and earth, but in an equally tiny prison of paranoia, dread, and despair. Even now, he worked his fingers bloody clawing his way out of it, but he knew it would always be there, a manifestation of the doubt Viggo had so perfectly cultivated, following, dogging his footsteps, always behind him, just waiting to snap him up once more.
But whenever that happened, he would do the only thing he knew how to do: Fight, struggle, call out for help, even if the walls were too close and the darkness was too deep. He would rail against the paranoia, push against the walls of dread, scream defiance into the face of despair.
And he would always, always believe his friends would rescue him. Even when it felt like a lie. Even when they walked right by him. Even when they left him behind. Even if Viggo won, Hiccup would always believe in his friends.
Because if he couldn't hang on to that thread of faith, the walls would close in, the ceiling would collapse, and he would be crushed and swallowed into the yawning blackness. And he couldn't go back to that.
He wouldn't.