Hiccup awoke to the smell of cooking fish.
He blinked his eyes open slowly, taking stock of his surroundings. He was lying on the floor in a patch of bright sunlight, in the middle of his old room. He lifted his head, still in disbelief that he'd spent the day in his childhood home.
It didn't look like much had changed. His old sketches still covered the desk, though they were stacked neatly in piles, rather than strewn about the way he'd usually left them. His bed was shoved in the corner, made up neatly with his old bedding.
It wouldn't support his weight now, he mused, wings twitching. Even when human, he suspected he'd finally outgrown the child length furniture some time ago.
He angled an ear, picking up on sound from below.
His father was whistling…and perhaps cooking, based on the smell. That was strange to consider, as Hiccup had usually been tasked with preparing their meals. In his absence, had his father finally learned to cook?
Hiccup looked out the window, judging the placement of the sun in the sky. By his estimation, he probably still had another hour or so before sundown.
He stretched, climbing to his feet and arching his back. He could feel his joints protest, still stiff from sleep. He shook his body out, trying to wake himself up. In doing so, his tail slapped against the wall, noise echoing through the room.
The whistling cut off abruptly.
Whoops.
He could hear a flurry of clinking noise from below, followed by the creek of steps as his father ascended.
Stoick entered the room, face barely visible behind the stack of bowls in his hands. He beelined over to the desk, setting the load down roughly, before turning to face Hiccup.
"Hungry?" The man asked, eyes sweeping over the dragon.
Hiccup felt his stomach clench, and he nodded.
The chief turned back to his haul, retrieving a few charred fish from one of the bowls. He cocked his head to the side, looking unsure. "I don't know what you eat, now," he admitted, sounding almost embarrassed. "If you'd prefer, there are a few downstairs I didn't cook."
Hiccup shook his head vigorously, reaching out to grip one of the blackened fish in his teeth.
Stoick released it, then set the remaining fish on the ground near him. The chief picked up another bowl, bracing his weight against the wall before taking a large spoonful of stew.
Hiccup chewed the fish slowly, savoring the taste of the spices from the rub. After having to choke down raw fish and game, it was a welcome comfort. A part of him was tempted to wolf it down, but the more rational side of his brain told him to keep the more animalistic instincts under wraps around his father for now.
Stoick's gaze had drifted past him, latching onto the untouched bed. He took another bite of his stew, brow furrowed in thought. "Not much use for that anymore, is there?"
Hiccup hummed in agreement, hoping the sound wouldn't be misconstrued for a growl.
Stoick nodded, "I'll remove it," he decided. "Should at least give you some more space."
Hiccup grunted, grabbing hold of another fish. The bed was small enough that its presence made little difference to him.
Stoick scraped at the bottom of his bowl, fixing his attention on getting the last bit of stew on his spoon. "I'll work on gathering more blankets," he said, "There's not a bed frame in Berk big enough for a dragon, but you shouldn't have to sleep on the floor."
Hiccup felt his ears twitch up, slightly taken aback by the words. His father was really concerned with changing the room for a dragon's comfort? He'd expected the man to merely tolerate his presence when he was like this, but to actively want to help was far beyond what he anticipated.
He was grateful that his expression was harder to read in this form, as Stoick appeared oblivious to his shock.
The viking began gathering up the empty dishes, the stack now appearing more compressed and easy to carry. The man gripped them in one arm, saying, "I'll be by the fire, if you want to join me."
After the change.
Though unsaid, Hiccup easily grasped the implication. He nodded his agreement, watching his father retreat down the stairs.
This was going to take some getting used to, he decided. Stoick was clearly willing to put in an effort, despite the insanity of the entire situation.
When the shift came, Hiccup took a moment to thumb through his old sketches. He'd had a lot of wild ideas as a teen, and he couldn't help but wonder if any of the inventions would have worked, had he gotten a chance to build them.
Granted, it was one of his successful inventions that had ruined his life. With that sobering thought, he dropped the pile of papers back onto the desk before heading for the stairs.
He hovered at the foot of the steps for a moment, catching sight of where Stoick's sat before the fire. Taking in the scene, he wondered just how many nights his father had spent like this, sitting alone in the big empty house. Just how many lives had his curse impacted?
"I didn't know you could cook," he called out, trying to keep his voice light.
Stoick twisted in his seat, "Hiccup, it's good to see you."
"You just saw me," he reminded his father, though there was no venom in his tone. He took the last few steps into the room, sliding into an empty chair.
"Right…"
"So you already know what a mess my life has been," said Hiccup with a wry smile, "Now I want to know what you've been up to all this time. Tell me about Berk."
True to his word, Stoick quickly transformed Hiccup's old bedroom into a sort of makeshift dragon's den. Within a day, he'd dismantled the old bed, and would have done the same to the desk had Hiccup not insisted it stay.
He wanted to maintain some relic of his old life.
Stoick had gathered an impressive collection of furs and blankets, some pulled from their family storage as well as a few new ones purchased from visiting traders. He lined the ground with them, creating a soft nest of fabric.
Hiccup wasn't used to such comforts. After all, the closest he'd come to a soft bed in years was a sandy beach on the other side of the island. He took great care to maintain the gift, extra mindful of his claws whenever he navigated the room.
Gobber hadn't been able to shake the feeling that something wasn't quite right. Ever since the Night Fury had escaped, something had just seemed off to him, but he couldn't pin down the source.
He sat in his forge, facing the battered cell door. It had taken three vikings to haul the metalwork from the arena and was now lodged into a corner of his workshop.
The beast had done a number on the door, clearly determined to escape. The scratches alone showed persistence, gouging deep lines into the structure. It was both terrifying and awe-inspiring to consider the strength required to make such marks.
The Night Fury had been something to behold. A creature of legend, dropped in their laps by chance. He'd never seen a dragon move with such effortless grace, nor had he ever seen such intelligence in a beast's eyes.
Gobber sometimes saw those toxic green eyes in his dreams.
They'd caged the beast, and it had broken free. Knowing its intelligence, he wondered if they had reason to be concerned it might come back for revenge. At this point, he wouldn't put it past the dragon.
He scratched his temple, leaning over the scorched hinges. Though the door would need to be rebuilt, he hoped there might be something that he could salvage in the wreckage.
"Tha's odd," he observed, running a finger over one of the blackened hinges. It was covered in soot, clear evidence of dragon fire, but it still seemed perfectly intact. He checked the other hinges, confused to note they all appeared in similar shape.
The lack of damage didn't make sense. He'd designed the door carefully – unless a hinge was compromised, forcing it open from the inside should have been impossible. Yet, the all mechanisms seemed to be in perfect order, as if they'd simply swung open with ease.
Gobber felt a chill run down his spine.
If the evidence was to be believed, this wasn't an escape. The door had been opened .
The blacksmith wrenched it sideways, desperate to catch a glimpse of the other side. The outer latch appeared sufficiently compromised – its warped, melted metal consistent with exposure to dragon fire. But how had it penetrated the door?
None of it made sense.
He slammed his hook on the table, shaking his head in frustration. Each side of the door told a different story, but he hadn't the faintest idea which story was true or how they were connected.
Gobber wanted to voice his concerns to the chief, but the man had seemed oddly uninterested in discussing the Night Fury's disappearance. He'd simply expressed that he was disappointed in the loss before dropping the subject completely.
He'd briefly contemplated sharing his theories with Astrid, as she'd gotten closer to the creature than anyone else, but ultimately had talked himself out of it. She'd seemed to take the loss pretty hard, asking for a few days off from training. He couldn't blame her – she'd been part of something monumental, only to have it ripped out from underneath her.
Times like this made him miss Hiccup. His old apprentice had never dismissed his theories, often eager to contribute his own. They'd had a great rapport, he remembered, neither afraid to think outside the box.
Gobber swiveled in his seat, facing the back store room. It had been Hiccup's retreat, and the blacksmith had left it largely untouched out of respect for the dead. He only dared step inside when he felt at a loss, as if somehow the boy's spirit could help guide his thinking.
He pushed to his feet, shuffling over to the door. His hand hovered over the knob.
What would he make of all this?
Gobber entered the small space, exhaling loudly.
Astrid was relieved to have a few days off from dragon training. Considering her part in the incident, she didn't want to give Gobber the chance to question her too closely. While she was a decent liar, the man was sometimes too perceptive for his own good.
Many of her tribesmen offered their condolences on her loss, remarking that it was too bad she wouldn't get the chance to slay the Night Fury. She'd taken to reminding them that at least she'd faced the feared dragon – none of them could relate. The boast would serve a dual purpose of reinforcing her reputation and dissuading the villagers from trying to discuss the escape further.
Once she was confident that Hiccup wasn't in need of a rescue, she'd decided to give him space to reacquaint with his father. In that stretch of time, she was surprised to find that she missed him.
The last week had been a rollercoaster of emotions, and she'd helped Hiccup out of his predicament because she felt it was the right thing to do. She hadn't realized that she'd grown this attached to the gangly viking within the chaos of it all.
Of course she had to befriend the most complicated person on the entire island.
She waited til sundown on the third day before trekking up to the chief's house. The home's elevated location made for some breathtaking views, but she couldn't fathom why he'd want to live so far from town.
She banged on the door. "It's Astrid," she called out, knowing the chief would be hesitant to open his doors with his current guest.
A few moments later she could hear a bolt slide back before the door swung open. Stoick stepped out of the way, jerking his head to the side in silent invitation.
She slipped in, barely making it a few steps into the space before she heard the bolt slide firmly back into place.
"Hiccup!" She greeted, finding her friend sitting sideways in one of the wooden chairs. His long legs hung over one arm of the chair, back braced against the other. He had a pad of paper on his lap, a stick of charcoal resting between his fingers.
Catching sight of her, his face broke into a wide grin and he quickly sat up, dropping the art supplies on a nearby table. The charcoal stick kept moving, rolling off the table and onto the floor.
"Hey, Astrid!"
He looked healthier than the last time she'd seen him. The deep set exhaustion that had lined his face was gone, and his cheeks had a bit of healthy color to them. His ragged tunic was gone, replaced by a clean red one that fit him properly.
Any lingering fears of how he'd been treated in her absence vanished.
"You look good," she voiced the thought, "how are you feeling?"
He shrugged, but the smile remained fixed in place. "Oh, you know, everything's still a bit weird."
"Isn't 'weird' your normal?"
Hiccup laughed, "Uh yeah, guess you've got me there."
Stoick cleared his throat, startling Astrid. She'd forgotten the chief was still standing there.
"I'm going down to visit the Hall tonight," he announced, pulling on a pair of boots. "I need to make an appearance, or people will start wondering why I'm always holed up at home. Can't risk anyone else showing up at the door."
"Have fun, chief." Astrid said, glad for the privacy. As much as she respected Stoick, it was hard to let her guard down around someone with such authority.
"Bye Dad!" called Hiccup.
"Latch the door behind me," the man responded as he left.
Hiccup did as he was asked, securing the door once more. Astrid wondered if they really thought someone from the tribe would barge into the chief's home while he was out, but she kept her thoughts to herself.
"Things seem good between you two," she observed.
Hiccup nodded, fidgeting in the doorway. "He's really trying to make this work."
"I'm glad." She meant it. After five years of isolation, he deserved to have something go his way.
He flushed, shuffling past her. "You thirsty? I think he's got some mead in the cabinet."
Astrid settled into one of the chairs closest to the fire, soaking up the warmth. "If you're having a glass, sure."
She could hear him fumbling around in the kitchen for a bit, followed by the familiar slosh of liquid pouring into cups. He offered her a goblet when he returned, which she accepted gratefully.
"Just one for me," he said, green eyes focused on his own cup with a new wariness. "Berk's never seen a tipsy dragon before, and I'd like it to stay that way."
Astrid nearly spit out her drink at the thought of a drunk Night Fury. She choked on the liquid, banging a fist against her chest to clear her airway again. "I'm fine," she wheezed, before he could ask. "Gods, what a sight that would be."
He agreed, taking a careful sip from his own goblet.
They sat together in a comfortable quiet, sipping their drinks in the firelight. It was peaceful.
Astrid studied the boy across from her once more, a question rising unbidden to her lips. "So what's it like?"
"Hmm?"
"What's it like to be a dragon," she clarified before she could lose her nerve. There was only one viking in the world who could answer that question, and her curiosity was too strong to ignore.
Hiccup's gaze remained fixed on his drink as he considered the question. At first, she wondered if she'd overstepped and he wouldn't want to talk about it. Then he spoke, "Besides the terrifying realization that everyone you know wants you dead? It's…weird. You've got three more limbs to worry about – and gods, they're hard to adjust to, you wouldn't believe how many times I tripped over my tail. Your entire sense of balance is thrown out of whack."
"That sounds challenging."
"Oh it is," he assured, swirling the glass in his hand. "Not to mention your joints have changed and you're suddenly walking on all fours. I had bad enough coordination before this whole mess, adding in two more legs didn't help."
Hiccup had been a clumsy kid. That much she could remember vividly from their youth. He seemed so much more graceful now, perhaps the curse had been good to him in that way.
"And you can't talk or scream or communicate anymore," he continued, looking disturbed by the confession. "Your vocal cords are completely different. That was one of the hardest parts to adjust to, in the early days. All I wanted to do was scream, but I couldn't get a sound out."
Astrid winced. It sounded like torture, and judging by his rapidly souring expression, it had been.
"Is there anything…good?" She ventured, wondering if she could nudge the conversation back to something lighter.
"Good about being a dragon?" Hiccup asked, finally looking up at her in surprise. At her nod, he rubbed his jaw in thought. "Well, flying is incredible. It's so hard to describe, but when you're up there in the clouds, you just feel so free. Berk looks so small from the air, it sometimes feels like my problems are too."
"That sounds…nice," she decided, trying to picture Berk from above. The island was beautiful from the ground, surely it would be even more so from the air.
"It's like nothing you've ever experienced," he assured, the light returning to his eyes. "It's the one part of this curse that has never felt like a punishment. I actually really love it."
"I'm glad."