The first thing Hiccup noticed as he regained a sense of awareness was the unpleasant sensation of a cold, hard surface beneath him. It was unnaturally smooth, and a sharp metallic scent greeted him when he breathed in.
Strange.
His thoughts were jumbled and his head pounded, making sorting through his current situation all the more painful.
He'd been flying home…and then what?
Shifting slightly, a sharp shock of pain raced up his thigh. The jolt was enough to cut through the dense mental fog, key memories beginning to resurface.
Bolas.
A foot on his snout.
A sharp, slicing feeling in his thigh followed by a crushing exhaustion…almost as if he'd been poisoned.
"...ready the cage for this beast…"
The metallic surface could no longer be ignored. Hiccup forced his eyes open, vision confirming his fears. Rows of criss-crossing, shining bars surrounded him, glinting in the mid-afternoon sun. The bars were secured tightly to a flat, metal base at both the top and bottom of the cage, creating a prison for the dragon within.
Hiccup swallowed hard, feeling his heart rate begin to pick up. He tried to rein in his panic in favor of finding a solution, gaze carefully tracing over every detail for a weakness he could exploit. He was a blacksmith's apprentice – he knew metalwork! All he needed was a single design flaw, and he was certain that could free himself with the right amount of leverage.
Unfortunately, the creator of the cage had been meticulous. Were it not for his current predicament, Hiccup would be almost impressed by the craftsmanship.
Once it became clear that his search was in vain and there were no visible weaknesses in the crafting of the cage, his fears could no longer be kept at bay.
Oh gods…
Hiccup tried to push to his feet, but his movements were slow and sluggish. The netting had been removed from his wings, but his own exhaustion now kept him bound. His muscles protested every action, and he barely managed to shift his position enough to survey the surrounding area with bleary eyes.
He was in the midst of a bustling campsite. Rows of tents dotted the periphery while a fire pit had been dug in the center of the clearing.
A few dozen men milled about the area, some moving with purpose and others lagging about. There were no flags or armor designs to mark their tribal allegiance. In fact, they were outfitted in a diverse range of styles that seemed to span half the archipelago.
Whoever these men were, they appeared to come from vastly different origins. That begged the question: what cause had united them in this way?
He had a bad feeling he already knew the answer.
Hiccup scanned the crowd intently, searching each of the faces that he could see for the one he knew would confirm his suspicions. Some were turned away, or focused on other tasks, but the face he sought was clear as day.
The stranger was unmistakable – dark eyes narrowed at one of his men. Though his attention was fixed elsewhere, the man's intensity was just as intimidating as it had been when it had been fixed on Hiccup from the decks of a ship.
Poachers. Hiccup had been captured by poachers.
He'd managed to end up in the very position his father had been so worried he'd fall into – with the added benefit of having agitated the group in advance.
Just great…
If he'd thought the gods hated him before…now he was certain.
The men paid him little mind. Other than a few self-satisfied gazes from those who passed by, they didn't let their attention linger on him for long. He became increasingly aware of his position as a trophy to them – a mere ticket to financial reward, nothing more. Caged and sluggish, he was not even seen as a real threat.
It's both disheartening and humiliating to consider.
As time stretched on, he was able to regain some strength in his left forepaw. To his displeasure, the rest of him remained pitifully weak and out of sorts. Whatever they'd dosed him appeared to be able to disrupt his healing factor, which troubled him greatly.
What toxin could negate a dragon's magic? And how could it have such enduring effects on a dragon? He'd never heard of a sedative that could keep one down for this long. Had it been common knowledge, he was certain his father would have heavily invested in it to fight off the raids.
It's the not knowing that really ties his stomach in knots. If the poison can suppress his healing…what else can it do? Was it meant to have other effects? Could the effects be permanent?
He used his limited strength to adjust his position once more, claws scratching uselessly as they tried and failed to gain traction against the metal surface. He was determined to keep an eye on the leader's movements, trying to assess what they have planned for him.
The majority of the men spend their time setting up for some sort of festivities, rolling several large barrels of mead to the center of camp. They smell of salt and sea air, and Hiccup suspects they're making trips to and from their ship. The men all appear to be in good spirits, grinning and joking with one another throughout it all.
Celebrating his capture.
Hiccup's traitorous mind drags him back to his last prison, back within the walls of the arena. Once more, he's found himself locked away in confined quarters like a dangerous animal, and he silently seethes as he comes to that realization.
He's come too far to be back at this point – and this time, he doesn't have the added benefit of familiarity with his captors. The unpredictability of his new situation offers a new level of danger, as he has no way of knowing what they'll do to him next.
The arena had at least been familiar. He'd known how dragons were treated within those walls. It hadn't been all that comforting at the time, but looking back it had at least offered him some solace. He'd known that he'd be fed daily, he'd known they were in no rush to kill him and he'd known his days would be filled with fighting trainees.
He knew nothing of what these poachers had in store for him – only that he'd likely be handed over to the highest bidder, for Thor knows what purpose.
Worse still…just what would these men do at sundown, when their prized Night Fury vanished before their eyes? His heart stuttered as he considered it, wondering just how the revelation would influence his fate. Would it make things better for him, or would it make things worse?
Haddock luck seemed to favor the latter.
Perhaps, if they were a superstitious lot, they'd strike him down then and there. Seeing such a transformation was likely to bring on suspicions of Loki's involvement, and he knew that many vikings would want to be rid of such an omen. If they chose to…eliminate him…he'd have nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. He'd be a sitting duck behind the metal bars of his prison when they struck.
If they let him live…
Hiccup ground his teeth together, feeling nauseous as he considered the range of possibilities that opened up. What need would they have for someone like him? What buyer would want a cursed viking – and why?
The options weren't great.
He'd heard numerous tales of oddities carted around in sideshows, put on display for paying audiences to gawk and jeer at. Stoick had never allowed such troupes onto their shores, finding the practice unsavory, but they were quite popular on neighboring islands. A few other heirs that he'd met in his youth had even been fond of the shows – spending hours going on and on about the events like they were the pinnacle of entertainment.
Would he be doomed to meet that fate, caged forever and forced to let strangers witness his involuntary transition from dragon to man like some sort of novelty act?
Or perhaps…would he be kept in a less public setting, treated like an exotic pet by an eccentric buyer? Possessing a Night Fury was sure to improve a viking's reputation, and the draw of that could appeal to a certain sort. Would he spend the rest of his days as a puppet or trophy, paraded around as a symbol of someone else's might? Would his humanity even be taken into consideration?
Hiccup's mind continued to reel, stirring up bad situation after bad situation. He could be used in a ritual sacrifice to the gods. He could be skinned for his rare dragon pelt – though he shuddered to consider if his skin would continue to change with the sun once separated from his body.
It would probably be best if they just killed him, he decided. He didn't want to endure the pain or the shame that the other scenarios conjured in his imagination.
"It looks like my tip was a resounding success," a familiar voice cut through the crowd, breaking Hiccup from his inner spiral.
No, it can't be…
"Yes, Johann, your words have proven most valuable, indeed," came the smooth voice of the leader, confirming Hiccup's fears. "It would seem you were right in your suspicions: the Night Fury does reside on Berk."
The merchant made his way deeper into the camp, and Hiccup's eyes narrowed as he watched the trader approach. The man eyed him for a moment, whistling his appreciation.
"Well done, Master Viggo." said Johann, "I wasn't sure it could be done."
The man – Viggo – grunted, fishing around in his pockets before drawing out a large bag of coins. He reached out, pressing them into the trader's awaiting hands. "Your payment, as promised. As for your doubts…let me assure you that anything can be done. One only needs the proper planning and motivation to see it through."
"And what, may I ask, motivates you?" Johann ventured, pocketing the money.
"Nothing you need concern yourself with," assured Viggo, voice calm but firm. "Now, I believe our business is concluded?"
"It is," agreed Johann, turning to go. He took a step and paused, glancing back. "Though, if you'd humor me…"
"That entirely depends on the question."
"Consider it a simple merchant's curiosity, but I must ask – what are you planning to do with the beast?"
Hiccup stilled, trying to tune out the thrumming of his heart in his ears as he waited for the man's response.
"Surely I don't have to tell you how valuable a Night Fury is," said Viggo, eliciting a nod from Johann. "Only a great fool would waste this opportunity by acting in any sort of haste. We must be strategic with this creature's fate, at least until we can find the right buyer. With a rarity like this…it's best to keep it alive, at least until we've received payment in full. I expect any interested parties will want to see living proof, to ensure there is no trickery…"
Johann hummed. "Aye, there is a lot of that. I have seen several – err, lesser – merchants dye scales black, fetching a higher price for what they claim to be genuine 'Night Fury' skin. It can be surprisingly lucrative...or so I'm told, of course."
"Of course." Viggo echoed flatly, before he nodded towards the cage, "but I am no charlatan. With this creature in my possession, I will be the first to offer irrefutable proof of a living, breathing Night Fury in captivity. As such, the name Grimborn will soon be one of legend."
Johann nodded, dipping his head in acknowledgment. "Then I wish you luck in your endeavors, Master Viggo. I do hope, considering the, ah, roaring success of our partnership, that you'd be open to future business arrangements?"
"So long as you continue to prove yourself to be of value to me, I see no reason to refuse."
Johann grinned with almost feral glee, nodding feverishly. "Of course, sir."
"And Johann – I do expect complete discretion in all my dealings. Not a word of what has happened here leaves this campsite. If I were to hear that anyone had been tipped off…"
"Understood."
Hiccup watched the trader take his leave, disappearing off into the trees. The same merchant his father had always held in high regard…was working with the poachers? It felt like a betrayal, though he knew the man neither owed them allegiance nor had any idea who had been captured.
He snarled, throat burning as he let out his frustration, sounds of his fury and frustration continuing to grow. Though the netting had been removed, the strap around his jaws remained tightly secured.
He lifted a shaky paw to his snout, trying to hook a claw through the leather. Perhaps if he could fire a plasma blast…
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Hiccup flinched, arm dropping back to his floor at the loud noise.
"Now, now…there'll be none of that," chastised Viggo, slamming the hilt of his sword against the bars of the cage once more.
Bang!
Hiccup whined as the sound echoed through his prison, deafening to his sensitive hearing. He shrank back, away from the wall of the cage.
"Oi, Grimborn! Can't you shut that demon up?"
Viggo regarded Hiccup for another moment, face indifferent. Then, he turned to address his men, raising his voice. "Of course," he assured, holding his hands up in a placating measure. "This creature, like so many others, can be soothed under the right conditions. Fetch me that tarp I requested, and I'll show you how to silence a dragon."
Hiccup stared at the wall of fabric that now covered the cage in disbelief.
This was Viggo's grand plan to subdue a dragon? He'd given a grand speech to his men, claiming that like a caged bird, a caged dragon would interpret the sudden darkness as night.
Did he really think dragons were so simple minded? While Hiccup knew he was a special case, he had a very hard time believing the rudimentary trick worked on natural dragons, considering the depth and intelligence he'd observed from them.
It was a stark reminder of how little humans knew about dragons. How little they cared to learn.
Still, he was grateful for the blessing of solitude when he made note of the rapidly dimming light, glimpsed through tiny gaps near the base of the cage where the fabric didn't quite meet the ground. He was happy to keep quiet and play the part if it meant no one was around to witness the transformation.
He was lying on his stomach, watching the final rays of sunlight disappear when he shifted. To his relief, the makeshift muzzle – much like his prosthetic – remained tied to a single form, disappearing in the purple blaze. Working his jaw up and down, he savored the freedom of the movement.
The cold of the cage floor was much worse on his human body, biting sharply through the fabric of his clothing. He shivered, pushing himself up and into a seated position before drawing his legs close to his chest to conserve his body heat, mindful not to let metal of his prosthetic clink against the surface.
He eyed the bars once more, trying to calculate the spacing between them. Though he was slim and agile, he doubted he'd be able to pass through them fully – though he'd still give it his best try once he was confident the poachers were asleep. He didn't want to risk drawing any attention to the cage now if the tarp shifted with his movements.
The buzz of the campsite continued to swell, tongues loosening and laughter spilling as the men took advantage of the available drink.
It was a stark contrast to the silence of the cage, where Hiccup's own mood continued to dim like a fire dying out.
After a fitful – and mostly unsuccessful – attempt to sleep, Stoick greeted the new dawn both cranky and sore.
A quick visit to Hiccup's bedroom revealed that nothing had been disturbed in the night. His son had not returned. He'd assumed so, since he hadn't heard any sound of the boy's arrival, but with Hiccup's eerie, draconic stealth…sometimes the boy moved like a ghost, save for the occasional click of his prosthetic.
Stoick had needed to check to be sure, disappointed to be proven right.
For the second time in his life, his son had disappeared without a trace. It felt like a cruel twist of fate, being dealt such a devastating repetition.
Knowing all that Hiccup had been through the first time, he wasn't about to sit by and wait. He'd tear the entire island apart, stone by stone if that was what it took, just to verify that Hiccup was not on Berk.
Dressing quickly, Stoick strode off into town, pulling together a plan for the search. He'd have Gobber set off towards Raven's Point, he'd handle the far reaches of the island, Spitelout could walk the shoreline, and perhaps the Hoffersons could take the eastern forests.
Gobber was easy to track down, looking oddly uneasy at Stoick's request but agreeing nonetheless. Stoick didn't allow himself time to dwell on it, content that his friend would honor his wishes.
Spitelout proved more challenging to find, having gone to have his armor repaired by the local tanner. The shop was tucked away on a quiet side street, easily overlooked. Stoick passed it twice before remembering to venture down the walkway.
The man was in the midst of being fitted for a new set of vambraces, arguing with the tanner about some uneven staining on the leather. Stoick knew how volatile the elder Jorgenson could be, so he held his tongue and waited impatiently for the conversation to wrap up. If he wanted Spitelout's help, he would have to play his cards right.The tanner, a man named Arne, was the first to notice his arrival.
"Chief!" He greeted, an easy smile spread across his face. "Are you here about Hiccup's armor? I've finished the last of those updates you requested for that shoulder pad, but I haven't had a chance to give it a thorough cleaning yet. I'm a little backed up with appointments this morning but if you don't mind the wait, I can have it ready for you by the end of the day."
Between the Berserker summons and his son's disappearance, Stoick had nearly forgotten the set of armor he was having modified. It had taken longer than expected, with the customizations that Stoick had insisted upon, and had fallen off his radar.
"Thank you, Arne," he said, dipping his head in gratitude. "Take your time – I'm not here for the armor just yet. I'm afraid I'm here to borrow Spitelout."
"You are?" Spitelout asked in surprise, sliding off the vambraces and handing them to the tanner.
"I need your help," admitted Stoick, "if you're finished here, I can fill you in on the way. I'm afraid we have no time to waste."
Spitelout glanced at Arne, who waved him off. "Go, I got the measurements I need. I'll have everything ready for you in about a week's time."
Satisfied, Spitelout followed the chief back to the street.
"Hiccup is missing," stated Stoick, not wasting a beat.
Spitelout's trademark smirk disappeared, arrogance replaced by a rare display of concern. For all his faults, the man was always there for Stoick when it counted. "Stoick…are you sure he's not just out…exploring, or whatever it is he does all day?"
"Something's wrong," insisted Stoick, running a hand raggedly across his beard. "I can't describe it, but I can feel it in my bones. I don't want to stir up panic in the village just yet, not at least until we can confirm he's off-island. For that, I'll need your help to do a thorough sweep – and quickly. Can I count on you?"
"Where do you want me to look?"
Stoick's search proved fruitless.
After taking a boat to the far side of the island in haste, he'd spent an hour poking around the various caves and crevices hidden in the rock, thankful that he'd paid attention to his son's descriptions of the area.
He'd hesitated in one of the roomier caves, catching sight of the unique markings on the wall. The rock was covered in sketches, etched into the stone by a sharp set of claws. Some were clearer and likely fresher than others, but the layers and sheer volume of the drawings made it clear that they'd been added over an extended period of time.
There was a progression to the artwork. What started as simple, ragged doodles evolved into more complex and smooth linework – no doubt, the result of countless hours worth of practice. The simpler sketches were nothing special, ranging from suns and moons to what Stoick assumed was meant to be a sheep.
It was the fresher, more complex ones that gave him pause.
In one corner, the artist had depicted a scene of a father and son, engaged in some sort of conversation. The elder man looked down upon his son with a raised chin, brows furrowed in deep disappointment. The boy's head was ducked low in shame, unruly hair obscuring his eyes. Shaky runes cut through the image with a simple 'I'm sorry'.
Stoick reached out, fingers grazing the drawing with trembling fingers. Hiccup had done a remarkable job capturing their likenesses, and it pierced his heart to see how his son had remembered him during his exile. This was the version of himself that had haunted his boy, watching over him for years. A disapproving authority, casting judgement.
It was fair – he couldn't argue that. When Hiccup had disappeared, they hadn't been on the greatest of terms. His son had been at the root of many – unintentional, Stoick now knew – messes throughout Berk. Stoick hadn't seen the boy's desperation to prove himself, only focusing on the fallout that he'd had to clean up.
The etching was a stark reminder of his failures to support Hiccup before the curse. Of all the time he'd wasted before they were parted.
Wrenching his gaze away, he let his eyes drift further, taking stock of the rest of the drawings.
A boy on fire, standing underneath a blazing sun.
The transformation.
A dragon's claws, embedded in a young man's chest.
The attack.
A girl walking with her battle axe resting on one shoulder.
Astrid, perhaps? The figure was depicted from the back so he couldn't be sure, though it seemed likely.
A Night Fury with a spear impaled through its side, surrounded by a group of cheering vikings.
Seeing that one, Stoick had to step back, feeling sick.
He was well aware of his son's fears, but seeing them depicted like that was another matter entirely. The worst part? It could have easily become reality, had his secret not been discovered precisely how it had been. One wrong move, one lucky shot…Stoick himself might have even dealt the blow, eager to take down a rare dragon.
Once more, he was reminded of how lucky he was to have gotten Hiccup back at all.
The chief cleared his throat, dabbing roughly at his eyes before forcing himself to walk away. Though he yearned to study the rest of the sketches, to learn more about his son's time in hiding…he dragged his feet towards the exit.
It would do Hiccup no good for him to waste time dwelling on the past – right now, he needed to think about the present.
He needed to find his son.
"The eastern woods are clear," informed Ingrid Hofferson before Stoick had finished docking the boat. "I didn't find any sign he'd been there."
Stoick stepped out onto the dock, nodding solemnly. "I found no trace of him either. What about Astrid? Did she notice anything unusual?"
"No," Ingrid shook her head, "She wasn't with me. It's a small enough patch that I didn't need the help. Besides, she took off – said she had somewhere else she needed to check. Come to think of it, she hasn't returned yet… Perhaps that's a good sign?"
He nodded stiffly, acknowledging the possibility. Berk was only so large. If Astrid was taking this long to complete her search, perhaps it meant she'd found him.
"Stoick!"
The chief looked up, catching sight of Gobber and Spitelout as they hurried towards him. Their expressions were grim, and a familiar satchel hung off of Gobber's hook.
Stoick brushed past Ingrid, closing the gap between himself and the duo in a few quick strides. He eyed the bag, almost afraid to ask. "Is that–"
"Aye," said Gobber, "It's Hiccup's."
"Where–"
"Stoick," interrupted Spitelout, shaking his head. "Wait. That's not all we found – and believe me, this bit's important. I was nearly halfway 'round the island, when I noticed a pair of ships tucked into one of the inlets. It was the strangest thing, 'cause I knew I recognized one of 'em, but I couldn't place why. Then it came to me – it was the same ship that tried to dock here a few days ago!"
Stoick's blood turned to ice. There was only one unfamiliar ship Gobber had mentioned coming through in his absence – the one belonging to the poachers.
No.
"I boarded 'em both, you know – ready to give 'em a good Jorgenson integration and all – but they were empty. Not a single soul aboard either ship…just a lot of dragon trophi–oi!"
Gobber dislodged his elbow from the man's side, shaking his head in disapproval. "Why would ya tell 'im tha' now?" He asked irately, turning his grave eyes on his friend as he held out the leather satchel. "Judging by this…you're right. Hiccup is missin'. An' ta make matters worse…those scum are on th' isle , Stoick."