(no subject)
More HtTYD fic. A different AU. This time, it's pretty dark. Beware character death.
He throws everything into that one downward swipe. The resistance when his blade hits the scale covered skin gives at his own weight. His knife pierces through. Warm blood starts to boil over, wetting the hilt and the heels of his palms. The beast cries out and starts to struggle against its bonds for the first time. The thrashing scares him, and that’s enough incentive to finish the blow. Arms shaking, he drags his knife down in one slow cut. Dragon’s blood drips over every inch of his hands now. He can taste it in the air, it’s so strong. His stomach rolls.
He wants to run so badly, and suddenly it’s not just his arms that are shaking.
The Night Fury-a god and a devil to his people, and bleeding like any mortal would-screams and cries. Its legs shift, its eyes are closed tightly in pain. The wound at its side pulses with each movement and slowly, a pool forms, staining the ground around it red-black.
Hiccup staggers away. He drops his knife and leaves it, forgotten on the ground, as he backs himself against the near-by boulder. He watches, stares as the creature begins to die. He feels himself die with it. He doesn’t know what it’s like to have your side ripped open as you lie bound on the floor, but he can imagine. Vulnerable to his own attack, he sits and stares and feels.
The Night Fury whines. Hiccup sobs.
The blood on his hands and shirt dries long before the dragon’s body finally stills. The tears, though, they seem endless. He’s not sure how long it takes, but the death feels painfully slow, and once it’s over, he’s left drained and with no will to move.
---
He doesn’t want to-he knows the men won’t like it-but by Thor, if he can’t find that boy by sun up, he’ll have to postpone the launch. He’s not about to sail off to a possible fiery death without at least making sure Hiccup understands what’s expected of him.
He’s going into Dragon Training, for Odin’s sake. It’s…it’s something of a big deal.
Stoick is putting a lot of faith in him, and Hiccup needs to understand that. It can’t just be passed along by Gobber once he’s gone.
Truth be told, he’s been relying on him for that a bit too much lately…
Stoick picks his way through the forest beyond Raven’s Point as carefully as a Viking is want to. He carries a torch for light. Occasionally, he calls his son’s name, but he’s never met with an answer. Morbidly, he wonders if he’ll find a corpse this time. The thought makes his chest constrict, so he says to himself no, he’s more likely to find him asleep under some tree, with that confounded sketchbook still sprawled across his lap. That’s how he’ll find Hiccup. Useless and asleep.
A branch catches his cape, bringing his attention to the tree itself. Raising his torch higher, Stoick realizes the tree has been split. It’s too high and too ragged to be man-made. He’s reminded of Hiccup’s lies that morning. Intrigued, Stoick continues to investigate.
The tree leads him to a deep gouge carved into the soil further down the hill, and a ridge beyond that. Stoick jumps it, landing with an ominous thud. It’s then that he thinks he sees a strange shape in the darkness. Within a few steps, the torch light fully fleshes out the corpse. It’s a dragon, bound with a bola, with one dried wound in its gut. He’s never seen one of it’s like, dead or alive. It can only be the Night Fury.
Realizing this fills him with immeasurable pride. His son hadn’t lied. He’d actually dragged the legendary creature from the heavens and slew it. He managed what no Viking before him, for generations and generations, could do.
Stoick feels, in this moment, humbled by his own son.
His son who is there, sitting propped against a boulder. He seems to Stoick, in this lighting and by the posture, to be asleep. He takes a step closer and kneels beside him.
“Hiccup,” he says as he touches his son’s shoulder, voice wavering with delight. “You…you’ve done it.”
The boy tenses. Stoick is unsure of what to make of it, but is more than happy to assume he’s simply coming out of a sleep. Then he notices the harsh line of Hiccup’s jaw and the grimace of his lips. The boy turns and stares at him with wide, wet eyes. The chief’s pride bursts. The hollowness in Hiccup’s expression blows through him and leaves him empty as well.
Slowly, Stoick sets the torch aside and gathers the boy into his arms. He holds him as Hiccup starts to shake. He can feel him sobbing, but his son doesn’t make any sounds. This isn’t how a Viking should act. He knows, he knows he needs to stop coddling the boy…
It can wait until morning. He’s killed his first dragon. No amount of tears can undo the deed. Hiccup is a man now, even if he continues to weep like a child.
Stoick tells himself it’s just something he’ll grow out of.
He throws everything into that one downward swipe. The resistance when his blade hits the scale covered skin gives at his own weight. His knife pierces through. Warm blood starts to boil over, wetting the hilt and the heels of his palms. The beast cries out and starts to struggle against its bonds for the first time. The thrashing scares him, and that’s enough incentive to finish the blow. Arms shaking, he drags his knife down in one slow cut. Dragon’s blood drips over every inch of his hands now. He can taste it in the air, it’s so strong. His stomach rolls.
He wants to run so badly, and suddenly it’s not just his arms that are shaking.
The Night Fury-a god and a devil to his people, and bleeding like any mortal would-screams and cries. Its legs shift, its eyes are closed tightly in pain. The wound at its side pulses with each movement and slowly, a pool forms, staining the ground around it red-black.
Hiccup staggers away. He drops his knife and leaves it, forgotten on the ground, as he backs himself against the near-by boulder. He watches, stares as the creature begins to die. He feels himself die with it. He doesn’t know what it’s like to have your side ripped open as you lie bound on the floor, but he can imagine. Vulnerable to his own attack, he sits and stares and feels.
The Night Fury whines. Hiccup sobs.
The blood on his hands and shirt dries long before the dragon’s body finally stills. The tears, though, they seem endless. He’s not sure how long it takes, but the death feels painfully slow, and once it’s over, he’s left drained and with no will to move.
---
He doesn’t want to-he knows the men won’t like it-but by Thor, if he can’t find that boy by sun up, he’ll have to postpone the launch. He’s not about to sail off to a possible fiery death without at least making sure Hiccup understands what’s expected of him.
He’s going into Dragon Training, for Odin’s sake. It’s…it’s something of a big deal.
Stoick is putting a lot of faith in him, and Hiccup needs to understand that. It can’t just be passed along by Gobber once he’s gone.
Truth be told, he’s been relying on him for that a bit too much lately…
Stoick picks his way through the forest beyond Raven’s Point as carefully as a Viking is want to. He carries a torch for light. Occasionally, he calls his son’s name, but he’s never met with an answer. Morbidly, he wonders if he’ll find a corpse this time. The thought makes his chest constrict, so he says to himself no, he’s more likely to find him asleep under some tree, with that confounded sketchbook still sprawled across his lap. That’s how he’ll find Hiccup. Useless and asleep.
A branch catches his cape, bringing his attention to the tree itself. Raising his torch higher, Stoick realizes the tree has been split. It’s too high and too ragged to be man-made. He’s reminded of Hiccup’s lies that morning. Intrigued, Stoick continues to investigate.
The tree leads him to a deep gouge carved into the soil further down the hill, and a ridge beyond that. Stoick jumps it, landing with an ominous thud. It’s then that he thinks he sees a strange shape in the darkness. Within a few steps, the torch light fully fleshes out the corpse. It’s a dragon, bound with a bola, with one dried wound in its gut. He’s never seen one of it’s like, dead or alive. It can only be the Night Fury.
Realizing this fills him with immeasurable pride. His son hadn’t lied. He’d actually dragged the legendary creature from the heavens and slew it. He managed what no Viking before him, for generations and generations, could do.
Stoick feels, in this moment, humbled by his own son.
His son who is there, sitting propped against a boulder. He seems to Stoick, in this lighting and by the posture, to be asleep. He takes a step closer and kneels beside him.
“Hiccup,” he says as he touches his son’s shoulder, voice wavering with delight. “You…you’ve done it.”
The boy tenses. Stoick is unsure of what to make of it, but is more than happy to assume he’s simply coming out of a sleep. Then he notices the harsh line of Hiccup’s jaw and the grimace of his lips. The boy turns and stares at him with wide, wet eyes. The chief’s pride bursts. The hollowness in Hiccup’s expression blows through him and leaves him empty as well.
Slowly, Stoick sets the torch aside and gathers the boy into his arms. He holds him as Hiccup starts to shake. He can feel him sobbing, but his son doesn’t make any sounds. This isn’t how a Viking should act. He knows, he knows he needs to stop coddling the boy…
It can wait until morning. He’s killed his first dragon. No amount of tears can undo the deed. Hiccup is a man now, even if he continues to weep like a child.
Stoick tells himself it’s just something he’ll grow out of.