Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The voyage to Viggo's base seemed to take both an eternity and no time at all, with Hiccup suspended between the agony of his current predicament and the fear of what awaited him when they arrived. Hiccup honestly couldn't say what was worse: enduring the torturous cramps and spasms from the unnatural stretch of his arms and leg, or the ever-building dread for when this nightmare of a journey ended.

Hiccup was only half-conscious when the sound of heavy boots on creaky wooden stairs met his ears. After a while, his mind had kind of… shut down. He could still feel, but a sort of fog had descended, muddying his thoughts and making him care just the slightest bit less about the pain ravaging his body. He'd lapsed into a kind of partial dream state, hurting too much to be rendered fully unconscious, but too exhausted to break himself out of his stupor.

At the sounds of a key in the lock and the cell door opening, Hiccup struggled to lift his eyelids only to be met by a stifling darkness — gods, how had he forgotten about the bag over his head? Fear sliced through his flesh, boiled his blood, gnawed on his bones, as Ryker's footsteps approached. He flinched, pain shooting through his body, at the harsh shink of a knife being unsheathed.

But Ryker just used it to slice through the rope tethering his ankle to his wrists. Hiccup's leg flopped bonelessly to the floor, the boot thudding hollowly against the wooden planks. Oh thank the gods. Compared to his previous position, having just his wrists bound behind his back was downright comfortable.

Until a horrible, crawling sensation of pins and needles erupted in his newly freed leg. Though merely unpleasant at first, it rapidly crescendoed into a raging wildfire, thousands of white-hot needles piercing his flesh, melding with the cramps and spasms, composing an oppressive symphony of exquisite agony. Hiccup forgot his body's other aches, forgot his fear, forgot Ryker, forgot even Viggo — all that existed was the pain, the burning, the stabbing, the screaming—

And though he couldn't hear it from behind the gag or over the rushing in his ears, he knew he was screaming. The torment tore it out of his throat, raked it over his tongue, ripped it from his lips. His chest heaved with uncontrollable sobs, his body quaked, his fingernails bit into his palms, drawing blood.

Oh gods gods gods make it stop make it stop make it stop—

Hiccup couldn't pinpoint the exact moment when the overwhelming tide of suffering began to recede, but eventually he realized that he could breathe again, and though his leg felt like it had been lit on fire, the pain was no longer the only thing that existed. He felt the dampness of tears on his face, felt the press of the gag in his mouth, felt the tightness around his throat and the stinging in his palms and the aching in his gut.

And he could hear now, too — hear the sound of his hitched breaths, hear the choked remnants of sobs, hear the muted thrumming of his pounding heartbeat in his ears. And he could hear laughing, dark, sadistic chortles gorging themselves on Hiccup's suffering.

Ryker was laughing. Gods damn him, Ryker had stood there, watching him writhe in the throes of torture, and he'd laughed about it. Hiccup tried his best to tune out the grating sound of it, focusing instead on breathing through the pain, inhaling as deeply as he could manage with bruised ribs and a gag in his mouth. Steeling himself for whatever came next.

Eventually, Ryker chuckled, "Hurts, does it?" He sounded positively gleeful.

Perhaps it was a good thing he was gagged, Hiccup mused as Ryker hoisted him onto his shoulder and carted him out of the cell. If he'd been able to voice the string of insults welling up behind the cloth, no Wanted Alive scrawled on a bounty poster would have been enough to keep Ryker from killing him then and there.

Ryker dumped him roughly on the ground, paying no mind to how his prisoner landed. Hiccup's right shoulder and head struck stone and his darkened vision popped with white lights. The gag muffled his weary groan, but he felt it deep in his bones.

Hiccup didn't bother trying to squirm into a different position or to make himself look more dignified. Exhaustion flowed from him like lifeblood, sapping him of the energy and will to fight, and during the less-than-gentle trek from the ship to wherever they were now, Hiccup's pains had multiplied and piled up until he could scarcely breathe beneath the weight of them. Besides, with a gag in his mouth, a bag over his head, his wrists bound behind his back, and his prothesis gone, it wasn't like he had many — or any — options left.

"Here you go, little brother," Ryker's smug voice cut through the fog in Hiccup's brain. "One runt, as promised." Something within Hiccup, far closer to the surface than he cared to admit, cringed away from that brash voice. It had only brought him misery and pain, and in it lay the promise of so much more.

And then Ryker's words caught up to him — little brother. That meant Hiccup had finally been taken to Viggo. A whole new kind of fear, desperate and primal, exploded in his chest.

Sure enough, the next words Hiccup heard did not come from Ryker. This voice was smoother, richer, more controlled — though no less intimidating. Hiccup's heart thrashed violently against his battered ribs. "Ah, Hiccup. Welcome. Ryker, help our guest up, please. He and I have matters to discuss."

Ryker grunted, wrapped his beefy hands around Hiccup's upper arms, and hauled him upright and onto his knees. Hiccup swayed dangerously when Ryker let go, his stomach rolling, his head throbbing, his throat aching.

"A bit worse for the wear, isn't he?" Viggo commented mildly, but Hiccup sensed something sharp lying in wait. "You are aware that when I purchase wares, I like them to arrive in pristine condition?"

Anger bristled; Hiccup's fists tightened behind his back and he bit down hard on the knotted cloth. Bad enough to be talked about as if he weren't right here, but to be referred to as wares, like he was cargo to be sold and traded? Especially when Viggo had not even paid the bounty, hadn't thought Hiccup was worth more than a bag of rocks?

"Yeah, well, the brat didn't make it easy," Ryker growled. "As I heard it, he slipped through the hands of several different bounty hunters before landing with one competent enough to keep him on a short leash." He chuckled at his sick little joke. "And he tried to escape me too, the annoying little bastard. So I made sure it wouldn't happen again."

All the air rushed out of Hiccup's lungs and pain flared in his ribs as a large boot slammed into his side. He'd been barely able to maintain his balance before, and now he crashed back to the floor, landing hard on his side with a stifled yelp.

"Ryker!" Viggo barked, the sharp edge more pronounced. A cold fury frosted his words, sent chills arcing down Hiccup's spine. "Your work is done. Leave us."

Grumbling, Ryker obeyed. Hiccup heard a door slam in his wake.

And then footsteps, measured and steady and heavy, made their way to Hiccup's side. His entire body tensed at the feel of Viggo's eyes on him, at the knowledge that they were alone now, just the two of them. That Hiccup was perfectly helpless, bound and gagged and blinded, and that Viggo could do anything he wanted to him and Hiccup couldn't stop him.

Viggo spoke, his voice coming from close above Hiccup's head, though most of the anger had drained from it. Now he just sounded weary, though Hiccup could hardly fathom why. He'd expected Viggo to be triumphant, smug, sadistically exuberant when he finally had Hiccup at his mercy. Strangely, the lack of animosity scared Hiccup more than outright violence would have.

"Let's get you up, shall we?"

Strong, steady hands, one around his right arm, the other around his waist, sent electricity crackling through Hiccup's body, but if Viggo noticed his terror, he didn't acknowledge it. Instead, he pulled Hiccup carefully to his foot and held him steady. Even in his weakened and abused condition, Hiccup didn't waver once as Viggo half-guided, half-carried him several painful steps. He was incredibly aware of the fingers gripping his waist, of the frantic drumming of his pulse, of the sweat beading on his brow, but he could do nothing to stop this.

"Here," Viggo said, inches from Hiccup's ear. "Turn around — that's it — and sit." The hands guided him gently into a hard-backed chair, and though it was a battle just to stay upright, Hiccup's screaming leg wilted in relief. The rest of him, however, felt nothing of the kind.

Because although Viggo had said or done nothing threatening since Hiccup had been thrown at his feet, every instinct in his body screamed that this was a trick, a ploy, a game, and that any moment, Viggo would drop the gentlemanly facade and take whatever he wanted by force.

Hiccup flinched violently as warm fingers brushed against his bruised throat. A large hand gripped his shoulder, steadying him, breath ghosted warm and moist over the sensitive skin of his neck. "Easy," Viggo murmured. Hiccup barely heard him over his own stunted breaths and hammering heartbeats. But Viggo just loosened the ties of the bag and tugged it from Hiccup's head.

And like that, Hiccup found himself face to face with the man who had haunted his nightmares, who had put a bounty on him and turned his life into a living hell, who stood for everything Hiccup hated and wanted nothing more than to take everything Hiccup loved away from him.

Viggo was close. Much too close. Squatting in front of Hiccup's chair, eye to eye, studying him with an unreadable expression. He looked much the same as Hiccup remembered from their last meeting: close-cropped black hair and a short, neatly trimmed beard; dark bags under darker eyes; gaze intelligent and sharp and unwaveringly steady, always, always planning, calculating, scheming; chiseled cheekbones, strong nose, lips minutely upturned, self-assured and smugly celebrating his next victory.

Well. Actually, there didn't seem to be much amusement, smug or otherwise, on Viggo's face right now. His lips had instead pressed into a hard, thin line, matching the steeliness in his eyes. Something dark flitted across his features, something very much like wrath, and fear froze Hiccup's blood.

But still Viggo was careful as he took Hiccup's jaw in one hand and tilted his head to the side. Hiccup stiffened, fresh panic tapping into his nearly dry well of adrenaline. His blood buzzed, the pain and fogginess receded just the tiniest bit, and he found the will once again to fight.

He tried to pull away, but Viggo tightened his grip just to the precipice of pain. Hiccup inhaled sharply through his nose, fear thundering through him, but Viggo released him after just a handful of seconds and began working the knot at the back of his head with steady, deft fingers. Viggo silently maneuvered the gag from behind Hiccup's teeth and out of his mouth.

After twelve hours with that godsdamned gag, Hiccup's jaw was so stiff he struggled just to close his mouth. Slowly, agonizingly, he took a moment to work his aching jaw, shifting it from side to side, opening and closing his mouth, rotating it carefully. His lips felt dry and cracked, their corners rubbed raw, but he relished the newfound mobility. All the while, Viggo just watched with those dark, calculating eyes. It unnerved Hiccup, the way Viggo watched him, like he was taking Hiccup apart and putting him back together to learn how he worked, peeling him apart, layer by layer, until the very heart of him lay bare and unprotected in his enemy’s hands.

Finally, even though his mouth was a desert and he could barely articulate his tongue, Hiccup croaked, "What… the Hel are you l-looking at?"

Viggo blinked, shifted his balance on the balls of his feet, and cleared his throat. Coming from anyone but Viggo, it would have seemed awkward, like he'd been thrown off-balance by something, but this was Viggo, for Thor's sake. Hiccup had no doubt that every expression, every movement, had a purpose that Hiccup had yet to discern. In lieu of answering Hiccup's question, Viggo said, "You look like absolute hell, my dear."

Hiccup scoffed. "I have you to th-thank for, for that, I'm sssure." He could barely fit his mouth around the words, could barely get his clumsy tongue to usher them out. His head felt full of molten iron, all his thoughts melted into a scorching amalgamation of confusion. With every passing second, his control over his mind and body slipped a little more.

Viggo's eyes glittered like a hunting dragon's, fierce and deadly and primed for the kill. "You would be wrong. I have no desire to see you like this. You are much more useful to me healthy and whole."

It took a long moment for Hiccup's flagging brain to fully process Viggo's words, but when it did, his stomach churned. What in Odin's name did that mean? What did Viggo plan to do with him? Did he want Hiccup whole just so he could break him himself?

"W-well, maybe you should've put that on the bou-bounty p-poster," Hiccup snapped.

Viggo chuckled with little humor. "Perhaps," he acknowledged. "An oversight on my part, I'm afraid."

Hiccup, scared out of his mind, thoroughly confused by Viggo's bizarre behavior, and racked with pain, had had enough. The fear shifted into anger like the twist of a dagger, and he demanded, "What exactly do, do you want wi-with me, Viggo?"

Viggo appeared politely scandalized by Hiccup's outburst, one hand rising to rest delicately over his heart. "All in good time," he assured. "But right now, you are injured." He took Hiccup's chin in his hand, leaned in close. Hiccup squirmed weakly at the touch, but the pain in his head had reached unfathomable heights and he could barely see straight, let alone wrench away from Viggo's grasp. Viggo tutted. "As I suspected — pupils uneven, bruises under the eyes. You have quite the concussion, it would seem." He let go of Hiccup and rocked back on his heels, brows furrowed, jaw tight.

"I'm fine," Hiccup growled before very nearly teetering out of his seat when a potent wave of dizziness stole over him. Gods, he was so tired, and everything hurt, and he just wanted to go home. He wanted to pass out and wake up in his own bed, wanted this nightmare to be over.

Viggo steadied him, a caricature of concern passing over his face like a shadow. Hiccup's head swam and his vision fogged and he could no longer hold back the encroaching army of pain and fatigue. He swayed again, then toppled, his vision decaying into darkness, a tinny ringing in his ears.

He never hit the floor. Hands, large and strong, caught him swiftly. One shifted to cradle the back of his head, the fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck. The other slid behind his back. Even in his semi-conscious state, Hiccup flinched at the feel of the hand brushing against his own as Viggo propped him up.

Hiccup wanted to fight, he wanted to shout, to demand Viggo let him go, to get those hands off him, but his mind was a fog bank and the words got lost somewhere between his head and his mouth, and all he could do was stare up into the eyes of his worst enemy, his greatest nightmare, his mouth moving soundlessly, pain ripping through every part of him like jagged teeth. And what he saw there, in Viggo's eyes, unnerved him to his core.

Distress. Because of Hiccup. For Hiccup.

Hiccup blinked, confused. Scared. Blinked again. Watched Viggo's mouth move, couldn't hear the words over the sounds of blood rushing in his ears—

When Hiccup woke, he lay on his stomach on a firm surface, his head turned to one side, cheek pressed against something soft. Even as his awareness returned, he felt detached from his body, as if he were an unwilling passenger in his own consciousness.

Then he registered three things all at once: His hands were bound behind his back, he wasn't wearing his prosthetic, and someone was carding their unfamiliar fingers through his hair. With these realizations came a barrage of horrific memories: waking up tied hand and foot in an unfamiliar ship; Savage standing over him, howling with laughter, Hiccup's prosthetic clutched in his filthy hand; a thick chain, cold and unyielding, wrapped around his throat; a giant fist sinking into his gut, arms and leg stretched past their limits, pain encompassing him from head to toe, devouring him; the fading world giving way to sleep, Viggo Grimborn's worried face an oasis in a sea of gathering darkness.

He jolted back into his body, and gods, if he'd thought he was hurting before—

But the pain didn't matter. Not right now. Not when Viggo Grimborn's fingers danced through his hair like they belonged there — which they absolutely did not.

Hiccup made a valiant attempt to pull his head away, to dislodge Viggo's touch, but the movement was so weak, Viggo didn't notice. Or pretended he didn't.

"G-getoffme," Hiccup slurred, his voice a raspy whisper squeezed from a too-tight throat. "Don'… don' t-touch—"

To his surprise, the hands stilled and retreated, and unease spread in the pit of Hiccup's stomach at the distinct feeling of loss that settled somewhere over his heart like a millstone. Those were Viggo's fingers, he didn't want—

But he was also in more pain than he'd ever felt before. Including the loss of his leg and all that had come after. Because this was his whole body, beaten and bloody and broken into pieces that had been strewn on the ground and crushed underfoot. And he was scared, and he wanted Toothless, wanted his dad—

And the fingers had been gentle, soothing, strong. For a moment, he'd almost thought they'd belonged to his father. And now they were gone, and godsdamnit, Hiccup didn't want to want comfort from Viggo! Gods! What was wrong with him?

Hiccup blinked tears from his eyes and stared straight ahead, too exhausted to move even his eyes. He didn't know if this was the room Ryker had dragged him to, or if Viggo had moved him to a secondary location. He had no idea how long he'd been out. Walls of stone, dragon trophies hanging on all sides, a couple of high-backed chairs situated around a small table, a large, meticulously organized desk, and a tall wardrobe of dark wood, elaborately filigreed with designs Hiccup couldn't quite make out. Hiccup seemed to be lying on a large, surprisingly comfortable bed, with furs beneath his body and a pillow beneath his head.

It could have been anyone's room. A random hunter's. An infirmary. A spare bedroom for any of the Grimborns' unsavory guests. But Hiccup knew instinctively where he'd been taken, upon whose bed he lay.

These were Viggo's chambers. He was lying in Viggo's bed, bound and injured and utterly helpless…

Hiccup didn't realize he’d started hyperventilating, his breaths coming in short, sharp gasps, until Viggo shifted into his line of sight, face hard but with concern flickering in his dark eyes. "Breathe, Hiccup," Viggo ordered. "You are safe."

Hiccup's attempt at a deep, calming breath devolved into a manic huff of laughter.

"I mean it, Hiccup. I mean you no immediate harm."

Hiccup managed to control his labored breathing enough to gripe, "Real r-re-reassuring."

The ghost of a smile touched Viggo's lips but didn't reach his eyes. "If you and your tribe cooperate with me, then I will allow no further harm to come to you. I did not lie earlier. I do not enjoy your suffering, my dear." He sounded faintly bewildered, as if he were just now coming to this realization himself and didn't quite know what to do with it.

Hiccup would have rolled his eyes if he'd had the strength, but he just settled for snorting his disbelief. "Wh-what d'you want?" he asked again, his tongue tripping over words that should have come easily.

"Right now, I would like to assess and treat your injuries. I do have a sage on site, of course, but since you seem to be in no immediate danger, I'd like to take a look at you myself before involving him. He's quite busy, you know — you and your riders make sure of that."

Hiccup doubted courtesy for his healer was Viggo's only motivation, and a host of other possibilities, each one more horrific than the last, oozed through Hiccup's pounding head in a macabre parade. Lost in the twisting labyrinth of his own dark thoughts, Hiccup nearly leapt out of his skin when he felt fingers brush against his own.

"Relax," Viggo said softly, slightly exasperated. "I am merely untying you—"

Hiccup's memory exploded into a screaming mass of agony — his newly freed leg alight with flames and daggers, every nerve peeled open, exposed, raw. The sheer weight of that pain drove the breath from his lungs, turned all his limbs to lead.

"No wait—!" Hiccup choked out. "Don't!"

Viggo sat back and raised an eyebrow. "I'm sorry, you want to remain bound?"

Hiccup didn't answer, too busy trying to get his knees underneath him, the panic boiling over and filling his body with the impossible urge to get up, to run, to flee—

To his surprise, Viggo’s hands landed on his arms, levering him off the mattress and into a mostly upright position, his legs dangling over the side of the bed. Hiccup's head and gut spun in tandem as his already nonexistent equilibrium plummeted and he squeezed his eyes shut. That only made the dizziness worse; his eyes snapped back open to see a watery Viggo staring back at him, a kind of fire blazing behind his dark eyes, casting the rest of his face in solemn shadow. Hiccup thought he recognized that expression — stifled anger throwing itself against the prison walls of restraint — but for once, he didn't think the storm was directed at him.

Hiccup sat as straight as he could manage, pointedly keeping his tied arms behind him and out of Viggo's sight and reach. As much he hated being like this, restrained, unable to protect himself in any way, in Viggo's bed, of all places, the thought of experiencing once more the hell of sensation’s return to long-tied limbs brought bile to his throat. "J-just leave it," he pleaded.

Viggo's frown deepened, carving cavernous creases between his eyebrows. "Why?"

Hiccup wanted to clam up, to refuse to tell Viggo anything (because if he told Viggo one thing, then he might tell him another, and then another, and when the true interrogation started, Hiccup might accidentally reveal something that Viggo should absolutely not know). But his panic hijacked his tongue and before he could stop them, the words tumbled out of his mouth in a misshapen mess:

"When he — Ryker — he…" Hiccup swallowed thickly at the reminder of the fire that had consumed his only good leg. The pain had been so encapsulating that he'd had the mad intrusive thought that he'd rather have it chopped off, too, if it meant the pain would stop. "Oh gods." He glanced away from Viggo, unable to hold that steely gaze any longer. "It… it hurt, when he — when he un-untied my l-leg after so lo-long and I don't… I don't want…" He trailed off, all of his focus and energy trained on keeping the tears strangling his voice out of his eyes.

But Viggo, it seemed, understood just fine. The flames in his eyes darkened into smoldering embers of fury. When he spoke, his voice was calm, measured, controlled, but something of the dragon lurked just beneath the peeling veneer. "I see," he clipped out, his eyes flashing toward the heavy bolted door as if he had half a mind to throw it open and unleash his strange wrath on the first hunter who met his eyes. "And you were bound this way the entire voyage?"

Hiccup just nodded. His voice had abandoned him, the traitorous bastard. He gulped in a breath, then tried again. "I d-don't want—"

Viggo shook his head as if dislodging a particularly troublesome thought. He stood, moved to the desk, opened the top left drawer. From it he withdrew a small silk pouch, dyed dark Dragon Hunter red. He reclaimed his seat at Hiccup's bedside and worked the bag open, tipping a couple strips of dried bark into his other hand. Hiccup recognized it at once — willow bark.

"No doubt you know what this is," Viggo commented lightly, his eyes flitting down briefly to the empty space Hiccup's left foot had once occupied. "For the pain. It will make this easier."

Hiccup recoiled as Viggo proffered the painkiller, a thrill of unease stealing over him, kicking his fight or flight reflexes into full gear. Not that Hiccup could do either at the moment, which only made the frenetic, desperate energy more potent.

He hated this. This — whatever the Hel this was — was wrong.

Viggo Grimborn was a man without scruples, who lacked anything resembling a conscience and who would not know empathy even if it marched up to him and bit him on the ass. He was incapable of feeling anything other than hatred, and greed, and hunger. Hiccup had been preparing himself for torture, for a dark, damp, and cold cell. For threats and violence and cruel jeers and crueler touches. He'd been terrified of facing Viggo. But at least he'd had some idea of what might be lying in wait.

But this… this masquerade of concern, this facade of courtesy, this… guise of consideration — what the Hel was Hiccup supposed to do with this? It made his skin crawl with thousands of invisible spiders, made his spine prickle and his hackles raise. Somehow this Viggo scared Hiccup more than the Viggo he had expected to meet.

What is he playing at? Was this all a ploy to get under Hiccup's skin? If so, it was working beautifully. Or was Viggo trying to wriggle his way past Hiccup's defenses with a cloak of kindness so that he could more easily pry information from him? Yeah, good luck with that. The one thing that Hiccup absolutely, positively, beyond a shadow of a doubt knew was that none of Viggo's concern was genuine. There was an angle. There was always an angle. There had to be.

Because if there was no angle, if Viggo's soft tones and gentle words and careful touches were not part of some elaborate ruse, then…

Actually, no. Hiccup refused to go there. Because there was no universe in which Viggo Grimborn cared anything for Hiccup Haddock. Only what he could take from him. What he could destroy and tear down and grind into dust.

Even the thought of Viggo feeling anything but hatred for Hiccup sent chills crawling across his body. Hiccup didn't want his care, didn't want those eyes to look at him and see anything but a foe to be vanquished, didn't want to see even the tiniest sliver of humanity in that hated face. Because Hiccup knew that Viggo hadn't changed. Probably he never would. But if something had somehow shifted in their dynamic, on Viggo's side, at least, then things would become infinitely more complicated.

Hiccup had had his suspicions about Viggo's attraction to him for a while, though he'd never voiced them aloud and always wrote them off when they reared their ugly heads. Viggo's eyes burned when he laid them upon Hiccup, and his touches lingered too long, almost… possessive. The purr in Viggo's voice when he spoke to Hiccup, the my dears… And yes, the very prospect horrified Hiccup to his core. He didn't want Viggo to want him. He wasn't a prize to be obtained or a conquest to be won. He didn't want Viggo to look at him the way he did, to call him pet names in rich, deep tones, to taunt him in a coy way that almost felt like demented attempt at flirting. He sure as Hel didn't want to be in Viggo's bed suspecting what he did.

But he could handle it. Obsession and lust, while terrifying, were just twisted branches of hatred. The desire to conquer one's opposition, to make them yours in every sense of the word, to possess them — that was often the way of evil men. But obsession and lust did not lend themselves to concern, or empathy, or kindness in any of its forms. Desire was one thing. Affection was another. Affection, in many ways, was much scarier, because it spoke of something real. Something that Hiccup didn't want.

Hiccup nearly threw himself off the bed as something brushed his lips, his heart galloping, his breath hitching, his control slipping. But it was just the willow bark. Hiccup clamped his lips together stubbornly, and with a long-suffering sigh, Viggo retracted his offering. His irritated demeanor bolstered Hiccup's courage and allowed him some semblance of familiar footing.

"Really, Hiccup, this is getting ridiculous. I am trying to help you."

"Why should I believe you?" Hiccup snapped back. "When… when have you ever done anything to help someone other than yourself? What is in this for you?"

Viggo's irritation hardened into something approaching anger. "Do not assume you know me, my dear. I have no desire to hurt you further, but do not mistake my generosity as indulgence. Continue to test me, continue to fight me, and there will be consequences." His eyes pierced Hiccup like a molten dagger. "Now, are you going to accept my very generous offer and take the edge off the pain to come? Or are you going to suffer needlessly?"

Hiccup thought about refusing the willow bark. He seriously considered it. The ultimate gesture of defiance, proof that no amount of feigned kindness would sway him, that Viggo was incapable of getting under his skin. That he was stronger than anything Viggo could throw at him.

But in the end he allowed his lips to part, allowed Viggo place the bark upon his tongue, and gave a full-bodied shudder when Viggo's thumb touched his lower lip. He had no idea if the touch had been intentional or accidental. In the end, he supposed, it didn't matter. Either way, it made him regret his weakness, made him want nothing more than to spit the bark out in Viggo's face.

But he didn't. He couldn't.

Just do what you have to to survive, he told himself. And pray there's still something left when you come out on the other side.

The willow bark didn't put much of a dent in the pain as feeling flooded back into his arms, but it was something. Viggo had sliced through the ropes, then carefully brought Hiccup's arms, one by one, to the front, resting them almost reverently upon his lap, as if a shrine on a pedestal. Hiccup didn't have time to unpack this (not that he'd want to even if he did have the time) before the pins and needles feeling from earlier began creeping, crawling, down from his aching shoulders, down his arms, past his wrists, and into his hands. And then it exploded like Zippleback gas into shards of shrapnel, peppering his flesh from the inside out.

This time, though, Hiccup didn't scream. Maybe it was because the willow bark took the slightest bit of edge off the pain. Maybe it was because he refused to show any more weakness in front of Viggo. But after a poorly concealed whimper escaped the confines of his throat, Viggo saw fit to get involved again. And this time, he didn't ask for permission, let alone wait for an answer.

If Hiccup hadn't been consumed by the treacherous return of sensation to his arms, he would have pulled away from Viggo, flinched back, tried to run (hop) for the door. He would have smacked Viggo's hands away as they descended upon his shoulders and started massaging gentle circles into his flesh, from the top of his arms, all the way down to the palms of his hands. As it was, all he could do was grit his teeth against the pain and the burning sense of violation and try to cast his mind elsewhere.

But the damn thing kept circling right back around to Viggo. Why was he doing this? The logical answer, Hiccup knew, was blood flow. Viggo was trying to hasten the swarming sensation of fire and knives away. But it felt like more than that — the gesture itself disturbingly intimate, something a friend or lover would do to comfort their loved one, to ease their pain.

Viggo's touch was almost worse than the torture in his limbs, mostly because it was working. Hiccup felt the fire fading much faster than it had before, felt the agony fade into discomfort and then into potent fatigue and tremors. He hated that Viggo had eased his pain. Hated that Viggo had wanted to ease his pain. It wasn't natural. It was strange and uncomfortable and made Hiccup feel especially transparent and brittle and exposed. He wanted the normalcy of their charged animosity so much that he considered deliberately provoking Viggo, just so they could get back onto more even ground.

But he didn't. He couldn't.

You're just surviving, he told himself. But it felt like concession. Like compromise. Like giving up, giving in, letting Viggo in. Letting Viggo think Hiccup now owed him something. Letting Viggo think that anything but disgust lingered in the air between them. Gods, Hiccup didn't want Viggo to think that he had any form of power over him, be it through violence or benevolence.

But the very fact that Hiccup was so worked up about this, was letting Viggo's gestures of goodwill send him spiraling, just proved how much power Viggo did have over him.

Hiccup hated Viggo. But in that moment, he hated himself more.

"Where did he hit you?" Viggo asked.

Hiccup scowled. Viggo had given him less than two minutes to recover from the latest torment before briskly moving on to his assessment of Hiccup's injuries. At least he’d allowed Hiccup to drink deeply from a flask of cool water first; so great was Hiccup’s thirst that he didn’t hesitate at the offering. He drank long and deep and felt marginally better after soothing his parched throat.

But the fact remained that Hiccup really wished Viggo would just fetch his sage, let the professional healer do his job, instead of taking it upon himself to put Hiccup back together.

It's a control thing, Hiccup reminded himself. It's all about control. He's staking a claim, trying to get into my head, trying to present himself as someone who will 'take care' of me. He refused to give any space to other, darker possibilities trying to take root in his mind (that Viggo was using this as a way to get closer to Hiccup, to press his advantage, that he was just getting Hiccup right where he wanted him before—), but they taunted him anyway from the shadows at the back of his mind.

But these possibilities roared into the forefront as Viggo, apparently deciding that Hiccup hadn’t answered the question quickly enough, took it upon himself to start searching for head injuries — by plunging his fingers into Hiccup's tangled hair and prowling around on his scalp for cuts and bumps. Raw panic flared in his chest at the feel of those fingers skating through his hair, and Hiccup wrenched his head to the side, blind to the pain in his head and neck at the movement. "Get your hands off m-me," he snarled.

In response, Viggo's fingers twisted instead of drifted in his hair, effortlessly stilling his struggles. Hiccup forgot how to breathe as Viggo's face drew close and the fingers tightened. Pain raced along Hiccup's scalp and he fought the urge to slam his eyes shut. No way would he close his eyes with Viggo's face inches from his own.

When Viggo spoke, the soft quality to his voice had hardened to iron. "Did you think I was bluffing when I said there would be consequences for fighting me? Do you believe I am above chaining you to this bed, cutting away your armor, and examining you by force? Do you want to retain your dignity, or would you rather do this the hard way?" Hiccup blanched, his very soul quivered in terror at the mere thought.

Hiccup didn't answer any of Viggo's questions, but his petrified silence seemed to assuage him. Viggo nodded once, curtly, and released his grip on Hiccup's hair. "Now hold still," he ordered, condescension positively dripping from his voice. Despite his fear, Hiccup probably would have smacked him if he’d had any strength left in his arms. "Let me work." Viggo smirked, his fingers once again raking gingerly along Hiccup's scalp, carefully unknotting any tangles that snagged them. If it had been anyone other than Viggo, it would have felt nice. But it was Viggo, and it felt utterly wrong, and bile rose in his throat.

But he let Viggo's hands wander through his hair uninhibited, because the alternative was unthinkable.

When Viggo's roving fingers reached the back of his head, just above his left ear, they found what they'd been searching for. Hiccup sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth and only just stopped himself from pulling away as Viggo probed the tender area, lips pulling into grim line of concentration. Without a word, he took Hiccup's chin with his other hand and gently tilted his head to the side, stood, and leaned in close, parting the hair around the injury. From this angle, Hiccup's nose was less than an inch from Viggo's collarbone. Viggo smelled of smoke and leather, with a hint of something floral —chamomile, maybe?

"Mmm," Viggo rumbled, and Hiccup could practically see the vibrations in his chest. "I see a nasty welt, but no blood."

"I could have told you that," Hiccup grimaced.

"You say he hit you with the curve of his hook?"

Hiccup shrugged minutely and immediately regretted it at the twinge in his shoulders. "I assume so. It's not like he was capable of holding a bludgeon."

Viggo chuffed softly, a faint amusement playing in his eyes as he resumed his seat across from his disgruntled "patient". "How is the pain?" he asked. "Manageable?"

"It's fine," Hiccup lied, jutting his chin out stubbornly, even as his head threatened to split open. After his moment of weakness earlier, he was determined to take no more charity from his captor, regardless of his pain levels.

For once, Viggo didn't argue, but that may have been because his eyes had drifted down to Hiccup's throat. He froze, a visceral fury blooming in his eyes and in the line of his mouth. Hiccup hastily lowered his chin, but the damage was already done.

Viggo took Hiccup's chin in one hand and tilted his head up, exposing his neck. Pain spasmed in Hiccup's throat when he swallowed anxiously; his hands, still a bit tingly from being bound, clenched into white-knuckled fists. Viggo stayed silent for several long moments, eyes narrowed as he took in the damage. Slowly, his other hand rose, and Hiccup cringed back reflexively as warm fingers brushed lightly over the vulnerable flesh of his throat. And — gods — even that faint touch hurt, made his throat tighten like the chains were still there, squeezing—

Hiccup hadn't even realized that his eyes had crashed shut, nor that he'd stopped breathing, until Viggo lifted his fingers and released Hiccup's chin. Hiccup didn't open his eyes, wasn't ready to face Viggo's reaction, but he managed to choke down a handful of painful, hitched breaths, and to his utter humiliation, he felt the tell-tale tickle of a tear edging over his left cheekbone.

"Did my brother do this?"

Hiccup had thought Viggo had been angry before. He'd been wrong. Before, Viggo had been irritated at Ryker's rough treatment, but now… now, he was livid. Every word exuded scorching ferocity and rimy power. Every syllable lingered in the air between them, taut with barely-controlled wrath. Abhorration dripped from his lips like venom. He sounded ready to kill.

And while Hiccup's discomfort climbed at the crystalline understanding that this anger was not at him, but on his behalf, he couldn't help but be tempted to weaponize it. If he told Viggo yes, that Ryker had caused these chain-marks around his throat, Viggo might give in to his fury and attack Ryker. Maybe they would finish each other off. But he stayed his hand: If he overestimated this strange new protective (possessive, he thought with a shiver) side of Viggo, if Viggo didn't believe him or trusted Ryker’s side of the story more, then Hiccup had no doubt things would get much worse for him.

So he told the truth. "No," he rasped. "The last bounty hunter, the, the ma-masked man. When I tried to escape, he, uh—"

"Is he dead?" Viggo interrupted.

Hiccup floundered for a moment, mind flashing back to that terrifying moment: Hanging by his fingertips from a cliffside, a heavy weight latched onto his prosthetic, dragging him down. The straps biting into his leg as the bounty hunter flailed, the hand reaching up, the strangely accented voice pleading for help. Hiccup remembered the fear on the man's face as he fell. Hiccup hadn't seen whether he'd hit the water or the rocks. That's when he had started to fall, too.

But even if the bounty hunter had hit the water, survival would have been highly unlikely. The shock of the cold water, the bone-jarring impact, the weakened arms from dangling high above — no, the masked man had to be dead. Which meant Hiccup had killed him. And even though Hiccup thought he should probably have felt remorse, all he could feel in this moment was relief.

"Yes," Hiccup whispered. "He's dead."

"Good," Viggo said, back rigid, spitting sparks from his gaze as he tilted Hiccup's jaw up once more and took a closer look at the bruises. A pause. "Who killed him?"

Hiccup couldn't bring himself to tell the truth this time. He knew that what he had done had been self-defense, but what would Viggo think if he discovered that Hiccup had caused a man to fall to a painful death to save his own skin? Viggo would take no end of pleasure in that knowledge; he would probably twist it to form some kind of kinship between them. So Hiccup lied, "One of your hunters. No idea which one."

Viggo pulled back, the fingers on Hiccup's jaw tightening. He searched Hiccup's face almost greedily. "And why would my hunters have attacked this 'masked man'?"

"I assume you told them to attack whoever came to collect the bounty."

Viggo let go of his face, something dark brewing behind his eyes, as if pieces to a puzzle were slowly slotting together. "And why would I do that?"

Hiccup squinted at Viggo, wondering if this was some kind of test. Surely he knew about the double-cross? Only one way to find out, Hiccup supposed.

"For the same reason you sent Ryker with a bag of rocks instead of gold," Hiccup answered in a low voice. "Greed."

The anger shifted into something cunning and predatory. "Ah," Viggo said mildly. "I see."

Hiccup watched as a wall of stone descended over Viggo's face. Decisive, cold, resigned. "You didn't know, did you?" Hiccup asked softly.

Viggo gave Hiccup a strained smile. "I've had my suspicions about Ryker's wavering allegiance for a while," he admitted. "But I had rather hoped I was mistaken." He tapped his chin, deep in thought. "I wonder where he stashed the gold?" Then he shook his head as if dislodging a pesky fly. "But this is not the time nor the place for such speculation," he decided. "As fond of you as I admit I have become, my dear, you are still the enemy. The less you know, the better for all of us."

Viggo paused for another long heartbeat, lost in thought. Then he chuckled ruefully. "How did you feel, Hiccup, when you thought I intended to pay nothing but a sack of rocks for your capture? Surely you saw through Ryker from the start, intelligent as you are?"

"I kind of had other things on my mind," Hiccup snapped.

Viggo rested a hand on Hiccup's cheek, but this time, he didn't use it to manipulate his head. Every muscle in Hiccup's body coiled taut as the pad of his enemy's thumb skated tenderly over his cheekbone. "But surely you know that you are worth so much more than that to me, darling Hiccup." He didn't sound like Viggo then. His voice was low and husky, slightly breathless. He moved closer, and for one blood-curdling moment, Hiccup thought Viggo was going to kiss him. But instead, the Hunter chief stroked Hiccup's cheek one last time, eyes devouring every inch of Hiccup's face with an electric intensity that quickened Hiccup's already racing pulse.

Hiccup had thought he'd been afraid before. He'd been wrong. This. This was true fear.

But he hadn't been wrong about Viggo. Not about this sickening amalgamation of lust and obsession mingling with actual, honest-to-gods affection. Adrenaline pulsed through his body, giving him the strength and lending him the courage to yank his head away and scuttle backwards on the bed. "Do not," Hiccup growled, "touch me, Viggo."

The interspersed fear and anger in Hiccup's voice shattered the moment. Viggo's expression darkened. "Do not test me—"

"Yeah, Viggo, I heard you the first ten times," Hiccup snarled. "And I haven't fought, I've let you treat me, but that — that wasn't anything to do with healing. And you will not do it again."

Hiccup could scarcely reconcile the power of those words with his own voice. Even Viggo seemed taken aback by the sheer authority radiating from every syllable. He sat back, lips slightly parted. But he recovered quickly, smirking to cover his surprise. "You forget that you are my prisoner, my dear. I can do whatever I like."

"Maybe," Hiccup conceded, his stomach curling at the thought, "but I will fight you every step of the way. And when I escape, I will make you wish you had never laid eyes on me."

Viggo looked him up and down pointedly. "Bold words," he admitted. "But I very much doubt that anything could make me truly regret laying eyes on you."

"Just leave me alone," Hiccup choked, adrenaline already flagging, the pain and sickness and fear running wild, conjuring horrific images in his mind's eye. "Please."

Annoyance crept back into Viggo's composure. "There is one more thing I would like to check first. Then, as long as I am satisfied that you are on the path to recovery, I will escort you to your new chambers and allow you to rest."

Hiccup crossed his quavering arms over his chest, not liking the way Viggo's gaze dipped purposefully down to his abdomen. "I'm fine," he insisted once more.

But Viggo wasn't fooled. "Do not think that I haven't noticed your cagey posture, the way even now, you curl in on yourself, unable to sit up straight. What injuries are hiding beneath that armor, Hiccup?"

Hiccup's blood turned to acid. "Nothing serious," he answered, almost pleading. "Just what you'd expect after a day of being kidnapped, tossed around, and tackled. Some bruises, nothing more."

"And yet you are no stranger to those kinds of injuries. I have seen you get thrown off your dragon and spring up fighting like you hadn't a pain in the world." Hiccup's mind raced, trying to recall exactly when Viggo had seen this happen. "But you cannot hide this pain, especially from me. So. What injuries lie beneath your armor?"

Hiccup drew his arms tighter around himself. "Your hairless yak of a brother punched me so hard I blacked out," he mumbled. "But it's fine. Just a bruise."

Alarm flared briefly in Viggo's eyes. "Larger men than you have died from a devastating punch to the abdomen," he said tersely. "Some of them by my brother's hand. If a body is unprepared, vital organs can rupture, ribs can fracture and puncture lungs." Despite himself, Hiccup felt a new kind of fear curl around his heart. He knew this, of course. He'd heard tales of Vikings felled not by weapons but the strength of another man's fist. He just hadn't thought about that possibility in regard to his own situation.

"Wouldn't — wouldn't I already be dead if that were the case?" Hiccup asked, a bit breathlessly.

"Perhaps. But I will take no chances. You are of no use to me dead." Viggo rose to his feet. "I am going to summon my sage. He will need you to remove your armor and tunic. Can you manage that on your own, or do you need help?"

Hiccup shuddered. "I can do it," he breathed. The thought of Viggo's eyes and possibly his hands on his bare torso made his nausea soar. "Will you — will you send him in a-alone?"

"No, I will not," Viggo answered shortly, then stuck his head out of the door to hail a passing hunter.

The process of removing his armor and tunic left Hiccup panting, sweat beading on his face and chest. Pain licked like tongues of fire from his battered stomach, up into his ribs with even the tiniest movements. But he'd done it by himself, and thank Odin, Viggo had let him. But the moment that the tunic had cleared Hiccup's head, Viggo crossed the room in two long strides. "I'm going to kill him," Viggo hissed, appalled, as his eyes swept over the damage. Hiccup didn't look down (he wasn't ready to see this, not yet), but Viggo's reaction gave him a pretty good idea of how bad it looked. Hiccup quickly wrapped his arms around his torso, shielding himself the best he could from Viggo's attentions.

At least Viggo didn't try to touch him this time, but Hiccup had the slimy premonition that he wanted to. As it was, Viggo's gaze had its own gravity, weighing on Hiccup like pressing hands, summoning gooseflesh in a cataclysmic wave over his shoulders, down his spine, and across his arms.

Now, Hiccup lay on his back with the sage hovering over him. Hiccup had expected a scholarly fellow, small and wiry, perhaps, but this man put many of Viggo's other hunters to shame with his sheer bulk. Muscles bulged like dragon eggs nestled under the skin and cruel, beady grey eyes sat squarely over a thin hooked nose. Hiccup never learned his name; the man somehow managed to act like Hiccup wasn't there — or worse, like he was something disgusting he'd wiped off the bottom of his boot — even while assessing his bruised abdomen.

And, gods, if bruised wasn't the understatement of the century. When Hiccup finally got the courage to peer down at his own body, all the blood had drained from his face and into his toes. The entirety of Hiccup's stomach was a sickening rainbow of black, red, purple, and blue. The veins reaching from the epicenter of the bruised looked inflamed — red and swollen. The bruises stretched their greedy tendrils down past Hiccup's trouser waistline and up into his ribs.

Hiccup's back arched off the bed as a firm hand pressed against his chest. Spots danced in his vision like a Fireworm migration and he barely bit back a sob. The hand moved to the other side, then up, then over, pushing the abused flesh and battered bone with no mind to how his patient writhed beneath his hands. He moved his hand down to Hiccup's stomach and felt around for several long minutes, face a mask of detached concentration.

Viggo lurked over his shoulder, watching the proceedings grimly, hands clasped behind his back, shoulders rigid. Hiccup's breaths came in erratic bursts — he'd hold his breath without realizing, then his body, screaming for air, would drag frantic, staggered breaths into his starving lungs, then stop breathing yet again when the hands moved to a new location. And so on.

Finally, the healer stood, leaving Hiccup trembling and gasping on the bed, barely able to see his tormentor through the haze of pain. This guy was supposed to be a sage? Hiccup thought he'd be much better suited as torturer.

"Well?" Viggo pressed impatiently.

"Far as I can tell, nothing's punctured or ruptured. Bottom ribs on both sides are fractured, they'll need to be wrapped. Otherwise, very deep bruising across the stomach." He chuckled. "Recovery's gonna be a bitch."

Viggo didn't look amused. "How long before he's well enough to travel with minimal discomfort?" Hiccup's stomach dropped. Travel? Where the Hel was Viggo taking him?

The sage grunted. "A week, maybe two?”

"Very well," Viggo said curtly. "You may leave. I will bandage his ribs." Hiccup blanched but didn't argue; he knew at once there would be no point, and he couldn't spare the extra energy.

The sage shrugged like he didn't care one way or another and slouched out of the room.

"W-wow," Hiccup drawled when the door slammed behind him. "Where'd you find him? The slaughterhouse?"

Viggo's lips twitched. "That was actually the most delicate bedside manner I've seen from him." Hiccup had no idea whether Viggo was joking, but he had the wild urge to laugh. (He didn't.)

Instead, he demanded, "What — what are you t-talking about? Where are, where are you ta-taking me?"

Viggo smiled thinly. "Let's get you taken care of first, hmm? We can discuss business after you're all bandaged and settled in."

Half an hour later, Hiccup slumped in the hard chair in his cell, his right ankle shackled to a chain bolted to the center of the floor. He'd have been more comfortable in the cot, he knew, but Viggo was still here, and Hiccup refused to spend any more time in a bed around the creepy bastard. Especially after Viggo had opted to sit beside him on the bed to wrap his ribs.

Hiccup's skin prickled at the memory; he could still feel Viggo's breath hot against his bare shoulder, the press of Viggo's arms flush against his sides as he wound the bandages around Hiccup's torso, the warm, dry fingers brushing feather-light against his chest as Viggo tied the knots. And even though Viggo didn't try anything, his touches lingered a mite too long, his eyes wandered too much. Hiccup had felt completely exposed and vulnerable, so weak and shaky from pain he could scarcely sit, let alone defend himself.

When he'd finished, Viggo had run his fingers through Hiccup's hair, an intimate gesture that turned Hiccup's stomach inside out, and then cupped his face in his palms. "There now," Viggo said softly, his eyes rich brown and searing like twin flames within their sockets. "All better."

Hiccup wanted to shout, wanted to jerk away, wanted to attack Viggo, to knock his hands away, to spit in his face. But he'd had nothing left in him. The fatigue and pain of the day had hollowed him out like a fallen tree trunk, gutted him of his fight and fervor and ferocity. He would get it back, he knew, but right now… Right now, it was everything he could do just to stay awake. His body needed rest like Hookfang needed fire. It had gone on strike, it seemed, refusing to cooperate with him until he gave in to its demands.

And yet Hiccup sat in the uncomfortable chair rather than the slightly more comfortable bed. All day, Viggo had been making power plays. Now it was Hiccup's turn.

"So what now?" Hiccup asked, his voice steadier now that he'd had some time to breathe through the pain. "You expect me to just sit around in this dump while I recover? And then what? Where are you planning on taking me?"

In actuality, the cell was positively luxurious by Dragon Hunter standards — clean, dry, with an actual bed topped with a thick blanket and a warm tawny fur, a freshly scrubbed chamber pot, a basin of clean water, a chair and small desk outfitted with parchment and charcoal. There was even a singular window, which, though small and barred, was placed at a height that Hiccup could actually peer out of if he knelt on the cot.

Viggo smiled indulgently at Hiccup's insistent questions, which only made his prisoner's hackles raise. Stop looking at me like that, you creep. "I suppose I do owe you some sort of explanation after all you went through to get here."

"You owe me a Hel of a lot more than that," Hiccup growled.

Viggo ignored him. "Again, I remind you that I wanted you brought to me whole and unharmed, as much as possible. That you were not is unacceptable and there will be consequences."

"Just spit it out," Hiccup snapped. "Why do you want me unharmed so badly? And don't say it's because you care, because I've managed to make it through this whole ordeal without vomiting and I'd really like to keep it that way."

A muscle in Viggo's jaw twitched; his eyes narrowed. "Careful, Hiccup," he warned. "Privileges can be revoked, you know. Recovery will be much less comfortable with a bed of straw instead of a real bed to rest upon." Hiccup ground his teeth against a sharp retort. Just survive, he reminded himself yet again.

Satisfied, Viggo continued, "Though your words wound me, I must admit that I have rather taken a shine to you. Even your defiance can be… intoxicating… to behold, though right now, it is wearing rather thin. But more than this, my plans for you will be much more effective if you are kept healthy and whole. A show of good will, as it were, from myself to your people."

Hiccup's eyes widened. "So you're planning to ransom me back to my father, then? Gods, why didn't you just say so? You really like the sound of your own voice, don't you?" He knew he toed a dangerous line, but he was sick of Viggo, sick of his smug smiles, his claims of affection, his possessive remarks, his honeyed words.

Viggo didn't dignify Hiccup's snark with a response, however, and simply mused, "…in a way, I suppose it is a ransom."

Hiccup's heart thudded and moisture collected on his palms. "What is that supposed to mean? Also, in case you've forgotten, you actually have all of Berk's gold already. So I don't know what you plan on trying to exploit my people for—"

"Oh, Berk is a veritable cornucopia of wealth beyond just the material!" Viggo exclaimed. "Information, for one. Trade routes, easy access to dragons and means to tame them, alliances with other powerful tribes that I could influence."

Hiccup's gut swarmed with a thousand angry insects. He swallowed hard, forcing the rising acid back down. He didn't understand the full picture yet, but he knew it was ugly. "You—" he croaked, then cleared his throat and tried again, stronger this time: "You do realize you can't get some endless supply of this by ransoming me off? Even if they do comply with your initial demands, once I'm returned to my people, they will have no reason to follow your orders. Any 'contract' you force upon them will be voided by a flaming horde of angry dragons and their riders. We'll hunt you down. It will be war if you try this, Viggo, and as much as I wish for peace, there will be nothing I can do to stop my father and friends from wiping you and your hunters off the map."

His anger was lending him strength, he realized, steadying his voice, eliminating his stutter, powering his words. The thrill of this sudden burst of electrifying eloquence was quickly quashed by the condescending amusement blossoming in Viggo's expression. "It is a risk to use you as leverage against your people, I admit, but I think you misunderstand me, my dear. I have no intentions of returning you to your people."

Hiccup's heart stuttered to a stop and plummeted to the sole of his foot. "But… you… you'd have to. You can't just—"

"Oh, I am not completely heartless, darling," Viggo purred. "Besides, business is a two-way street, and if I demand but provide no good will or benefit to those with whom I barter, negotiations will deteriorate very quickly. No, in order to get, one must give. And what better offering could I give to your grieving people than hope?"

"I don't—"

"You will see your father again, Hiccup. Your friends, too. Maybe, if you and your tribe are very good, even your dragon, though that will take some doing to arrange, I believe."

"You—"

"A visitation, my dear. Your people will work with me for the chance to visit with you, to see you, to speak to you, to see that you are alive and well. And these meetings will provide just enough motivation, just enough hope, to keep them cooperative until the next one."

Hiccup's voice came out a strangled mess: "They — they would find a way to, to exploit that, to, to rescue me."

Viggo hummed. "Oh, they will certainly try. But I can assure you that you will be guarded much more jealously than even your gold — and you know how that turned out. And I have thought of every angle. A different meeting place each time, blue oleander to keep dragons out of the fray. Hunters to escort your visitors back to Berk, assuring no one will follow us back. And I shall move you around amongst a rotation of hideouts and bases. You and your visitor will be restrained for the duration, though that may change in time if trust is established."

Hiccup's mouth had gone bone-dry. He moistened his lips, pulse careening out of control. Thor Almighty, Viggo had thought of every angle. And even though Hiccup had full confidence that his friends, father, and dragon would find and free him eventually (if he didn't find a way to escape on his own first, of course), that kind of planning could take months, years, even, because they'd likely only have one chance to get it right. And if they didn't… Hiccup had no doubt that they would never see him again.

"Oh, don't look so morose, Hiccup," Viggo pouted. "In time, I am sure you will grow to enjoy my company. It may be difficult to believe now, after all the bounty hunters and my ridiculous brother have put you through today, but I truly wish for you to find contentment in your new life. You may not be heir to Berk any longer, but you will be fed and cared for, and, eventually, when you settle into your new role here, I look forward to lavishing you with wealth and luxury beyond your wildest dreams."

"Y-you've lost your mind," Hiccup whispered, horror and disgust flooding him. "You're… you're actually insane. I don't want your money, I don't want your care. I don't want to be… to be some pet in a gilded cage."

"Ah, but you are quite missing the point, my darling," Viggo smiled, bending over and taking Hiccup's left hand. He brought it to his lips and Hiccup snatched it away, the shape of Viggo's mouth branded into his flesh. Revulsion built at the back of Hiccup's mouth, threatening to overflow. Viggo didn't seem to mind Hiccup's violent refusal in the least, adopting a self-satisfied air that spoke of his confidence that one day, Hiccup would welcome such gestures of affection. "Although I would like for you to be content, there is only one person in this cell whose wants matter. And I assure you, that person is not you."

Hiccup glowered at Viggo, his body's aches discarded like dying flowers in light of Viggo's revelations. He would be forced to take them up again, he knew, but for now, the adrenaline and horror and fury held the physical agonies at bay. "I will fight you until my dying breath," he vowed. "You may hold me prisoner, but I will never be yours."

Viggo chuckled, but an inexplicable sadness glittered in his dark eyes as he drank in Hiccup's face like it was an oasis in the middle of the desert. "I suppose only time will tell," he lamented. "I can only hope that you will come to tolerate me even a fraction of how much I've come to admire you, Hiccup."

Hiccup's angry retort lodged in his throat; why the Hel was Viggo looking at him so forlornly? So tenderly? He kept blazing from creepy and possessive to soft and longing and back again so fast it made Hiccup's head spin. Perhaps that was the only way Viggo knew how to care: To possess, to take, to own.

But still, Hiccup thought as Viggo took his leave, locking the cell door behind him, it was almost a shame that he'd ratted out Ryker's underhanded scheming, because Viggo would be sure to deal with him severely, if not permanently. And Ryker was sadistic, violent, and depraved, while Viggo was this nauseating cocktail of contradictions. Ryker had hurt Hiccup far more than Viggo had. On the whole, Viggo had gone out of his way to be cordial and welcoming to Hiccup.

But, Odin, Hiccup would still take Ryker's wrath over Viggo's twisted, possessive affection any day. Especially after learning of Viggo's sick plans for him, using him against his tribe, trading visitations with the stolen heir for whatever Berk possessed that struck his fancy. Hiccup held on to the fraying strand of hope that he would be rescued, that he would escape. Because if that didn't happen, if he truly was doomed to a lifetime as Viggo's pet and pawn, then Hiccup would rather throw himself at Ryker's nonexistent mercies.

Some things, Hiccup knew, were worse than death. And this? Viggo was one of them.

Stay strong, Hiccup told himself. They’ll come for you. They’ll find a way. You just have to survive until they do.

But right now, with his head throbbing and his throat aching and his gut burning and his body feeling every hit, kick, scrape, and bump, with dread and shock flooding through his veins, with his hand still tingling from Viggo’s lips and his skin creeping with the truth of Viggo’s other interests, survival seemed like a monumental task.

Somehow, Hiccup heaved himself to his foot. Using the chair for support, he hopped his painful way to the bed and collapsed upon the fur, the chain around his ankle clanking and weighing him down with every step.

Tomorrow, he would think about survival. Tomorrow, he would plan. Tomorrow, he would fight the overwhelming tide of misery. Tomorrow, he would be strong.

But tonight, he curled in on himself and felt every injustice that had been dealt to him. Tonight, he allowed the pain and helplessness and terror to overcome his flagging defenses. Tonight, he wasn’t a chief-to-be. He wasn’t the leader of the dragon riders. He wasn’t brave, he wasn’t strong, he wasn’t confident or smart or even remotely okay.

Tonight, he was nineteen years old. He had been kidnapped, beaten, and leashed like an animal. He had seen a bleak future laid out before him by a man who wanted him (his mind, his body, his influence, his… heart?). He was terrified, alone in a sea of enemies. He wanted to go home. He wanted Toothless and his friends and his father.

Tonight, he allowed the tears to flow. Tonight, he allowed himself to cry, shuddering silent sobs. Tonight, for the first time since he was a child, he cried himself to sleep.