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Hiccup wasn't much of a fighter. Never had been — too scrawny and weak to present any kind of a challenge in combat training, and the only weaponry his guardians had trusted him with had been of the unfinished variety, to be crafted in the forge. And beyond that, Hiccup fancied himself a peace-maker. Not a pacifist (no one could truly be a pacifist and live to tell the tale in the Barbaric Archipelago), but someone who always tried to avoid bloodshed wherever possible.
Even now, three years after a certain Night Fury had turned his life upside down, after word of his victory over the Red Death had spread and Hiccup had grown and trained and learned to fight to protect his dragon, his home, and himself from those who wished to exploit them, he didn't carry many weapons on his person. Nothing big or flashy like his friends — no mace, axe, hammer, or sword. Sometimes he carried his arrow-shooting, bolas-flinging shield, but mostly, just his dagger.
Always his dagger.
Hiccup's dagger didn't look especially impressive. Small, simple, and practical, the knife was more of a tool than a weapon. And even though it had never tasted blood, had never even been used in a fight, it meant more to Hiccup than even his one-of-a-kind weaponized shield.
Because not only was this dagger the first weapon Hiccup successfully forged on his own, at the age of eleven, it was also the very same knife that he'd used to cut Toothless free in the cove three years ago. To Hiccup, the dagger was not a symbol of violence, but rather one of peace, of change, of new beginnings and unlikely friendships forged in fire.
He'd always loved his dagger. It made him feel safe, protected, secure.
Until now.
Hiccup inhaled sharply though his nose as the sheath-warmed edge of his own dagger bit into his throat. The hand meshed in his hair drew tighter, yanking his head back against a muscular shoulder, exposing his neck even further. Hiccup hardly noticed the pain lancing from his scalp, all the way down the back of his neck. The only things that existed were the knife digging into his flesh and the man who held it there, the man who had pulled Hiccup's body flush against his own, whose breaths Hiccup could feel against his back, whose breath tickled the side of his neck.
"That's close enough, Stoick," Dagur growled in Hiccup's ear. "One more step and I swear I'll slit his throat."
Hiccup couldn't see his father. Dagur had dragged his head back so far that he couldn't see anything but the longship's sails against an insultingly blue sky. Somewhere far above, out of sight, he knew that Thornado circled, waiting for his rider's cue. Dagur had made it very clear that if the dragon touched down on the ship or attacked from the air, Hiccup would pay the price.
Hiccup didn't need to see him to know exactly how his dad looked right now: Feet planted wide, tree-trunk arms at his sides, fists clenched. A fighting stance. Eyes spitting fire, jaw set and teeth bared, a maelstrom of fury pounding like hail against the chipping veneer of his stoic facade.
"If you kill him, Dagur, there will be nothing to stop me from killing you."
When Stoick spoke, his voice was the roar of flames, the creak of ice, the crackle of lightning. Every word dripped with authority and strength, every syllable crafted to strike fear into the hearts of any sane man who heard it.
Unfortunately, Dagur the Deranged was not a sane man.
Instead of rushing to appease the towering chieftain who could rip him limb from limb without breaking a sweat, Dagur just cackled, tugging on Hiccup's hair and eliciting another gasp of pain. Chills trickled down Hiccup's spine at the cacophonous giggle, the lilts and tilts of it, the way it rose and fell in pitch and volume with no rhyme or reason.
Hiccup wanted to scream, if only to block out the maddening laughter assaulting his ear. He wanted to grab Dagur's arm, channel even a fraction of his father's strength, wrench the knife away from his throat and his hair out of Dagur's grasp, and run.
But he could do neither, with a gag in his mouth and his wrists bound tightly behind his back. He could only stare up at the sky and listen as his father bartered with a madman for his life.
"Do you think I fear death, hmmmm, Stoick?" Dagur shot back, increasing the pressure on the knife just enough to break the skin. Hiccup's eyes slammed shut of their own accord, heart flailing against his ribs like a caged bird. "I'm a Berserker, godsdamnit. Throwing ourselves into the waiting arms of death is kind of our whole shtick, y'know? Maybe I'd rather die than let you win."
"You're bluffing," Stoick snarled.
"Mmm, maybe," Dagur acknowledged. Hiccup could hear the too-wide, toothy grin in his voice when he challenged, "But are you really gonna take that chance? You really willing to bet your only son's life on it?"
Despair crashed over Hiccup like a breaking wave. Even if Stoick complied with everything Dagur had demanded in his long-winded ransom note (why had he felt the need to wax philosophical about his complicated relationship with his “brother” and the exact lichen-green shade of Hiccup’s eyes in the middle of demanding all of Berk's gold and the Dragon Eye, Hiccup didn't want to know), there was no way this would end well. Dagur was too unpredictable, too greedy, too deranged.
Stoick didn't verbally respond to Dagur's threats, but Hiccup knew he'd backed down when the knife retreated marginally, just enough to give Hiccup room to breathe. The metallic scent of blood tinted the air, and a bead of it trickled down, dipping into the hollow of his throat.
"You're a lot more obedient than your kid, I'll give you that," Dagur taunted, giving Hiccup a little shake by the hair. Hiccup bit down hard on the cloth wedged between his teeth, smothering the yelp rising from his throat. "I mean, ever since I nabbed him, what, two days ago? He's done nothing but try to escape. And he never shuts up. What he lacks in muscle mass, he makes up for in sarcasm. And the mouth on him, my gods. The way he strings together curses is an art form in itself. Seriously impressive. Just not when it's directed at me." He snickered. "Thus, the gag. A good look for him, I think."
His voice lowered, fingers twisting harshly in Hiccup's hair and face turning to nuzzle his captive’s neck. Bile rose in Hiccup's throat; behind his back, his fingernails left bloody crescents in his clenched palms. Heat crept up his neck and disgust slithered down his spine; nausea churned to the rhythm of his blood rushing and his pulse pounding in his ears. "Not that anything could make him look bad. If I didn't need some quick gold to kickstart my new armada, I would probably just keep him."
"Dagur, I swear to Odin—"
"I mean, I've been stuck with only Savage for company for weeks," Dagur interrupted. "Have you seen the guy lately? He's like if a dust bunny and a rabid badger had a baby! So not attractive. But Hiccup, especially all tied up like a yummy little present, defiant and angry and so bad at hiding how scared he really is… He's been a gorgeous oasis in a sea of ugly. So really, I should thank you and your wife — Valarie, was it? — for making such a looker—"
Thor almighty, Dagur loved the sound of his own voice! If Hiccup had been free, he would’ve seriously considered throwing himself off the side of the ship if it meant he didn't have to listen to the man's rambling any more. And the things he was saying, the way he said them…
Dagur had made a few suggestive comments here and there over the course of Hiccup's captivity, but nothing so pointedly hungry. And the fact that he was speaking of Hiccup this way in front of his father? Sickness carved a pit in Hiccup's gut, and panic set every nerve alight. He fought to breathe evenly through his nose as Dagur continued to babble on about how much Hiccup had grown, how he wasn't a boy anymore, but a man, how he wished they'd had more time together. Lamenting about the mechanics of a ransom demand, how it would be so much better if he could have both the gold and Hiccup.
Until at last, Stoick, whose interjections Dagur had merely shouted over, lost his cool.
"ENOUGH!" he roared, louder and fiercer than a territorial Nightmare protecting its own. Dagur blinked in surprise, his grip slackening on Hiccup's hair, allowing him to shift his head down just enough to catch his first glimpse of his father.
He'd been mostly right about his father's posture and demeanor. He had indeed adopted a fighting stance, and his face was a storm of murderous wrath, his eyes glaciers. But he saw something else there now, something he hadn't expected, something that scared him more than the knife at his throat or the ooze of Dagur's words over his skin: Desperation, disgust, dread. And hidden so well that no one but Hiccup could detect it, a prickle of fear. It manifested in the slight quiver of his mustache, the roving of his gaze over Hiccup's bound and battered form, the tiniest sag to his shoulders. Stoick the Vast never showed his fear. The fact that Hiccup could see it now sent fresh ripples of terror through his body.
"What?" Dagur snapped waspishly, tugging Hiccup's head back again sharply. Hiccup's breath hitched but he didn't react otherwise. Just blinked up, heat pressing behind his eyes, met once again with the sky. It mocked him with its fluffy clouds and scintillating breeze and siren call of freedom. What he wouldn't give to be up there, on Toothless's back, arms thrown wide instead of bound behind him, sunshine warming his back instead of Dagur's body heat, wind in his hair instead of Dagur's grabby fingers.
"You wanted gold," Stoick said, clipped tone barely restraining a howling, blazing tempest of fury. "I brought gold." The melodic clink of coins. "Give me Hiccup, and you'll have it all."
Something inside Hiccup wilted; because of him, because he'd been careless and allowed himself to get captured, the majority of Berk's wealth would soon be in Dagur's clutches. He'd use the gold to fund a new armada, making him even more dangerous. And Berk would be left floundering, coffers empty, bellies hungry.
"Ooooh, that's a pretty big bag," Dagur purred, leaning forward to rest his chin on Hiccup's shoulder. Hiccup flinched, and the knife bit again, deeper this time. Blood crawled leisurely down his throat as a wordless shout of anger exploded from his father's mouth. Dagur ignored the outburst, still considering his bounty. "Is it all of Berk's gold? Every single, little-bitty, eensy-weensy drop of it?"
Through gritted teeth, Stoick snarled, "All of it." A deep, furious inhale, then, more calmly, "Return my son to me, and it's yours."
Dagur didn't move other than to pull Hiccup even tighter against him, chuckling at the protesting grunt. "And the Dragon Eye?"
Hiccup's heart skipped a beat.
"It's here, too," Stoick answered, and Hiccup's heart stopped all together. No! he wanted to shout. Don't give it to him! I'm not worth it! Hiccup didn't want to die; he knew he had value, not just as the heir to his tribe and the leader of the dragon riders, but as a friend, a son, and a soul-brother to Toothless. But he knew the Dragon Eye could do catastrophic damage to dragonkind in the hands of someone like Dagur. He couldn't — couldn't — let Dagur get a hold of it!
But he had no say in the matter. He was nothing but a pawn, a bargaining chip. He had no voice. He couldn't even move. He just had to stand there, rigid, every muscle taut, as his dad traded a priceless artifact, one that could save or destroy dragon-kind, for Hiccup's freedom.
Except—
"Y'know, I've been thinking about this whole ransom thing, and, like, I know there's an unspoken etiquette to it all, but I've never really been one for rules, have I?"
Terror froze Hiccup's blood. "Dagur…" Stoick growled, the warning clear in his tone.
Dagur wasn't fazed. "I'm also not ashamed to admit that I can be a bit… greedy. I'm a Berserker. I see something I want, and I take it. Pillage and loot and plunder, and all that." His words thrummed with malice. "Look around, Chief. I hold all the cards. You have my gold and my Dragon Eye, but I have your son. So. New deal! You throw that bag of goodies down below, then call your overgrown sting ray and get the Hel out of here."
"Not going to happen," Stoick ground out, but Hiccup, a shroud of helpless horror descending upon him, knew that Dagur had won. Hiccup had known — he'd known — that this would end poorly for him. He’d never hated being right more.
All thoughts fled Hiccup's mind as Dagur shifted the knife, slicing a new shallow line in his throat. This time he couldn't hold back a muffled cry of pain. "I'm greedy, remember?" Dagur said, a smug, victorious smirk in his voice. Hiccup stiffened, forgot how to breathe, when Dagur's face nuzzled possessively in the crook of his neck. The intimacy of it, the violation and intrusion and utter wrongness, sent a cataract of humiliation and revulsion careening through him, pricking at his eyes, boiling in the pit of his stomach. A full-bodied shudder ripped through him, and Dagur chuckled against his skin.
"I take what I want," Dagur reminded them. "And I want all the shinies you brought for me, and I want to keep Hiccup. But if you don't leave the gold and fly away now, I swear I will kill him in front of your eyes. Hiccup and I, we're brothers, you know. Live together, die together. Which one is your choice, Pops. What's it going to be?"
A terrible, yawning silence. Then: "We will find you again, son. I swear it. And when we do, Dagur, I will personally scorch you off the face of the earth."
"Uh-huh, yeah, good luck with that," Dagur muttered. "Now scram. This knife doesn't leave this pretty little throat until you're well out of sight. And if I see any sign of you or any of your dragon riders doubling back to ambush me, I will kill him."
Stoick didn't respond to Dagur; he now spoke only to Hiccup. "Be brave, Hiccup. You have always been the strongest of us all." A beat. "I love you, son. Odin himself couldn't stop me from finding you again and bringing you home again."
Hiccup couldn't have responded even if he hadn't been gagged. The scent of fear mingled with blood and sweat as the full weight of his situation crashed down on his head. His dad was going to leave him. Leave him with Dagur, who’d made it no secret what he wanted from Hiccup. But then the rest of his father's words sank in: He's leaving to protect me. He will be back. A rogue tear escaped containment and left a salty trail down his cheek before plunging off his upturned jaw. He loves me.
And as Hiccup stood, bound and gagged and helpless, he focused on his father's words. I love you, son. He etched them into his memory, traced them in his mind's eye until they were all he could think, all he could feel. Then he thought of Toothless, his friends — like Stoick, they would not rest until Hiccup was safely back home. Rescue wasn't a possibility. It was an inevitability.
Hiccup watched, face still forced skyward, as Thornado, Stoick the Vast's hulking figure upon his back, retreated into the clouds until they were nothing more than a speck veering toward the horizon. He didn't feel the knife flush against his stinging throat, he didn't feel the hand in his hair or the gag between his teeth or the face burrowing into his neck.
He did feel fear, and dread, and sick, sick horror gnawing at his bones. But he also felt his father's love and stalwart determination to bring him home. Though a bottomless cavern of grim futures yawned before him, Hiccup found that, right now, his father's love rang out far louder than his fear.
I love you, too, Dad, he thought. I'll see you soon.