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Hiccup knew something was wrong from the moment he woke up. The house was too quiet, room too cold, air too still. He blinked his eyes open slowly, stared up at a roof beam that was remarkably free of dragon scratches. There were no distant dragon calls, and more damningly, no Toothless stomping about on the roof. The space in the room, in the corner of Hiccup's presence that Toothless always took up was empty. He wasn't there. And he hadn't been for a long while. Hiccup could smell smoke, hanging heavy and acrid in the air, and the more distinct tang of blood.
Something was really really wrong.
His first thought was Viggo somehow. Or Krogan. Or Johann. Even though he'd seem them all die only a month ago. His next thought, just as irrationally, was Ragnarök. A very quiet Ragnarök.
It was weirdly quiet. Far too quiet to be the Berk Hiccup knew. He jolted out of bed, shoving his foot into his boot (distantly aware that it felt too small), infinitely (uniquely) grateful that he'd been so exhausted the night before as to collapse into bed with his prosthetic and armour still on (or, more accurately, the old leather chest plate he'd made when he was sixteen because his father had forced him into so many 'chiefly duties' that he hadn't gotten to finish his new armour yet). He tightened the buckle above his knee, other hand reaching for the flight helmet he'd finished mere hours ago. His flight mask that wasn't there. Instead, it clamped down on a helmet. his helmet. His helmet that had been shoved under his bed for the last five years and that absolutely did not get given pride of place on his bed post. So, maybe it was Ragnarök. There was a piece of paper spiked on the end of one of the horns. Hiccup ripped it off with far less care than was probably recommended when you found yourself stuck in a weird not quite the end of the world as you know it hellscape.
He unrolled it, smoothed the rough parchment out over his lap. He read through it once, and then a second time, and then a third, eyebrows furrowing further with each read. His helmet dropped from his grip, the clang it made against his metal foot barely registering.
He read through the note again, as though a fourth look had a hope of changing the (frankly horrifying) contents. You are now five winters past. Enjoy the opportunity. Learn something. All will return with the waxing of the moon.
Nope.
Still horrible.
Or- all just an exceptionally well thought out prank by the twins. Except, all the words were spelt correctly and, much as the twins could speak almost any language from hearing it once, they could not spell for the life of them. He took a breath, tried to think about it logically. Toothless was missing. Point in favour of him being in the past. His shoe was too small, and sitting at the end of his bed next to it was a second one. A left one. Another point. There was an early schematic of the mangler hanging on the wall opposite him. Number three. There were no birds chirping outside, no dragons either, and no roosts out his window. Four, five and six. The magically reappearing helmet. Seven. No scorched chunk of rock for Toothless' bed. Eight. His dad was bustling around in the kitchen, casual in a way he had rarely been five years ago. So that was... nine reasons in favour of him not having time travelled, and actually just being a massive idiot who'd fallen for the latest of Ruff and Tuff's tricks. And what was proof in favour of him still being in his own time? The fact it was improbable to have time travelled in his sleep? Not very definitive. Weird shit happened to him all the time. He'd been struck by lightning. He could speak to dragons for Thor's fucking sake. It would be entirely in line with everything else that happened in his life to now have someone watching over his life and zapping his body and mind through time whenever they thought it was funny.
That was definitely what had happened. The Gods hated him.
Five winters past. He was fourteen then- now. He should be fourteen. The clink of his metal leg and the gentle tugging of scar tissue he hadn't had as a kid begged to differ, as did the five years of memories of a Berk at peace with the dragons. So, current assumption, he's (probably) not losing it, he's in the past, he is in his own nineteen-year-old body, and-
And everyone around him was expecting him to be fourteen. This was the world he lived in then. All of his friends were tiny. His father still thought he was the biggest disappointment ever born. Toothless was somewhere on Dragon Island under the Red Death's control, still with both his tail wings. Viggo was sailing across the seas selling dragon hides.
And he was meant to be fourteen,
Oh Gods.
Hiccup had battled the red death, he'd spent fifteen years living in a village that thought he was a waste of air, had been kidnapped by Alvin the Treacherous (twice), had waged an entire war against Viggo, and most of a second one against Johann and Krogan, he'd 'tamed' a night fury, had changed the minds of a village full of bloodthirsty dragon hunting Vikings, had change the Outcasts' minds and Dagur's and even Viggo's towards the end. He changed his dad's mind, not just about dragons, but about him. He'd faced foes that no-one in or outside of the archipelago could ever dream of going up against. For all of that he'd had Toothless though, had had Astrid and the Dragon Riders for most of it too. He'd had his father's faith in him. He'd had his faith in himself. He didn't have that now, felt as weak and helpless as fourteen-year-old him had been.
This, a reality where he hadn't done those things, where he didn't know if he could do those things, where there was a risk of everything going wrong, of him making everything go wrong was terrifying.
He'd crumpled to the floor at some point amongst his spiralling thoughts. His stump was aching, a phantom pain he'd become annoyingly used to over the past four years. One of the horns of his dropped helmet was digging into his hip. The note crunched in his hand as they curled into fists, nails digging into his palms. The floor was cold enough he could feel it seeping through the fabric of his pants. He'd forgotten what it was like without Toothless there, without his every breath turning the room into a furnace. There was no charred slab of rock sitting under his windowsill, no stacks of half-designed tail fins nailed up to his walls, just hare-brained sketches of dragon killing devices. The sight of those somehow made him feel more sick than anything else had. This was his worst nightmare, but dialled up to eleven, because even in the most haunting of those he'd at least had Toothless at his side. He was completely alone now, alone as he'd been at fourteen. It felt heavier now though. The sting of isolation that much sharper now that he'd had five years of friendship-of family to heal that wound. He was stuck, completely alone and ally less, in a nightmare hellscape cruel enough Hiccup could barely believe it was real (distantly, he thought he might have been catastrophizing) for the next however long, until after the new moon. Whenever that was.
No- He did know when that was. With a surge of effort, Hiccup pulled himself back up to standing, rubbing the heel of his palm against his already bruising hip. A few steps took him over to his desk where his journal was lying face up in the middle of it, exactly where he'd expected it to be. He flipped it open to the newest page, running a finger down the cramped rows of smudged script until he reached the most recent entry. The night previous had been the waning crescent. The meant he was only stuck in this shithole for... three days. Privately, he thanked the Gods for fourteen-year-old Hiccup's steadfast belief that dragon behaviour was linked to the moon phases. Not because it had drawn any conclusions, but simply because of the near obsessive journal he'd kept, documenting the severity of each raid in accordance with the moon's cycle.
Three days. He could handle that. He knew the forests of Berk like he knew his own hands. Three days was nothing to spend out there. He- Oh for the love of Thor's fucking ball sack. He didn't have inferno. Or the small blade he kept up his sleeve. Or the gronkle iron knife in his boot. Or his shield. Or Toothless. At least he still had his body. He didn't think he could have handled it being shorter than Snotlout again. He shoved the journal off his desk, for something to do that wasn't cursing out the heavens. It sent sketches and half-built miniature slingshots clattering to the floor. And a knife. As Hiccup scrambled to pick it up, he realised 'knife' was probably too generous a description. It was barely as long as his hand, scratched and dull enough that Hiccup doubted it could even slice bread. He slid it into his boot, but the security that the weight usually bought him did not settle into his gut. It bought him no reprieve. And it wouldn't do anything to keep him safe in the dragon infested forests of Berk. Not that the dragons would be his worst issue. Even without inferno, he had all of his 'dragon whisperer knowledge'. What he did have was boar whispering knowledge.
So, climbing out the window and running off into the woods wasn't an answer. But he couldn't exactly stay either. He knew exactly how trying to explain himself would go down. 'Morning. I'm Hiccup from the future and you all almost obsessively look up to me and we all ride dragons, and yes, I am missing a leg but that's only because my brother, a night fury, bit it off while trying to save my life.' Yeah. He'd be tied to a mast and shipped off the island.
Fighting wild boar with a blunt butter knife suddenly sounded like a better option.
The door swung open, and when Hiccup saw who was there, he really wished he'd just climbed out the window and tried his luck with the boars.
Stoick the Vast blocked out the whole doorway, casting a wide shadow across the room. There was less grey in his beard than the last time Hiccup'd seen, than his Stoick - than the real Stoick had. And yet he impossibly still looked so much older. There was a long purple bruise stretching along the side of his face and a thing cut across his eyebrow. He was lean (at least comparatively), a by-product of the Berk he was living in that Hiccup had forgotten about. The lines marking his face seemed deeper, and he was holding his shoulders so tense Hiccup was sure it had to hurt. His eyes darted around the room as though looking for a threat or a sign of intrusion (or, perhaps, the Hiccup he knew), before settling on the real Hiccup stood over the desk.
"Who the fuck are you?"
The first thing Hiccup felt when he woke up was wrong. A bone deep sense of it, like how he felt around Snoggletog, when his dad would throw himself into village festivities but could never quite look him in the eye. The second thing he felt, before even opening his eyes, was watched. Someone else, multiple someone's if the three different voices quietly cussing out Thor were any indication, were in his room. It wouldn't be his dad, he'd long since grown out of looking in on Hiccup as he slept. And no one else in the village gave enough of a damn about him to do so either. Which meant...
"Why in Thor's fucking name is he fourteen?" Snotlout asked, sounding irrationally worried. Hiccup really wasn't sure why he cared. Or what other age he was supposed to be. "How is he fourteen? What are we meant to do with a baby? What are we meant to tell Toothless?"
"He's tiny." A second voice, probably Tuffnut, muttered. And- of course he was tiny. Maybe Snotlout and Tuffnut were concussed. Maybe he was concussed.
"He's got two feet." Ruffnut marvelled. Maybe they were all concussed. Maybe someone had left Astrid in charge of the stew again and it was food-poisoning hallucinations. Maybe he was dead. ...Maybe it was an exceedingly elaborate prank.
"All will return with the waxing of the moon. Which is three days away." Fishlegs said. And why on Odin's green earth was Fishleg's in on it. Whatever it was. And why were they inside his house.
Hiccup blinked his eyes half open, squinting around the room at the five blurry faces hovering over his bed. Because apparently Astrid was there too. Delightful. They all looked genuinely concerned, faces twisted up with worry and they all- they all looked old. All with longer hair, Tuffnut's now twisted into locs; they all bore a couple more scars than he remembered; heavier armour; they were all taller, enough that they could all tower over him (except Snotlout, Hiccup noticed hysterically. Despite the messy scruff of stubble growing on his face, Snotlout didn't seem to have grown at all since... since when Hiccup had last seen him). They were all still arguing, pointing fingers of blame back and forth between each other.
Except for Tuffnut. He had leant further over Hiccup, finger prodding the side of his cheek. "Mini Hiccup's up."
The other four paused their talking, heads snapping to stare at him in sync.
Hiccup wanted to go back to sleep.
Unsurprisingly, Snotlout (or at least the guy wearing a creepy grown-up version of Snotlout's face) was the first to regain his voice. "Hey man. How are you feeling?"
Hiccup stared blankly back at him. This was some incredibly elaborate prank. It had to be. How they'd convinced Astrid to be in on it or gotten his father to let them into the house or gotten their weird ass 'I'm a teenager' skin suits was another question entirely.
And not one that Hiccup felt he need the answer to.
He'd experienced enough pranks from Snotlout and the twins to know that this probably ended with him taking the fall for some kind of major destruction or being pushed into a lake. Hiccup really did not want to be pushed into a lake.
He jerked his face away from Tuffnut's still poking finger, pushing out of bed and shoving his way past the five of them to his still open window. He didn't spare them, or the room, or his boots, or his knife, a second glance. Just leapt out the window, stumbling a bit as he hit the ground, and instantly setting off towards the forest.
Behind him, he heard Snotlout say "Well, that could've gone better." followed by a thud that sounded suspiciously like he'd been shoved down the stairs.
"Look, I promise you I am not a demon. Or an Outcast spy." Hiccup said. Again. He paused his half-hearted efforts at pulling out of his dad's grip to stare beseechingly up at him. Stoick wasn't looking. He hadn't been frogmarched to the Great Hall since- Gods, since he was actually fourteen. He could probably jerk out of the iron grip around his arm if he really wanted to (rough housing with a 2000-pound dragon did have some benefits) but figured that would only further upset Stoick- his dad- whoever the hell this version of Stoick was to him. And Hiccup distinctly remembered that this Stoick's solution to anything that upset him was to lop its head off. "Look, I don't know what I'm doing here either, but taking me in front of the Berk High Council isn't going to solve anything, it'll just leave you with a village of angry Vikings." There. A calm, rational appeal to his dad's sensitivities.
Stoick didn't reply. Just like he hadn't replied to any of Hiccup's other pleas to reason. He hadn't actually said anything at all, not since the first startled 'who the fuck are you'. Hiccup had forgotten how heavy those silences could be.
He practically dragged Hiccup up the stairs to the Great Hall. There was a steadily growing crowd of onlookers, headed up by the rest of the High Council (who all seemed to have a sixth sense for when Stoick was on the meeting planning war path), following after. This was without a doubt the most interesting thing Berk had had happen in years, since at least the last Berserker skirmish. Berk was boring as hell back then- now. For the love of Thor- Berk. Boring. It was all dragon raids and food scarcity. The Great Hall doors had been pulled wide open, warm smoky light spilling out into the dim early morning.
Stoick dragged Hiccup forward, only dropping his arm once Hiccup was situated in the middle of the hall. The rest of the village seemed to take that as their cue to flood in, filling up the tables not from closet to the fire, but from which was closest to Hiccup. Stoick settled into his seat at the centre of the Elder’s table. The fire burnt bright behind him, obscuring Hiccup of his facial expressions, of anything but his silhouette. When all the nearest tables were full, the rest of the village crowded into the aisles, into every available free space. Hiccup knew their faces, some of them (his eyes flicked to where Gobber sat at the end of the table) better than he knew his own. Snotlout and the twins had shoved their way through to the front of the crowd, open curiosity playing across their faces. Astrid was a few places to their left, standing at her Uncle Finn’s shoulder, face closed off and angry, hostile in a way that suited her 14-year-old face better than it suited her now- in Hiccup’s time. Hiccup couldn’t pick Fishlegs out, assumed he was hiding somewhere further back, avoiding Snotlout.
It was weird to see them not standing together, weird to not be stood with them. Weirder still to see them without their dragons, like half-finished portraits. It hadn’t even been an hour yet, but Hiccup was already missing Toothless like a part of him was missing, different to the absence of his leg, more like someone had gone and ripped a piece out of the very fabric of his being. Three days. It was only three days, and this Berk would get their Hiccup, Hiccup the Useless, back. Where was their Hiccup?
That… wasn’t actually a thought Hiccup wanted to entertain. Either he was here somewhere, and Hiccup would be forced to have a reunion with his nervous, two-legged self, or little Hiccup had mysteriously disappeared into the Ginnungagap, or (and this was definitely the worst option) him and little Hiccup had swapped places and now 14-year-old him was stuck in a dragon-filled Berk where everyone looked to him as a leader. Even after five years Hiccup found it hard to believe that was how the fates had written his life, he didn’t know what being thrown into that headfirst would be like.
“The meeting of the council of elders is now in session.” Stoick boomed, voice cutting through Hiccup’s steadily depressing thought process. “We are joined today to discuss the fate of our intruder. May he now step forward and state his name.”
Every eye in the hall turned to Hiccup, expressions somewhere between Astrid’s and Snotlout’s. Childishly, Hiccup wished for his flight mask, if only so he could hide behind that and not have to face the inevitable barrage of questions about how Hiccup had turned into him.
Stoick cleared his throat, the impatience rolling off him in stronger and stronger waves with every passing second of silence.
Hiccup scrubbed a hand back through his hair, tilted his gaze up to stare headlong at his father in a way 14-year-old him would’ve never imagined. “My name is Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the third. Heir to the Hair Hooligan tribe of Berk,” and then, with only half a breath’s pause to think about consequences- “the Dragon Conqueror.”
He kept his gaze on Stoick’s, ignoring the murmuring and gasps and titters and whispered prayers. His father’s eyebrows had dropped down, a familiar look of confused disappointment.
“You are not my son.”
Hiccup tilted his head to the side, just so, so the light of the fire flickered over the scar on his chin. He knew he didn’t look that different to how he did at fourteen, just taller and missing a leg, so he can’t understand why no-one’s made the connection. He fishes the small blade out of his boat, throws it so it embeds in the wood just in front of Stoick. He knows it’s a bad move before he even draws the knife, both because it leaves him weapon less (and he’s already armour less) and because he knows it’ll look like a threat even if he’s just trying to prove his innocence of whatever crime he’s on trial for (he doesn’t actually know what his crime is).
“Look at the seal. Where else would I have got that from.”
Stoick obliges, leaning over to look at the symbol etched into the leather end of the hilt. Hiccup can tell the moment he recognises it, his eyebrows flying back up his forehead. He looks back to Hiccup, an appraising edge to his gaze. “Dragon Conqueror you say?” and Hiccup can physically feel what is coming.
He nods his assent regardless.
“Let’s see you in action then.”
“So… Our Hiccup is missing. And little Hiccup who body swapped with him is… also missing?”
Astrid runs a hand down her face, she can feel the sigh building from deep in her soul. Fishlegs cut her off before she can express that annoyance. “Our Hiccup is presumably back in that Hiccup’s time.”
“Before the dragons.” Tuffnut says quietly.
“We’ll have to tell Stoick.” Astrid said finally, already dreading how that conversation would go.
“Tell me what? And where is my son?”
The five of them all froze, for the second time in as many minutes. Astrid looked from Stoick, to the letter in her hands, to the window Hiccup had fled out of and back again.
“That dragon of his is still here, so he can’t have gone far.” Stoick went on, oblivious to Astrid’s inner turmoil.
“Uncle…” Snotlout started, then immediately trailed off in favour of snatching the letter out of Astrid’s hands and shoving it at Stoick.
He took it with a raised eyebrow, reading through it painfully slowly.
“Little Hiccup ran into the forest.” Tuffnut added. Astrid wanted to punch him. Knew from having punched Snotlout not even five minutes ago that it wouldn’t bring her any sense of reprieve.
Stoick turned the full force of his gaze onto Astrid. “Is this true?”
She clenched her hands into fists at her sides, tipped her head up to Stoick and tried to challenge at least some of the boundless stubbornness Hiccup had. “Yes sir.”
Stoick nodded, just once. “Ground all the dragons, make sure Toothless is well locked away, call a council of elders and then-“ He levelled Astrid with a look that was half glare, half imploring. “-You five are going into the forest to find my son. On foot.”
Astrid nodded, stamping on Snotlout’s foot as he let out a groan (behind her, Ruff did the same to Tuffnut).
Standing in the ring waiting for an enraged murderous dragon to be set upon him was weirdly comforting. He ducked under the half open gate, locking his gaze on the cell doors in front of him in favour of looking at the scorch marks and blood splatters covering the walls.
There was a rack of weapons set up to his right, the same rack the Hookfang would smash to pieces in less than a year. He ignored it, running one hand through his hair. His other hand drifted to his thigh, where Inferno would usually be strapped (although usually he would also have an angry 2,000-pound lizard at his back and a relatively fire resistant suit of armour on. He’s trying hard not to think about that. Doesn’t want to acknowledge how naked- exposed he is). He drops both hands loosely to his sides, tips his head up to stare at Stoick head on. “Do your worst.” He calls, voice somehow cutting through the bloodthirsty hum of the surrounding crowd of Vikings.
Stoick nods his head to Gobber, who flips the lever on the cage Hiccup knows the monstrous nightmare is kept in. And then he opens the nadder cage, and the gronkle’s, and the zipplebacks, and a fifth one that is rarely used, but only for more exotic impressive catches. A very large, very angry thunderdrum stuck his nose out of the slowly raising doorway. None of the dragons are ones he recognises (he tries to ignore the way he knew that that’s because they’re all dead by his time), which only serves to make this harder. None of them know him, and he doesn’t know any of them back.
Five dragons, one of him, and an entire village of Vikings waiting for what they think will be the best show of their lifetimes. Great. Well, he did ask for their worst.
The dragons all form a half circle around him, hissing and spitting and flaming. Hiccup took a half step forward, hands held placating out before him. “Calm down, careful now.” He murmurs, keeping his voice low and soft. Him and Fishlegs have been pretty sure all dragons understand Norse, but they’ve never had the chance to properly test their theory. Hiccup supposes that a weird past timeline where he’s about to get fried to death six different ways is as good a time as any.
“I’m not one of them.” He says, echoing the words he spoke in this very ring five years ago, one year in the future. “I wish you no harm. I’m trying to keep you all alive.”
The entire crowd is silent, just Hiccup’s softly murmured words and the slowly quieting hissing of the dragons. A quick glance up shows Stoick leaning forwards in his seat, eyes wide. He took another slow step forwards. The easiest bet is definitely the gronkle, but the Nightmare would win him over with all five dragons, and the Thunderdrum is the most urgent to befriend (given that he hasn’t heard a single word Hiccup has offered and is still peering at him like it’s considering biting Hiccup’s hand off). He goes for the Thunderdrum.
“Hey.” Even if it can’t hear, he’s still going to talk, for his benefit as much as for the dragons around them. “I’m going to walk up to you and you, pretty please, are not going to try and kill me. I’d like to leave this ring with exactly the same number of limbs I came here with. Please.”
He’s standing just in front of it by then, close enough to feel it’s hot breath against his face. Slowly, carefully, he raises his hand, letting it rest just in front of the thunderdrum’s snout. “C’mon big guy. Work with me here or we’re both ending up dead.”
Just as achingly slowly, the Thunderdrum bumps its nose into Hiccup’s hand.
“Thank Thor.” He mutters, rubbing his hand up the scaly head in front of him. He nudges the dragon back, gently, guiding him back to his cage. “There you go big guy, careful now.”
Once it’s safely enclosed, he flips the lever down, shutting the cage with a thud.
Instead of looking to the gathered Vikings, he keeps his gaze on the remaining dragons. The nightmare’s still flamed up but he’d expected that. He’d insulted it’s leadership by dealing with the Thunderdrum first instead of him.
So, that’s his next call of order decided.
Hiccup was becoming increasingly keen on the idea of living in the forest for the rest of his life. Sure, a dragon would probably eat him in about a week, but even that would be better than going back up to the village and having to deal with whatever is wrong. Because he knows something is wrong. There’s a massive burnt out stretch of forest, new grass creeping up through crackling burnt tree trunks. He hurried past that, trying to just put it up to a rogue dragon from the last raid.
He can’t explain away the startling lack of dragon traps anywhere near as easily. He knows that there should be hundreds of them dotting along his walk, knows exactly where each one should be. They aren’t though. He hasn’t seen a single trap, not even the old, rusted ones that act as a threat more than they do an actual defence. Nothing. And it would’ve taken weeks to bring all those traps down. Weeks that the village doesn’t have, not between dragon raids and worries about food scarcity.
So, the forest is wrong, different, new.
Hiccup doesn’t like it.
He especially doesn’t like it because it means that whatever is wrong has grown into the forest too, and not even running away can free him of it.
It’s started to rain, droplets beading together and growing ever larger as they roll down the tree canopy. Hiccup twisted himself further back into the cave he’s hiding in. It’s one he camps out in regularly, when the village is too loud and the weight of being the chief’s son too heavy. He knows he’d left a wrapped package of dried fish back in a hollow behind a rock, but not rock nor fish is there.
Hiccup’s not adding that to his list of weird things, figuring a dragon just shoved the rock out of the way and ate his food.
A glance back out the cave entrance shows the sky outside darkening, though whether that’s the onset of night or a side effect of the storm is anyone’s guess. He’s getting hungry though, and hunger doesn’t usually set in until late afternoon.
He needs to get back to his- to the village (the wrong, weird, confusing village where everyone is more taller than him than normal). Rain and dragons and weird curses from the universe and pranks from… someone (the whole village?) aside. He does not want to spend the night alone and hungry and in a cave that dragons clearly frequent.
Standing up with a start Hiccup steps out of the cave, becoming half drenched in a moment. There’s a loose rock ahead of him and Hiccup kicks out at it as hard as he can. It skidded a couple feet ahead of him before getting imbedded in a particularly thick patch of mud.
“Fuck’s sake.” He mutters, skidding through his own patch of mud. “Just my luck to drown in a puddle before I can even get back and figure out what’s wrong with anyone.”
As though the gods were listening, he trips over a root, landing on his back in the rain and mud. Hiccup thinks he’s just going to stay there for a moment.
The dragons are back in their cages, but Hiccup thinks he would rather face them a million times over than have to deal with the crowd of shocked (and, subsequently angry) Vikings.
Hiccup brushed the soot from his hands onto his pants, tilted his face up to stare at the council’s ring of wooden thrones. He holds his father’s gaze, waiting for something, some kind of reaction.
He knew he’d just achieved a miracle, five miracles really (not that anyone but him was counting), so somekind of reaction didn’t feel like a crazy thing to expect of them. The dead silence was honestly… very underwhelming.
“So?” He asked, buckling under the weight of his father’s stare the way he always did.
Stoick rises slowly, but the entire crowd going silent the moment they see him moving. “This- This is a gift from the Gods, a messenger of the future here to teach us our much-improved dragon killing techniques.”
A mighty cheer shoots up around the ring, shaking the chain roof.
Much improved dragon killing techniques. Great. Just what he needs.
“Gift from the Gods my ass.” He mutters (not that anyone’s listening to what he has to say, too busy cheering and tromping off to the Great Hall for celebratory mead).
Carefully Hiccup backed up until he was at the gate, ducking under it and weaving his way carefully through the Viking crowds. He didn’t have any kind of destination in mind, didn’t even know where he was going past away.