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glitterportrait · 4 years

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hamish dream drabble thing

In the dream he hears Alice calling to him on the shore.

He barely recalls what it looks like, the beach nearest Kirkwall. He’d been so young the last time he left it, and green-cheeked at the mere prospect of boarding another ship. But in the dream he knows she’s waiting there for him, sitting on the rocks with sand in her skirts, leashed impatience in her face.

Come down, Hamish, and I’ll tell you a story.

He’d always liked her stories. She would respin the old islanders’ yarns, adding her own distinctive flourish, as careful to pronounce the Orcadian names in her hard-won English accent as he. She had a fine voice for storytelling, Alice, unexpectedly fine; the richness of it issuing from her bird-boned frame surprised you, put you in mind of a practiced orator at his podium. In Yvon’s dedicated efforts to read to him Hamish often hears the echo of Alice’s cadence, though he will never say so.

You like the gruesome ones best, I know. So I shall tell you of the Nuckelavee.

What was the Nuckelavee? It’s been so many years since he heard that one, he can’t remember. Something with a horse, he thinks, one of those preposterous water-dwelling fairy equines that the Scottish seem so fond of. Well, he will let her tell it, for old times’ sake.

He tries to walk down to the beach, but the walls of Wobik loom in his path. The gate is closed, and leaning against the spear-sharpened planks, fleur-de-lis wilting over his head, Elisha Cooke greets him.

“You won’t find what you came from in there.”

Cooke is soaking wet, as though he’d tumbled straight out of the sea. To Hamish he always appears damp around the edges, with his pale eyes penetrating yet watered down, hair unnaturally slick at the temples. But now he’s sodden through and through, his beard a bedraggled fisher-cat’s tail, dripping down his embroidered waistcoat.

“But you’ve been there,” Hamish corrects him. “You know what it’s like.”

“No indeed, Mr. Goames,” Cooke replies, his chuckle so soft it’s more like a gasp. “I was never there, not really. Surely you know that? But if you must try for it, don’t forget to bring that in with you.”

Cooke points to Hamish’s feet, and glancing down he sees a fox, lying there with paws tucked under its chest. Though it doesn’t look quite right—it’s made of old rags, stuffed and stitched together, with whiskers and ears drawn on in charcoal—

He turns back to Cooke, but he’s vanished. Bill Selby stands in his place, and he’s sopping not with saltwater, but with gore. Bits of viscera slide down his flushed cheeks; he grins at Hamish as the gate swings wide behind him.

“Watch thee step un’r the black sun, lad!” It isn’t Gay Bill’s broad Glaswegian he hears, but a rarer and scarce-recollected lilt, the sound of his father’s tongue.

He pushes past Selby, squinting at the sky (the black sun overhead is still bright, bright enough to stab and scrape beneath your eyelids if you’re not careful) and finds himself on the shore. Only it’s the river before him, not the ocean: the vast and martyred Saint Laurent, though he hears the pounding of ocean waves clear as though he looked upon the North Sea’s face.

“It’s just the sound of what’s coming,” Yvon says, ambling up from the riverbank, braid unraveling, blood in his nostril from the blow Bill landed, still bruised and burst-prune violet as the moment he last saw him—

my God I am sorry I am sorry for it

—leaving with the girl.

“I know you are no great cavalryman, no more than I.” Yvon’s lips quirk in amusement. He raises an open palm as if to take hold of Hamish’s shoulder, though he does not.

“But listen again.”

And Hamish does, and he realizes that the pounding, the rhythmic slam and strike, is the sound of galloping hooves.

“Is that what I came from, then?” He tries to focus on Yvon’s face, but it blurs into unfamiliarity, and from there into nothingness; there is no one to walk with him, no one but the ragdoll fox.

It is watching him from a little ways up the beach, and he does not remember its face being so sooty, so stained about the mouth before. The cloth lips drawn back from its teeth, and its creaking voice unspools like string, tautening in the gusts of sea-wind: Savedyourskinsavedyourskin. The words all run together, but he discerns it when they change again: Askinforaskinforaskin.

There’s a pain beneath his ribs, a pain like what he imagines an apple’s flesh might feel under the edge of Yvon’s coring knife. When he looks down he sees the fox’s head gnawing at his side, burrowing into the wound with exultant glee, muzzle soft as a babe’s plaything and bright as a bloodied hand—

He slaps the fox away, moaning, shouting, though no sound comes out.

Hamish! Would you hear the tale or not?

He follows Alice’s voice, ever onward, until he finds her silhouette against the waterline. Obsidian sunlight glances off and into his unblinking eyes, so that looking hurts almost as much as his side; and when she faces him he isn’t in the least taken aback to see her gaze is as black as Cross claimed.

“The Nuckelavee is both ridden and the thing that rides. It is the plague of our blood, and only the Mither of the Sea can check it. I’ve told you this many times. But you forgot to bring the sea with you.”

That is right, Hamish realizes. He has always forgotten. In his ears the hoofbeats have grown louder, a roar that lodges in the mind, that blights all hope of future quiet.

“Do I have to go back?”

Of course it is Yvon who answers, materializing by his bleeding side, his warm seamed skin splitting with a smile.

“You don’t have to go back. You just have to turn around. But do not worry overmuch, Hamish. There are hardly any horses in Paradise Lost.”

Yvon would know, he thinks, so he turns around.

And he sees it, riding and being ridden beneath the black sun. The Nuckelavee, its four-legged form fused with the two-legged thing astride it, an abomination of horse and man melded together like carcasses conjoined. Its entire shape is skinless, as a kill just freshly stripped of hide, all gleaming fat and twitching muscle and red red red—

I DROWNED ME IN THE RIVER, it bellows out of two mouths, in a voice at once like Randall Cross’s and like the wet scream of a strangled colt. Somewhere in the distance there’s the din of pistol shot, but it dwindles to mere popping beneath the Nuckelavee’s words.

Hamish Goames wants nothing more than to wake up; he would set every hectare of Rupert’s Land ablaze, he would murder Randall all over again, if only he could wake.

IN THE RIVER IN THE RIVER IN THE RIVER

He does not wake.

#barkskins #barkskins drabble #hamish goames #i don't know what this is exactly #warnings for spoilery things and some bloody deets i guess #real heavyhanded on the symbolism i'm sorry

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frenchy-and-the-sea · 5 years

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SC - Turning Page

Original Fiction Prompt: The way they look after a rough night. Project: Seven Cities Word Count: 2570 Warnings/Tags: None

This was technically in response to an ask prompt, but I grew so fond of it that I decided to give it a post of its own. It’s been a while since I felt the heartbeat in a piece. I hope y’all enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it. God, it feels good to enjoy it again.

Mood music that caught me when I was working on this piece: [The Boy’s Gone]

———–

There were three patrons still left on the Fairfield Inn’s meager tavern floor.

One was a young man that had stumbled in not long after sunset, and had spent the entire night nursing himself into a drunken, heartbroken stupor. One was a grimy older gentleman with hard eyes and a manner of falling into his cup that suggested that he’d been doing so for quite a while now. And the last, tucked into the furthest corner table, was Tahir, watching the pair of them as he pretended not to watch the door.

The rest of the crew had retired to their suite of rented rooms nearly an hour ago. Adelina had been the last to go, convinced to stagger her way upstairs only by Myrine’s coaxing and the yawning that she had done a miserable job of hiding. She had fought both for as long as she could stand, then had loomed over Tahir’s table with strict instructions that he was to wait for their captain’s return. If he couldn’t, she told him, he was to wake her. Immediately, she had said.

He had laughed at the time, saluted her, given her his best “aye, aye” and then waved her into Myrine’s care. Now the tavern was almost properly empty, the moon had passed well overhead, and Tahir was beginning to think that there might be some cause for her worry.

He took an absent swig off of his tankard and let his gaze slide back to the door. Alex was private, sure, but she rarely went off without warning. Rarely went off in general; when there was no work to be done, she was usually more inclined to watch her crew from close quarters than she was to assume that they knew how to behave like civilized folk. But he had spent the entire night among them, drinking and dicing and losing card games to Davin, and not once had he seen so much as a single swishing coattail of….

Almost as soon as the thought occurred to him, the door of the inn swung open, and Alex Sheffield shouldered her way inside.

“Well now,” Tahir called from across the room, tucking his relief neatly behind a casual lean into his chair. “Kind of you to show your face around us again, captain! You might’ve said something before we -”

He broke off as Alex turned to face him. Wherever she had been all night had clearly taken its toll. She looked a proper mess, sagging beneath with the weight of a finely embroidered blue coat that Tahir recognized as Finn’s. She usually kept it on retainer for whenever she needed to look particularly stately, but now it hung open, at a slovenly angle that revealed the stained work shirt that she wore underneath. Her hair had been pulled out of its braided tail and trailed over her shoulder in a messy tangle, and there was an unhealthy wreath of pale red and bruise purple around her eyes. When she stopped walking to glare at him, Tahir saw her sway hard enough to have to catch herself on a nearby chair.

He was on his feet almost before he realized it.

“Merciful Lord, Alex,” he said, threading a path quickly around the tables towards her, “you look like hell. Are you alright? Christ, what happened -”

“Fucksake, be quiet.”

Tahir froze halfway through a step. Alex was slurring. Her normal cadence was a drawl, certainly, but always the deliberate sort, and always understandable to his ear. Only great need of sleep made her words run together. Sleep, or…

Frowning, Tahir took a few more steps forward, then recoiled as the nose-searing odor of alcohol met him.

“You’re drunk,” he said softly. Alex’s face twisted into a grimace.

“Brilliant notice,” she sneered. “Ought to let you ride a yard, eyes like that.”

Scowling, she tried to stagger her way past, and Tahir moved quickly to intercept her. By her own design, Alex had only been properly drunk a precious few times in her life. Tahir had been around to see all but one of them, and knew better than to let her wander.

“Easy, lad,” he said, as she buried a shoulder into him in an effort to shove past. “Easy. Come and sit a spell, hey? Stairs will be the death of you right now.”

Alex grumbled something incomprehensible under her breath, but let herself be led back towards Tahir’s table. Even staggering drunk, she seemed to know that she couldn’t best Tahir in a matter of strength. He silently praised whatever God was looking out for him for that.

She took a seat opposite him, scowling and sullen as Tahir waved the tavern keeper down.

“Water,” he muttered to the man, with the hopes that Alex wouldn’t hear. He had apparently burned clean through whatever remained of his luck, however; when he looked up again, Alex was glaring at him.

“My mum’s been gone a while now,” she growled. “I think I don’t need you to start playing her.”

“‘Course not,” said Tahir, rolling his eyes. “But I’ve been on the bottle often enough to know what comes in the morning. It’s one of the few things I’ve more experience with than you. You don’t want that, Alex. And I sure as shit don’t want to see you suffer it.”

The tavern keeper returned then, setting two mugs onto the table in front of him. Tahir nodded his thanks, and then pushed both across the table.

“Drink.”

He braced himself for another argument; even sober, Alex always had some toothless insult or slight against his character ready, often just for the fun of it. Instead, he watched as she stared fixedly at the tankards for a long, silent moment, then slowly reached out and took the first one.

“Right,” she said quietly. “You’re right, of course. Sorry.”

She reeled the mug close, bearing it like a cross against her chest and taking sullen sips as Tahir stared back. It was as if every ounce of fight had been leached out of her at once, replaced with a quiet melancholy that she seemed suddenly resigned to. If he had been concerned before, he was truly, properly worried now.

He waited until she had gotten through about half of the mug before he tried speaking again.

“Alex -”

“He’s here, you know.”

The interruption came without preamble, as Alex stared hard down at the table in front of her. Tahir’s brow furrowed.

“Who’s here, lad?”

“Why, Mr. Edward Sheffield, of course.” She stole a look at him out of the corner of her eye and smiled grimly. “Recently relocated and fully engulfed in the dockside merchant business once more. A grand coincidence, ain’t it?”

She took another draw off of her mug as Tahir blinked in surprise.

“Your father?” he asked, bewildered. “Your father is here?”

“Aye. Him, along with a wife and a new brat between them, aged six. The whole fucking family.”

She didn’t bother hiding the bitter edge in her voice this time, and Tahir felt his frown curl deeper. Alex had been quits with her father a year or two before they’d met, but what little she had shared told Tahir that their separation had been more amicable on his end than hers. Relieving himself of responsibility for her had apparently been very easy indeed.

“Where did you see them?” he asked after a moment. Alex gave a short laugh, dry and humorless.

“At their home,” she said, leaning forward to prop her chin against a hand. “I joined them for dinner, in fact! Was invited just this very morning, after Mr. Sheffield caught sight of me at the dockside. His wife is apparently very keen on cooking for guests.”

Tahir watched, silent, as Alex drained the last of her mug in a motion that seemed too familiar on her by half.

“So you went along,” he said when she reached for her second cup.

“I did.”

“And?”

“Nothing.” She leaned back in her chair again, making a grand gesture out of her shrugging. “Not a God damned fucking thing. It was as if I was a client, come ‘round to be entertained for an evening. He told me of the move, of his work, about a hundred stories of all of the things his beloved son had been up to. Managed to talk his way all through till dessert, then thought to ask what I’d managed in the last seven years.”

The reminder apparently made itself a knife-twist in Alex’s gut; she grimaced, and then hid the look behind the lip of her tankard.

“I didn’t actually tell him about the Service, mind,” she went on after a moment, very quietly. “Thought talk of a desertion might end with more than a ruined dinner. Told him I’d taken up sailing though. That I had some command of a ship. You know what he asked me?” She snorted. “He asked the name of the captain I’d married, from whom I’d taken command.”

“Christ,” said Tahir, with so much withering disgust that Alex very nearly smiled. The look didn’t hold though, and almost at once, she returned to staring down at her tankard, absently swirling the water inside.

“I’m not a fool. I know my having anything like command on the Ranger is an unusual thing, mostly taken thanks to you, and Dav, and a host of sailors who didn’t have any better choices. I don’t expect it’s always understood. But, Christ.” She took Tahir’s tone on the word, a burst of mingled revulsion and anger. “He didn’t even entertain the notion, Tahir. Not for a moment. I was doing sums and consulting navigational charts when I was ten. He taught me the bloody arts! And even then, even with all of that, still…”

Her voice got very small then, and sunk low into her chair, Alex suddenly looked as tiny as Tahir had ever seen her. He watched in silence as she worried her lip against the edge of her still-full tankard, turning over what she’d said, what he’d seen. Then he scoffed.

“Is your father blind?”

The question caught Alex so off guard that she could do nothing but blink and stare up at him for a few long seconds.

“What?”

“Blind,” Tahir said again, louder this time. “From squinting down at little pieces of paper and all of those tiny numbers and some such. Surely he must be, because I can find no better explanation for how he could take even one single look at you and think that you’d do anything on board a ship but strut around and bark orders at men twice your size.”

Alex’s mouth twitched, the barest ghost of a smile, and Tahir saw her roll her eyes to cover the little huff of laughter that had escaped her. Emboldened, he pressed on.

“In fact, I’d say blind is not nearly good enough a reason. A man might hear you and know your standing! Certainly, he is blind, deaf and mad as well. Or at least doesn’t know a damn thing about you.”

By now, Alex was laughing quietly to herself, trying desperately to tuck it behind a hand.

“No,” she said, around her not-laughter, “no, I imagine he doesn’t.”

“I’d like to think I do, though.” Tahir leaned back in his seat, casual in a way that his words weren’t. “And you know what I think? All mishaps and faults aside - and Almighty hell, there’s been a lot of them - I think there is no one on God’s green earth that could have lead as unholy an expedition, or commanded as unruly a ship as the Ranger, with as much grace and dignity as Alex Sheffield.”

Alex’s snickering vanished easily behind a hand now, and she fixed him with a look so hard and narrow that he felt it in his bones. She opened her mouth, closed it again, then repeated the motion a few more times for good measure, silently trying to mash her sense into something resembling coherence. Tahir stifled a little grin. Sincerity always ruffled Alex, needled her low opinion of humanity until she couldn’t form the sentences necessary to argue. She’d left him little option otherwise, though. She wouldn’t have listened to anything that she considered coddling, and her father was still her father, his miserable idiocy notwithstanding. Renouncing him would have done as much good as agreeing.

Still, she had been through well enough today already; Tahir could abide giving her a break.

“Of course,” he said after a moment, “the actual amount of grace and dignity involved is still something of a debate….”

Now the grin came, wry and too quick to hide behind a hand. Snorting, she kicked halfheartedly at him under the table.

"I’ll not hear talk of grace from a man that cannot walk ten paces belowdecks without running headfirst into a beam.”

“Ha! You mistake my talents for flaws.”

They traded barbless insults and blows deliberately aimed to miss underneath the table, stopping only when Alex nearly toppled out of her seat going after Tahir’s shin. She righted herself carefully, suddenly aware of the dubious relationship that she currently had with gravity.

“I’m for bed, I think,” she said when she had steadied herself again, gripping the edge of the table. “I’ve likely worried Ade enough.”

“Oh, you have,” said Tahir. “She threatened me, you know. Said that I was to stay on watch until you returned. And that I should wake her if I couldn’t. Or else, she said.”

"Did she?” Alex stroked her chin thoughtfully. “Maybe I ought to stay, then. Hide in a corner, wait to see how you fare against her. That would certainly lift my spirits.”

“You are cruel indeed to make me suffer the wrath of a scorned woman, lad.”

Alex gave a deep bow that nearly sent her staggering to the floor. When she found her feet again, Tahir chuckled and pushed her still-full tankard of water across the table. She rolled her eyes, but took it without a fight.

“You’ll tell your lady that I followed her orders, won’t you?” Tahir asked over a shoulder as Alex shuffled past him on the way to the stairs.

“I’ll consider it,” came the reply, not far behind him. Tahir grinned to himself, then leaned back and folded his hands over his stomach. She sounded better, at least. No amount of sneering at her father’s expense would fix quite everything, but at least her slurring was only the drunkard’s sort now.

“Tahir.”

He glanced over his shoulder and found Alex stopped at the foot of the stairs leading up to the rooms above. Her hand had a shaky, white knuckled grip on the railing, but she stood tall.

“Get to bed,” she said. Now Tahir rolled his eyes, turning pointedly back to his tankard.

“Aye, captain.”

“I’ll need you in the morning.”

“Aye, captain.”

“And… thank you.”

Tahir raised an eyebrow, then slowly turned back to where Alex stood. She met his gaze from her place at the stairs; knuckles even whiter, grip on the railing even more unsteady, but with a stare as firm and unflinchingly open as he had ever seen on her before. Still not running away. A little coal of pride, hot as the summer sun, sparked to life in his chest, and Tahir smiled.

“Aye, captain.”

#original fiction #seven cities #my writing #oc crap #alex sheffield #tahir #i MIGHT have been overconfident with that post last night but #i still had fun with it #and THAT'S WHAT'S IMPORTANT #anyway this is a scene i've had in mind for mmmm literal ages #glad to finally write ti #it's sort of one of the indicative moments of alex's character change #and this piece has sorta been my change in how i'm trying to interact with my art #thus the title lmao #also very small subtle cameo of dovahgarbage's lee in the beginning there #cause I love him #OKAY I'M DONE TAG RAMBLING

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bovivinator · 6 years

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Conversion - HTTYD Fanfic

While Hiccup sleeps, his world transforms around him. Some changes are big, some are small, but he is the unknowing catalyst for them all.

Dedicated to @httyd-was-a-great-movie for letting me request stuff all the time, and to @dragondecker for lots of fun hours in plants class. Good luck in animation! Merry Christmas!

Takes place near the end of the first movie, before Hiccup wakes up after the Red Death battle. I tried subtly focus on changing perspectives. Hint: pay attention to the pronouns.

Fanfiction.net | Archive of Our Own | DeviantArt | Other Stories

Gobber heaved his way up to the Haddock home, grimacing when his peg leg was jostled by a loose stone. In his good hand, he clutched supplies to take measurements for Hiccup’s new leg. He had seen Gothi and her assistant entering the Bjarnesen home several minutes earlier, no doubt to attend to Snorre’s badly-burnt arm, and had taken the opportunity to start his project without getting in her way. A Nadder shrieked as it swooped close overhead and he flinched, clamping down on the urge to rush for a shield. Strange and unnerving as this days-old peace with the dragons had been, he had no desire to reignite the past violence with a too-hasty reaction. Never let it be said that Vikings preferred an uneventful life, but the Hairy Hooligans were not as stupid as his apprentice seemed to believe. Some battles were worth avoiding.

Still, this transition was proving to be a difficult one. The communication barriers between the two groups were much more obvious now that they were actually trying to get along, and there had already been several minor injuries resulting from unavoidable misunderstandings. Hiccup’s survival had certainly been a gift from Odin, but Loki had gotten his say, too, in keeping him asleep where his ability to befriend dragons was out of reach. His fellow trainees’ attempts to spread what little he had taught them when they teamed up with the training dragons were welcome, if rather paltry in the face of this enormous task.

Thankfully, the dragons seemed as eager as the humans to play nice and not hold grudges, or the whole situation might have quite literally gone up in flames already. That these seemingly-bloodthirsty creatures would take deliberate care around their new neighbors, often choosing to fly away from a conflict instead of fighting back, was going a long way to convince Gobber that dragons were also much more intelligent than they had been given credit for.

The biggest proof of that, however, was lurking behind the chief’s door now in front of him.

He tapped on the scarred wood with his tongs-attachment and it opened inward a few moments later. Stoick squinted as the sunlight met his eyes and sagged in relief when he saw his visitor wasn’t there with another dragon complaint. “Gobber. I’m glad you’re here.” His head was bare and the lines in his face were noticeably deeper than they had been only a week before. The main source of his stress lay unconscious in the bed behind him.

Gobber nodded by way of greeting. “How’s the lad holding up?” He glanced around the room as he hobbled in, but there was no Night Fury in sight. Had it finally gone to join the other dragons? “He’s not woken?”

“No.” His friend closed the door behind him. “Mumbled a bit when Gothi changed the wraps, but never opened his eyes. We have Eir’s blessing, though, he’s healing well.” He eyed the bundle in Gobber’s hand. “Is that…?”

“For the leg, yeah. I could whip up another peg in a jiffy, but I’m thinking he’ll be wanting something a little more, ah, unique.”

Stoick smiled at that. “No, I can’t imagine he’d settle for anything simple.” His voice was layered with equal parts affection and sorrow, and the smith clapped a supportive hand to his shoulder.

“Don’tcha worry, Stoick, he’ll be back to driving you up the wall in no time. Then you’ll be wishing you’d appreciated the peace and quiet a little more. And there’s a bright side, too, he won’t have to worry about sock-stealing trolls anymore!” The chief leveled a flat stare at him and Gobber chuckled.

He moved to the bed and used his tongs to lift a corner of the bedcovers. Something creaked above him, and he glanced upward only to jerk back and swear as his eyes met a green, slitted pair that almost seemed to float in the air. Draped over a rafter, the dragon’s body was difficult to see in the dim lighting. It had tensed into a crouch, probably in response to his approaching Hiccup. A rumbling noise spilled from its mouth, not a growl, but still a warning. A reminder of the creature’s watchfulness over its rider.

“He won’t stop you,” Stoick said, when the staring match didn’t seem likely to end any time soon. “He let Gothi do her work just fine.”

“How long has the beastie been up there?” Gobber directed his question to Stoick, his gaze not leaving the Night Fury.

“Since Gothi changed the wraps. He was lying by the bed before, but wouldn’t leave the room when she needed him out of the way. This was the compromise.”

“Huh.” Finally looking back down, Gobber pulled the covers away from Hiccup’s stump again and began to work, eyes occasionally flickering up to the occupied rafter. He hadn’t intended to be ungentle to start with, but his actions held an extra level of care prompted by the feral presence above. The dragon, for its part, relaxed after a few moments, settling against the rafter like an enormous winged cat, tail twitching from time to time. It never stopped watching, though.

“What’d Hiccup call it, again?” Gobber’s question broke the silence. “The Night Fury?”

Stoick grunted in an amused way. “Toothless.”

“Toothless?” The smith’s eyebrows shot upward, and he glanced at the menacing shadow above, which had perked up when the wholly-inaccurate name was voiced. He shook his head and reminded himself that Hiccup’s mind worked in strange ways.

Gobber finished quickly, despite the pressure. Measurements taken and injured boy tucked back in, he sat next to the weary father to keep company a little longer. “The leg should be done day after tomorrow. I’ll make sure to strap it on so he don’t wake up stuck in bed.”

That got him a raised eyebrow. “Maybe I want him stuck in bed for a bit. You know he won’t be as careful with that injury as he should.”

“No, Stoick, the last thing he needs is to feel trapped. It’ll be hard enough as is.”

Nodding, Stoick acquiesced. “I won’t argue with that. Besides,” he sighed “if he couldn’t walk, he’d probably just ride Toothless out of the house anyway. There’s no keeping him down.” This time it was pride that warmed the chief’s voice.

“Too true.” A chortle sprung from Gobber’s lips. “Y’know, maybe I won’t make him a leg after all. Walking’s far too mundane for him, he’ll just fly on dragonback everywhere he goes! Just think of it!”

Stoick began to chuckle as well. “Ay, no need for a prosthetic limb when you’ve got the offspring of lightning and death as your shadow! It’s just the sort of dramatic thing he’d love.”

They laughed together, the oppressive weight of the sickroom lifting with their cheer.

Suddenly, the door banged open and Alva, the village tanner, burst in. “Chief! We need—”

Her interruption was cut short when a black blur shot from the ceiling and tackled her to the ground, hissing and growling. The woman gave a very unvikingly shriek at the sight of the fanged maw (see, Hiccup, plenty of teeth!) and angrily narrowed eyes above her. Stoick shot to his feet.

“Whoa, now!” Gobber cried, following. “Back off, dragon!”

The Night Fury ignored him, continuing to snarl at the villager pinned beneath its paws. Its ear-plates were pressed flat to its head, and its wings were spread to make it look bigger and more threatening. Though it made no move to attack further, it was an intimidating sight.

Stoick approached carefully, hands held out. “Toothless,” an ear rose, “let her go.” The black-scaled head swung around to give at the red-bearded man a look Gobber would almost call questioning. “She’s not a danger,” Stoick stressed, coming closer.

The dragon eyed Alva for a moment longer, then stepped back and slunk over to Hiccup’s bedside, where it kept watch on the Viking men.

Eyes wide and face pale, the woman took the hand the chief offered her and stood on shaking legs.

Gobber released a heavy breath. “Perhaps it’d be wise not to come barging in somewhere a protective Night Fury’s holed up in, eh?”

“What do you need, Alva?” Stoick asked with a hint of exasperation.

Eyes still glued to the dragon on the other side of the room, she couldn’t seem to remember. “Ah...there was a thing...um, a problem with some, uh, Gronckles…”

The giant man sighed. “I’ll be there as soon as I can, go tell everyone.” Alva left quickly, still rattled.

As soon as the door closed, the Night Fury turned away and started tending to Hiccup, nuzzling at his brow and giving little licks to his face. Gobber watched in amazement, the gentle behavior so different from the ferocity it had displayed only moments ago. Stoick crossed to his bearskin cloak hanging on the opposite wall and swung it around his shoulders.

“Hang on,” Gobber started. “you’re not leaving the dragon here alone with him?”

“I can’t depend on Spitelout to do everything until he wakes up, not with all this upheaval.” His friend placed his helmet on his head.

“I can’t stay, I’ve got my work to do.”

“I’m not asking you to. It’s only for a bit, and...they’ve likely already spent more time alone together than I like to think about.”

Gobber now remembered the sketches he’d found in his apprentice’s backroom the day before. He considered their subject, who had now climbed onto the bed and was carefully arranging his body around Hiccup’s so as not to jostle his stump leg.

Stoick opened the door. “Besides,” he said, pausing in the frame. “You were right, Gobber.”

The smith turned back towards him. “About what?”

“I can’t protect him forever...but that doesn’t mean nobody will.” The not-so-weary-anymore father shared a look with the creature next to his son, and something passed between them, an understanding revolving around the boy asleep in the bed. Stoick nodded, Toothless blinked, then they both turned away. The chief left the house and the dragon rested his chin next to the pillow, nose buried in his rider’s auburn strands. Hiccup mumbled something unintelligible and turned his head to press against the scaly snout before settling again.

Gobber regarded the peaceful pair for a few minutes. The Night Fury was so quiet and still, he couldn’t tell if he’d gone to sleep as well. He shook his head and laughed, prompting one green eye to open and peer at him. “Him having a dangerous shadow really isn’t that far off, is it?.” He looked straight at the black beast, who opened both eyes and tilted his head curiously. “You, beastie, are not at all what we expected. But then, things never do happen like they should when Hiccup’s involved.” He smiled at the small form under the covers. “And sometimes that’s not a bad thing.”

Toothless looked down at Hiccup as well, and purred in agreement. Gobber jabbed a finger at him, regaining his attention. “This means it’ll be your job to make sure he doesn’t go and blow himself up again.”

The dragon huffed, offended.

Gobber crooked a grin. “Yeah, you would already know that. He’s very good at it, after all.”

There was a snort of amusement. Toothless laid his head down again and curled closer to his rider. A great black wing unfolded and laid itself across the boy like a blanket.

The blacksmith sized up the asymmetrical tail with its lonely fin. He remembered another part of Hiccup’s sketches and came to a decision. Turning away from the friends snuggled together on the bed, he muttered to himself, “Suppose Stoick’ll have to wait a few more days on that leg. After all, it’s not every week I have to put together a matched set for two amputees.” He limped outside and blinked down at the path before him.

It had never seemed brighter.

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