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It's a stupid plan.
A stupid, shoot-first plan that relies on so many unknowns, so much blind faith that everything will just magically go his way. The kind of plan that would fail if a single outcast decided to think things through for once.
And the worst part is that it almost works.
The second he’s on Toothless, he knows what he’s doing. Their weapons aren’t near advanced enough to do any real harm — they can’t touch him, not before he can sink their ship and strand them.
On the back of his dragon, Hiccup feels invincible. Climbing higher and higher, arrows whizzing past him, he can’t help yelling out in triumph, prematurely.
Magnesium fire lights up the sky. Sleek spines are flying through the air, burying themselves in the ship’s deck, and he can hear someone calling his name. He calls back, flying steady as Stormfly pulls up to his side.
“Where are the others?” he yells, and Astrid shakes her head. Something stirs in his gut. “We need to pull back!”
“And risk Alvin coming back?” Astrid shoots back, circling the ship. “We have a chance to hurt him bad, we need to take it!”
Hiccup spares a glance down, where the outcasts are already reloading their catapults. “No, pull back!”
It happens in a split second.
Astrid dives just as a boulder flies loose, aimed at Stormfly’s head. Stormfly flips, narrowly avoiding it, but in the chaos Astrid loses her grip on the saddle and it’s like he’s seeing in slow motion, her back colliding with the sail, sending her tumbling against the hard wooden deck.
They’re on her in a second, three or four huge outcasts dragging her to her feet. Behind them, Alvin is sauntering over, an axe already aimed at her throat. He can feel heat building under his hands and quickly calls Toothless off.
He receives a skeptical warble. “We need to get Astrid safe,” he mutters, “then we can blow them to Hel, alright, bud?”
Finally, Toothless obliges, spinning into a tight nosedive and landing on the neck of the figurehead. He slinks down onto the deck to flank Stormfly, hackles bristling at the sight of men armed to the teeth. Astrid’s face, from what Hiccup can see, is blank, but he thinks he catches her shoulders drop in relief.
Before they can react, Hiccup raises his hands, calling out to the outcasts. “Don’t hurt her!”
They share a glance among themselves before Alvin starts to laugh, poisonous. “And why shouldn’t I?” he sneers, looking Hiccup up and down.
He’s running out of time, he knows it, and backup isn’t coming. He needs to get Astrid safe, needs to get her out of here…“I’ll trade you.”
This seems to get Alvin’s attention; his shoulders pull back, face hardening. “For what?”
“For me,” the words tumble out. He can see them hitting Astrid like a punch.
“Hiccup, don’t —” She’s cut off as the axe presses deeper into her throat, drawing beads of blood.
“No one asked you, girl,” Alvin growls, his focus back on Hiccup. “You were sayin’?”
Hiccup fights to swallow the lump in his throat and continues. “You can have me. Wasn’t I what you came for? The great Dragon Conqueror?”
“Dragon Trainer,” Alvin spits the words. “Could catch a pretty penny, I’d say.”
Icy water builds in his chest, threatening to burst, but Hiccup just smiles weakly. “Deal, then?”
Alvin’s lip curls into a snarl. “Seize him,” he commands one of the men, who stalks over and twists Hiccup’s wrists behind his back. With more force than necessary, Alvin shoves Astrid away and onto the deck. She’s on her feet in seconds, running towards Hiccup, but she’s blocked by one of the other men.
“Hiccup!” Rage and fear battle on her face as she screams, “are you insane? Why would you —”
“Please, Astrid.” He doesn’t like how tired he sounds; even Astrid looks taken aback. “Go, take Toothless and —” He turns to see one of the men clamping a muzzle on Toothless, two others pinning him by the wings. “Hey, that’s not — he’s not part of the deal!”
A sharp grin is spreading on Alvin’s face. “Should’ve been more specific.”
Astrid looks between them, to Toothless, and for the first time ever she looks so overwhelmed, so small.
“We’ll come back,” she promises, shaky as she mounts a waiting Stormfly. Then she’s off, a blue speck hanging low over the horizon, and all that momentum drains from him in one fell swoop. Everything becomes blurry, out of focus, voices start to warp and his limbs fill with lead. He slumps as they fasten cuffs to his wrists and lead him, stumbling, into the hold.
His shoulder meets splintered wood, sharp pain and the harsh scraping sound of a cell door closes. A violent scuffling noise has him looking to his right, until he’s face-to-face through bars with a muzzled Toothless.
“Sorry, bud,” he groans out. “This is all my fault.”
He hears Alvin laughing, that harsh, unforgiving sound that means he knows he’s won. “Rest up,” he sneers, just before slamming the door shut. “We’ll be at market by morning.”
—
The sun is just touching the horizon when she’s shoved through the prison gates.
She’s assessed it from every angle, every possible avenue of escape plotted to its (bloody) end, and Astrid has come to one conclusion: not even an act of Odin could save them now.
The Dragon Riders have been caught.
The Hunters are good — they know every trick in the book, probably penned a few themselves. She hasn’t seen a single gap in their forces, one visible weapon on the guards, even a loose nail to save herself.
Now, two weeks after capture, the five of them are being led through a windowless corridor flanked by rows of cages. Her eyes dart around, spotting dragon after dragon: muzzled Changewings and Quakens, Whispering Deaths and Speed Stingers and what look to her like huddles of hatchlings, shying from the light of their captor’s lanterns.
None of them speak. There’s nothing left to say.
Finally, they come to a group of empty cells. Astrid turns sharply at the sound of a squawk, watching as Snotlout and Fishlegs are shoved unceremoniously through one of the open cell doors. By the time they’re on their feet, it’s closed behind them.
Snotlout shakes at the bars. “Let us out, you…!” he starts, but something falters in his voice, and he slumps to the floor, defeated.
The twins are next, barely conscious. She hears them both groaning weakly as she’s pushed into her own cell, the door swung shut in her wake. The guard grunts and motions to the doors.
And they’re alone.
Astrid crawls over to the door, leaning against it. The rest do the same, craning to see each other.
Tuffnut’s the first to speak.
“What now?”
Silence hangs, threatening to crush them.
“W-we could try to break out?” Fishlegs starts to pipe up. “I mean, what could these bars be made of —”
“Dragon-proof iron,” Astrid cuts him off, laying the back of her hand against the cold, sickly blue bars. “Any other ideas?”
She hears Snotlout scoffs. “Guys. Aren’t we dragon trainers? Can’t we just, I don’t know, train the dragons? I’m sure I saw a Gronckle —”
Frustration bubbles in her chest. “Why don’t you give that a shot?” she growls out. “Go on, I’d love to see it.”
In the dim light, she sees Snotlout lean over and meet the eyes of the Whispering Death sprawled in the neighbouring cell. It lets out a warning hiss and he slinks back out of its sight, turning back to Astrid. “I’d like to hear your ideas, then!”
She doesn’t waste energy on answering.
This time, Ruffnut breaks the silence, genuine apprehension in her voice. “Uh, Astrid…I think you have a roommate.”
Astrid looks behind her and it’s true: there’s someone sitting in the back corner of the cell.
It's too dark to make out any detail; the figure is barely an outline, illuminated only by a flickering lantern outside and the last dregs of sunlight poking through the gaps in the siding. They're curled up against the wall, fetal position with knees pulled close to their chest like it could block out the world. She can just barely make out the rapid rise and fall of their shoulders — short, panicked breaths filling the heavy-fallen silence.
“Hey,” she calls softly, standing, and the figure curls somehow tighter into themselves, forehead meeting their knees. She frowns, footfalls as light as her voice, “I’m not gonna hurt you,” but they’re not listening, or maybe they don’t understand, because the second she takes a step forward she hears it.
It’s quiet, almost mistakable for the settling of old wood, but it’s undoubtedly coming from the figure in the corner. She’s reminded, with growing dread, of a hatchling she’d once found in a dragon trap. It’d been starved, dying, too tired to fight but too scared to let her help. Those visceral, painful yelps and wails from a creature so terrified it became unpredictable…they’ll haunt her forever.
Something’s muffling the sound, but even tinny and strained as it is, the message is clear:
Leave me alone.
It’s desperate, almost a plea, wrapping tight around her chest and digging itself to her heart. She has to keep herself from gasping when the figure shifts and cries out through gritted teeth, has to keep herself from running over when the frantic whines turn to a steady stream of soft whimpers.
Instead, she steps back, lowering herself onto the floor. “Okay,” she says, “I’ll stay here. It’s alright.”
It’s only when the figure quiets down that Astrid finally notices how silent the room really is; even the nearby dragons have fallen quiet. She turns, carefully, to meet four pairs of staring eyes.
“What the fuck,” is the first thing anyone thinks to say, and though it came from Snotlout’s mouth, the sentiment rolls through all of them. The twins are whispering, Fishlegs alternating between gawking and glancing away awkwardly, and Astrid shrugs.
“Let’s get some sleep.”
No one contests her, even when they’re all lying on the cold stone floor pretending to sleep and she can feel eyes on her from the corner of the cell, analyzing her. The air around her feels tense, like it’s holding its breath, waiting for a chance to run.
—
She wakes to the sound of metal on metal, harsh banging on the bars of her cage. Blinking, Astrid looks around groggily, slowly adjusting to the light.
“Rise and shine!” shouts a rough, scratchy voice. “Aren’t we lucky, getting breakfast in bed?”
Someone groans. “What, we’re supposed to eat this?” she hears Ruffnut complain. Sitting up, she watches as Fishlegs sniffs a bucket and gags.
“Yeah, and you’ll like it too, little lady,” one of the guards sneers. Two others flank the door, snickering to themselves.
“Watch who you’re calling little —” Astrid just catches a glimpse of said guard jumping back before her view is blocked by a vast expanse of armor. The head of a battleaxe swings through the bars, narrowly missing her face.
“Hands up.” The voice is deep, commanding. A mask covers the guard’s face, leaving only his eyes visible, sharp and shadowed. He doesn’t ask again.
She puts her hands up.
He motions to one of the men at the door, pointing past her at the corner, and the dread simmering in her gut threatens to boil over. She spares a glance behind her.
Most of the figure is still shadowed, but there’s just enough morning light to see their — his, she thinks — silhouette.
Long, tangled hair falls over his face, roughly chopped in places and matted in others. Thin arms wrap tight over a shuddering chest, his tunic torn to reveal rows of sharply defined ribs painted by dark bruises. One knee is still pressed to his forehead, while the other — she thinks he might be splayed at an awkward angle until she follows the leg and feels the blood drain from her face.
Just below the knee, his pant leg is tied off, leaving only its tattered end behind it.
No…
She can’t look away, frozen in place as the guards unlock the cell and begin to file in. One of them grabs the man by the arm, yanking him up roughly and he stumbles, the other arm flailing for purchase. Another kicks out at the back of his knees, sending him back to the floor, where a third tangles a fist in his hair and jerks his head violently backwards.
Frantic eyes meet hers, green as the angry sea and wide with an almost primal fear. She tries to process it and she can’t, she can’t, so she glances down and finds what’s been muffling his sounds.
A sheet of metal is formed to his face, strapped tight from his nose to his jaw and forcing his mouth shut. A muzzle.
Something churns in Astrid’s stomach and she has to swallow down bile, can’t help herself from blurting out,
“Hiccup?”
His eyes, the only part of his face left unobscured, start to crease. Pinprick pupils nearly shake as they bore through her, leaving her raw around the edges. Then they’re closed, tight, and he’s trembling with choked-off sobs as the guards half-carry, half-drag him away.
The others don’t even wait until the guard’s out of earshot, all clamouring to speak at once.
“Hiccup?!”
“What do you mean, ‘Hiccup’?”
“Astrid, if you don’t tell us what’s going on —” Astrid holds her hands up, and the voices stop just enough for her to collect her thoughts.
She knows those eyes. Even half a decade older, set in an emaciated and half-hidden mask of a face, she could never forget those eyes.
“It was him,” she says, and she knows it’s true.
—
They bring him back hours later.
The sound of footsteps shakes Astrid from her thoughts, two sets dragging a heavy load between them. She’s greeted once more with an axe to the face and the creak of the cell door opening, then a body falls to the ground.
He’s dead weight. At first, she’s scared he really is dead — a warning, a scare tactic, one more thing to break their spirits — until she starts to crawl towards him and he shoots straight up.
Eyes lock on hers, flickering in the lantern light. He’s so still, wound so tight she’s scared he’ll snap. His stare hurts, enough for her to break it and let her own eyes flick down over his body.
Her breath hitches into a gasp.
Even in the dim light, she can see the marks littering every inch of skin: bruises and jagged cuts and long, uneven lines of burns. They’re layered, old on top of new, scars and fresh wounds alike.
“Hiccup —” Astrid starts to say, and he flinches, eyes darting between her and the back wall. “It’s me, it’s Astrid,” she can hear herself pleading, voice cracking, “Remember?”
At her name, his gaze snaps back to her. Something soft and sad travels through the visible part of his face, something almost like recognition, and hope starts to push at the edges of her heart.
Then she makes the mistake of shifting her hand, moving too fast too soon, and it’s gone. He scrambles backwards, pressing himself flush against the back corner, knees once more pressed to his heaving chest.
Astrid can only stare, lost, and remember the boy she’d known him as. The one who saved the Night Fury he’d shot down, who went back to help him despite being so terrified, who gave them all a second chance they didn’t deserve. She thought back to long days rescuing dragons, longer nights staying up until dawn broke, talking about nothing and everything.
She looks back at the trembling husk of a man, and all she can do is wonder:
What did they do to you?
—
It becomes routine. Not every day, but most days: the guards will come with the slop they call food, and leave with Hiccup. He never resists; they treat him like he does. Their vicious grins as they leave say it all.
They bring him back with dinner, covered in new wounds, and throw him to the ground like a discarded toy. He retreats to his corner to wait out the night.
It’s almost worse when they don’t take him. They must be feeding him wherever they’re bringing him, because they don’t remove his muzzle for mealtimes. Instead, he sits and watches them eat, a desperate, shiny hunger in his eyes.
On those days, Astrid finds she can’t keep the food down.
Sometimes he almost lets her close enough to touch. He’ll stay statue-still as she approaches, pupils blown and darting, those terrified cries catching in his throat until he can’t keep them down any longer. She stops when she hears them, and he seems to catch on. It breaks her heart to think that it might be the only hint of agency he’s felt since he was taken.
One day, they bring him home past dark. Soft moonlight casts dark shadows over the cell block, doing nothing to soothe the tightness in Astrid’s throat. The rest of the riders are asleep, or sleeping as well as they can on the rough stone floors, but something is keeping her eyes wide open. So she paces.
She paces until she loses track of time, until she’s almost tired, until she hears approaching footsteps, landing heavy with an added weight.
Two guards appear at her cell door, one holding a loaded crossbow that he shoves in her face. Putting her hands up, Astrid watches as the other opens the door and tosses Hiccup in, spitting on the ground behind him.
The second the guards are gone, Astrid turns her attention to Hiccup. He’s curled into his protective ball, short leg tucked under the other, and in the moonlight she can see just how badly he’s shaking.
Carefully, she steps into his line of vision. He immediately sits straight up, watching her closely, but he doesn’t move.
“They’re gone,” she says, and Hiccup flinches slightly. “You know how to tell me to stop.”
Glancing up to her face, he blinks and, so fast she barely catches it, he nods. Relief rushes in, easing the anxious fluttering in her chest. “Okay,” Astrid breathes. “I’m coming closer.”
He tenses when she moves, pulling in closer, but he stays quiet. Even when they’re face-to-face, so close she could reach out and touch him, he doesn’t make a sound.
Slowly, she puts her hand out. He starts at the movement, recoiling as she reaches for his face, but she doesn’t touch him, leaving her hand hovering. Tension coils around them, the sharp sense of fear in the air.
Then, at a pace so agonizing she could cry, he leans back toward her hand until, finally, it’s resting on his cheek and she really is crying, hot tears streaming down her cheeks. His own eyes are glistening, and she wipes at them with her thumb.
“Can I come closer?”
In response, he presses further into her hand, bringing his knees down until they’re resting in her lap and he’s real, she’s touching him for the first time in five years and he’s scared and injured but he’s alive, he’s here, he’s real.
Her other hand lands on a trembling shoulder, rubbing soft circles into tense muscle, and he starts to lean forward until his forehead meets the crook of her neck, until he’s all but sitting in her lap, and she hears it again.
Panic flares at the soft whimpers. Instinctively she tries to back away, but he’s practically pinning her down by now, and it takes her a second to realize he’s crying, truly crying: muffled sobs tearing at her heart until she’s gasping for air.
She pulls him closer, and he goes willingly, falling into her arms as she drags her fingers through matted hair and whispers softly, “I’ve got you, it’s okay.”
—
Days turn to weeks, then she loses track, priorities shifting to day-to-day survival. They’ve all run out of things to say, barely speaking by now, which is why she startles when someone’s voice pipes up:
“What would you guys do if we got back?”
Snotlout’s question hangs heavy in the air, and Astrid has to wonder when it went from “when” to “if”. Tuffnut says something about yak stew, Fishlegs starts muttering about taking a bath, but the only thing on Astrid’s mind is the empty corner of her cell.
“I’d tell Stoick we found him.”
Silence settles over the cell block.
“You’re sure it’s Hiccup?” Fishlegs asks hesitantly.
Astrid realizes she doesn’t have the energy to be mad. “It’s definitely him. I…I think he recognizes me, he’s just…so scared.” She sighs. It’s been getting harder to breathe lately.
They’re keeping him longer today, she can tell by the orange light filtering in. A gnawing dread is settling in her stomach at the thought of what they’re doing to him, but all she can do is turn her back to the door and wait.
Orange has faded to faint blue when she hears the cell door swing open, followed by the tell-tale sound of something hitting the ground. She turns slowly, expecting him to bolt up and hurry to the corner.
He doesn’t move, lying flat on his back, and the dread becomes panic as she rushes to his side. His head turns easily at her touch. His eyes are closed, almost peacefully, but when she feels for a pulse they stutter open, dazed and unfocused as he takes stock of his situation.
“Hey,” Astrid breathes. His eyes snap back to her, fear shooting through them, spread thin over a creeping layer of exhaustion. She waits for him to dart away, to cry out, but he does neither.
He’s still, even as she moves her hands and examines him. His wounds aren’t worse than any other time, but maybe that’s just it. Maybe they just finally broke him.
“It’s okay,” she can hear herself whispering when he starts to tremble. “I’m not going to hurt you.” He doesn’t stop, but he does bring a hand up, resting it cautiously on top of hers. When she looks back, there’s a tear streaking through the dirt and blood on his face.
She wants to see him.
Slowly, like she would with a wild dragon caught in a trap, she reaches for the muzzle. He shies away from her hands at first before relaxing, and it almost puts a smile on her face.
Slipping her hands behind his head, Astrid feels for the locking mechanism: it’s complex, too complex to break without seeing. “I need you to sit up,” she says softly.
It’s almost painful to watch, the way he struggles to pull himself up, but he manages. He startles when she moves to sit behind him, still shaking, but he seems to trust her.
By the moonlight, she can just barely see where the key would turn, unhinging the metal strap. Poking her head out of the bars, she checks for patrolling guards.
“Ruffnut!” she hisses when she’s sure it’s clear. “Do you still have those pins?”
She’s relieved to hear Ruffnut grumble in response. “Uh, yeah, but we tried those weeks ago. These locks are too advanced, or whatever.”
“This one isn’t. Toss ‘em over.”
Despite the skeptical grunt, Ruffnut complies, throwing two curved pins through the cell doors. They land at Astrid’s side and, with a prayer, she starts her work.
The lock is unfamiliar, but she gets the hang of it, chest loosening with every click until, finally, the latch opens.
It doesn’t come off easily. The muzzle scrapes and pinches as she carefully pulls it off, wincing at every little sound from Hiccup. His eyes are shut tight, shoulders hunched up in pain, until it’s off.
Slowly, as if in disbelief, he opens his jaw and shifts it side-to-side, rubbing at the hinge behind his ear. Then he turns, and Astrid gasps.
His face is a battlefield of cuts and bruises. The muzzle had clearly been too tight, leaving raw indents where it had dug into his skin. Dried blood streaks from his nose, his busted lip, the gash running down his left cheekbone and under his chin.
He opens his mouth, his voice weak with years of disuse, “Astrid.”
She can’t help it: she smiles. “Hi.”
There’s a moment where the air around them freezes, their eyes locking as the world seems to stop in its tracks.
“Dragons,” he says suddenly, taking her aback. “You still fly?”
Astrid blinks, processing, “Yeah — of course we still fly.”
A sort of pride flashes on his face, a thin smile. “Where…where are they?”
“Um…” She tries to remember. Everything’s felt so blurry recently, like a distant dream. “The guards, they separated us. Turned right with all the dragons at the entrance, I think.”
He nods, gaze flicking upwards like it always did when he was thinking. “The cell to our left. Is it still a Speed Stinger?”
Astrid stumbles to the bars, craning her neck to see, when Ruffnut stirs again. “Will you two keep it down?” she grumbles. “We’re trying to sleep!”
“Ruff, what’s in that cell?” Astrid whispers.
Ruffnut drags herself into the moonlight, squinting. “Looks like a Speed Stinger. Or a really big chicken…”
Hiccup coughs, startling her, and her eyes widen. “Uh…”
“Good,” he cuts her off, crawling to Astrid’s side. Hunched over the bars, he lets out a whistle.
Astrid shakes her head, voice tight. “You…you can’t train a Speed Stinger. They’re too territorial.”
“You can if they’re scared.” From the other cell, a chirp sounds out. Soft whispers fall from his lips, coaxing it closer, until a reptilian head pokes out. “Hey,” he mutters, and she can hear a smile in his words as the Speed Stinger tilts its head and trills back.
She can almost see him still, in that moment when he’d taken her hand to place it on Stormfly’s nose. The way his eyes lit up with pride, seeing her bond with a creature she’d despised since she was young enough to hate.
The Speed Stinger lowers its head, and Hiccup puts his hand out, waiting as the dragon inspects it before, finally, it bridges the gap. From its throat comes a rumbling sound, almost like a purr.
“Okay,” Ruffnut hisses across the block. “What’s the plan?” Beside her, a figure shifts, grumbling.
“Plan? What, are we escaping?” Tuffnut’s voice is heavy with sleep. “‘Cause we’ve kinda sucked at escaping so far. Just…putting that out there.” He squawks when Ruffnut elbows him, squinting to where she’s pointing. His expression shifts quickly from confusion to realization to shock.
Hiccup’s focus remains on the Speed Stinger: he’s scratching its chin, exchanging quiet warbles. If he’d noticed the others, he’s making no indication.
From the other cell, Astrid can hear Snotlout and Fishlegs waking up. Fishlegs is the first to appear at the front of the cell, just visible in the fading moonlight. Tuffnut reaches out and grabs his arm just as his mouth opens, bringing a finger up to stop him before leaning over and whispering something into his ear. Glancing to Hiccup, understanding dawns on Fishlegs’ face, and he reaches back to drag Snotlout to the bars.
Astrid clears her throat. “Um…what is the plan?”
With one last shared chirp, Hiccup turns back to her, and she has to keep herself from cringing anew.
“The guard that does a morning sweep has a key,” he rasps out. “He’s always alone, just goes to get a friend when they take me. Stinger venom’ll knock him out, then we get to our dragons and we leave.” There’s a tired determination in his voice, the glowing embers of hope.
Looking back to the Speed Stinger, he deflates slightly. “She’s young,” he says. “Her venom’s not strong enough to keep him down long. We’ll need something to keep him quiet.”
The uncomfortable silence only lasts a second before Snotlout pipes up in a stage-whisper, “Well, I can think of one thing.”
—
Hiccup’s right: the light is just turning pink when a lone guard stalks down the hall towards them. Astrid quickly closes her eyes, side pressed against the rough prison floor.
If this works, they’re free. Hiccup’s free. They’ll be able to bring him back to Berk, to his father, not unharmed but alive.
And it all hinges on this.
The guard passes by their cell first, his heavy breathing audible from where she is. She wants nothing more than to open her eyes, to check on Hiccup, to make sure he’s still there, but she keeps them tightly closed.
Footsteps stop, then start again as the guard passes by. She can hear the Speed Stinger hissing, her cue, and she shouts the call word:
“Now!”
A sound like a whip cracks out; she hears the body hit the floor face-first before she sees it, a loud thunk followed by a muffled groan as vocal chords seize up. Springing up, Astrid shoots a look at Hiccup, tucked in his corner. He nods, and she drops to the ground by the guard. She has to suppress the shudder that runs through her.
The keychain is attached to his belt, alongside a simple dagger. She takes the keys, then hesitates before taking the dagger as well.
It takes her three tries to find the right key, but eventually the door swings open. Tossing them to the twins, she looks down at the body.
“Muzzle first,” she calls out to Hiccup. He’s crawled out of his corner, kneeling in the middle of the cell, and at her words he holds out the sheet of metal. His arm trembles slightly, eyes darting nervously between the muzzle and the guard.
They lock on her when she approaches, that familiar fear creeping back into them. Slowly, she takes the muzzle from his hand, letting her fingers linger on his for a moment until the tension drops from his shoulders.
Then she kneels by the guard, yanking him roughly by the hair the way she’d seen him do dozens of times over, and it almost gives her a sick pleasure to clasp that metal around his jaw. It’s far too small, she knows it’ll leave a nasty ring of cuts and bruises, especially when her foot lands on the back of his skull.
She hears Snotlout stifle a laugh, and she growls. “Let’s get him packed up. Fishlegs, free the dragons.”
Fishlegs splutters. “All of them? That’ll — that’ll be chaos!”
“Exactly.” She grabs an arm, motioning Snotlout and the twins to take a limb. “It’ll keep them occupied.”
Fishlegs nods, heading to the Speed Stinger first. Chittering, it crawls over the guard and heads to Hiccup’s side, sniffing him intently before tucking its head under his arm. He laughs weakly, “hey, girl. You gotta stay here, okay? Sting him again if he tries to scream.” Astrid swears she sees it nod.
She’s distracted then by Hiccup struggling to stand. Leaving Snotlout and the twins to tie up their prisoner, Astrid runs to his side, holding out her hand. He takes it, gratitude written on his face.
“His belt,” he manages. “On the left.” Astrid nods and repeats the order to Snotlout, who lowers his brow in confusion but relents.
The second he moves the armor aside, understanding hits them all.
“Took my fucking leg,” Hiccup grits out, jaw clenched. "Used it…used it on me."
Rage builds in Astrid’s chest. She storms over to the guard, ripping the prosthetic from the belt loop and resisting the temptation to kill him now, to bury the dagger between his shoulderblades, to kill them all for what they did to her Hiccup.
She can picture it now, skulls cracking beneath her boot, limbs tearing from bodies, blood streaking past her elbows and all down her front.
Instead, she walks back over and kneels beside Hiccup, helping him lay his leg flat. He flinches at her touch, just slightly, just enough; she tries to undo his pant leg as gently as she can, but she can feel the tension in his muscles.
She knows that the Hunters aren’t responsible for his missing leg, but they are responsible for the mess she finds around it: the skin is rubbed raw, presumably from being dragged or, Thor forbid, forced to walk on it.
Tamping down her anger, Astrid grabs at her skirt and tears a square of fur from it. She tucks it into the socket of the prosthetic, looking back at Hiccup. His eyes are wide, scanning hers and she whispers, “I’ve got you,” and carefully, like handling glass, she straps it back on.
For a long time, long enough for the others to get visibly antsy, he just stares at it. Turns it side to side, wincing when it pulls. Tears threaten to spill.
He wipes them away quickly when Fishlegs returns from a wall of wings and talons, looking increasingly nervous.
“Guys, I think we should start moving…?” They all turn to look at Hiccup, who steadies himself and stands.
“You heard him.”
Fishlegs was right: it’s chaos. Dozens of pent-up dragons fill the halls, screeching and roaring and trying to push past each other in frenzied waves. As if instinctually, Hiccup’s hand shoots out, grabbing Astrid’s wrist before pulling her through the mass of scaled bodies.
She braces for impact, but it never comes; the dragons seem to part before them, leaving a path through the crowd. Wings lift above them, creating a protective canopy and Astrid watches in awe as Hiccup runs a grateful hand along soft underbellies.
“They know,” he answers her question before she can ask it. “They know we’re going to save them. They’re smarter than we ever gave them credit for.”
Stopping, he lets out a slow, rumbling call and bangs his prosthetic against the ground, metal against stone ringing out. From the other end of the hall, a similar roar returns and he’s off, dragging the others in his wake until they’re standing before a large Thunderclaw.
The shocked whispering behind them only grows as Hiccup lifts a hand to the dragon’s nose. It sniffs once, twice, and tentatively presses its nose to his palm, beady eyes darting nervously.
“Poor guy,” Astrid can hear him muttering. “All alone, taken from your pack. I know how it feels.”
Before she can stop her eyes from stinging, he’s turning to her. “Do any of you have anything from your dragons? Something that’ll have their scent on it.”
Fishlegs starts digging through his pockets, eventually presenting a thick brown scale. “It’s Meatlug’s,” he says sheepishly. “I keep it on me for good luck.”
“That’ll work.” Hiccup takes the scale, holding it up to the Thunderclaw. “Hey, bud. Wanna help us find our dragons?”
The Thunderclaw brings its nose to the scale, then points it high in the air and sniffs. The moment it locks onto a trail, it’s off, whipping through the dragons with surprising speed, and Hiccup wastes no time in following suit.
Astrid glances back at the others. Even the twins are silent.
They catch up quickly, just in time to see the Thunderclaw tag-teaming with a Cavern Crasher against a group of Hunters. Discarded muzzles lie broken on the ground, and as Astrid glances around she realizes that Fishlegs hadn’t made it this far, he hadn’t let these dragons out.
All around them are the remains of cell bars: Changewing acid dripping from some, Gronkle lava cooling on others, and she can see a few torn apart by massive jaws.
The dragons have been helping each other.
She hears a shout and she’s snapped back, every muscle ready to spring into action. But before she can even move, the final guard, his axe pointing at Hiccup, disappears into the split maw of a Catastrophic Quaken.
Everyone falls silent. The cacophony around them seems to fade, everything spinning around the space the guard had stood. Taking a shaky step towards Hiccup, Astrid waits until she’s sure she's in his peripheral vision to hover a hand above his shoulder, she doesn’t want to shake him any more. “Hiccup —”
He doesn’t look shaken. His face is hard, staring past the Quaken.
“Let’s move,” he says and his voice still cracks but it's stronger, clear, focused.
The Thunderclaw is shaking itself off and tearing through the crowd again in moments, so fast that they’re all thrown off, rushing to match its pace. All except Hiccup: he’s so locked on to following that, when it stops abruptly, he almost crashes into it.
Astrid hears a familiar trill and whips around. “Stormfly!” She’s at her dragon’s side in seconds, muttering her thanks to the gods as Stormfly pushes against the bars between them.
She looks unharmed, from what Astrid can see, but she’s agitated; her wings flail wildly, head snapping to either side and one foot clawing at the muzzle strapped around her beak. Astrid reaches through the cage, scratching her chin as soft reassurances fall from her lips.
She can hear the other riders greeting their own dragons, distant muttering and sighs of relief, and she almost has time for the tension to leave her body before it’s cut suddenly, violently short.
A booming voice nearly knocks her off her feet and she whips around, the blood rushing from her face in a second.
“You really thought it would be that easy?” There’s amusement in the guard’s voice. He’s huge, larger than the one they’d left behind, and his helmet and shoulder plates are patterned with intricate carvings that denote rank.
And between those tree-trunk arms, a knife to his shaking throat, is Hiccup.
His eyes are distant, almost cloudy, trembling hard enough to be visible. He’s just…gone, she supposes. Somewhere else.
She’d only seen the results of what they’d done to him, and only a few weeks of those. Odin knows what he’d gone through at the hands of these men, but whatever it had been, it could have broken him entirely. She guesses this had been his way to save his mind, to keep himself alive through it all.
The guard is talking again, barely audible through the blood pounding in her ears. Her eyes are jumping — from his ugly, smug face to the dagger in his hand to Hiccup’s face, pale and slack. Then she can’t see him anymore, the guard’s back is to her and her chest is tight and it’s like wind rushing by her and she’s running, a scream tearing from her throat as she plunges her own blade into the gap of armor between his shoulderblades, sinking in until hilt meets flesh and dragging it down through screeching metal and delicate bone.
And before the rush can even settle in her veins, in that second of a second before the guard can turn to face her, a sound like a crack of lightning blasts through the room and the walls are bathed in purple.
Everything is still.
Then the air is filled with a smell like cooking meat and ozone, and time seems to start again. The guard drops into the growing puddle of blood, a burnt hole where his face was, and Hiccup is falling forward onto a mass of black scales.
“Toothless,” he rasps out, hands grasping for purchase. Toothless coos at him, then blinks wide eyes at Astrid. She can feel a smile forming.
“Hey,” she calls gently, hands up as she approaches. Cautiously, Toothless sniffs at the offered palm before pressing his nose against it. His movements are tense and jerky with stress, but his priorities are made clear when he nudges her over to Hiccup’s prone form.
Hiccup’s eyes shoot open at her touch, wild and scared and she can only think to say, “it’s okay, he’s dead.” He follows her gaze to the body and his shoulders just barely drop.
“We need to leave.” His voice shakes, but that familiar determination still holds strong. “There’ll be more coming.”
Astrid nods. “Then we leave.”
He runs a hand along the edge of Toothless’ saddle. “You’ll have to fly him. I don’t think I…can, right now. Not like this.”
“I can do that,” Astrid says without thinking. “I mean…I think I can figure it out.”
A faint smile pokes at his lips. “Of course you can,” he says, “I never doubted you.”
She knows he means more than just flying the dragon. She’d kept her promise.
“Come on.” She wraps an arm around his waist, lifting him into the saddle. “Let’s get you home.”