Toothless at Sea (HTTYD webnovel ch29)

A *million* apologies for being weeks and weeks late this time, and having such a sorely small word count from our traditional updates. >.< The final weeks of my class messed me up, along with a Muse that fought me like a wild, bucking Night Fury. I honestly was in the dumps for days because I couldn't have that snap moment of inspiration for certain viewpoints. I hope next time won't take me as long.

The picture was done in a couple minutes, just a stylistic simple thing to get the story out.

Note: This post is equally a fanfic and a fanart. You can comment/fave it as a picture on its own, or as the complete work -- I'd understand either way.



How to Train Your Dragon II: The Dragon Whisperer

Act III: A Friendship Tested
Chapter 29: Death's Crossroad Laid Bare

Read at the official website: Chapter 29: Death's Crossroad Laid Bare or at the fanfiction.com page


A thousand dark images flooded into her mind, slow motion, desperate. Heather felt the dragon pull her down, into the dark sea, those teeth latched onto her shin, digging into her skin. She gasped, lost air and felt her mind going blank on her. She didn't know if she had died or not, but it felt like death and she breathed a prayer to the gods, not anything comprehensible, as she fought the dragon in the sea.

:: ::

The black shape, it couldn't be. Stoick cleared his eyes from the growing ash, the drifting rain covering the battlefield, the ocean, like a death pall on them. But that figure flying in the clouds, rising higher and higher--

He'd flown out into battle not more than five minutes ago, had already sent a handful of dragons and their riders into the sea. In the two years since dragons became friendly with them, he'd learned quickly how to use them successfully in aerial combat. The battle now was at a midpoint, he could sense. The enemies had dragons, and they were violent, angry. He could feel something about them, the riders at least, because that's where his intuition lay, with predicting a warriors' mindset. They weren't using dragons the way his son had taught him how to, and it was affecting their flight. They were using dragons fast, like bad ammunition, and if they didn't keep up the supply, they were going to run dry on those war machines. He'd commanded a flank attack, with the better half of his men, a distraction to the forward thrust by the Skirra Véllites at their front. That's when he flew out, shouting, that's when he saw that dark shape in the sky, those black wings and the red tail, flying up into the clouds.

At first he didn't believe it, it was too easy, too simple to see Hiccup flying out here towards him in the middle of a war, like nothing had happened. It's true he grew used to Hiccup returning virtually unscathed from the most strange and harrowing adventures, but this?

When it's been days since you've seen your only child, when you've spent nights dreaming up the worst, and when you did sleep the nightmares came -- of that day he cheated Rune and then had him cast out of the tribe, when he married the woman of his dreams and she died after telling him that this child of theirs was special, she could feel it. And then the images of Hiccup, never quite what he wanted in a son, but his own son nonetheless, and finally his choice of that dragon over his own tribe, running off to his own sure death, and how could he take that? He loved Hiccup, with more than just a father's love. He was proud of him, and he wanted him to take charge of this tribe after him. Even if the past few days before Induction didn't bode too well . . . Today, things like that didn't matter, because there was unfinished business plaguing his life now, and his Hiccup had to go out and get himself messed up in it.

So when he saw Toothless there, flying erratically, he didn't stop to think twice. He wanted to believe it was Hiccup, and he flew down screaming his son's name because at his heart he needed to believe it.

"Hiccup!"

:: ::

There was a moment in that fight in the water, in that fight between a young woman and an enraged dragon, where the girl Heather believed with all her desperate soul that fate was indeed making her presence known, that maybe Hiccup himself had something to do with what was happening. She tacked it up to her delirious mind, the way water closes off your senses, the way your own blood outside your body makes you suddenly think of things that don't make sense -- and yet, when the dragon had left her, and as the water cleared away from her, and she found herself floating, drifting along the rough and stormy waves, the pain somehow far away and unreal . . . the thought stuck with her, the thought that Hiccup would haunt her still, and the idea filled her with a strange, nervous fear.

She wasn't dead . . . yet. She coughed, felt the water lap up along her arms, smooth over her cheeks cool with water and wind. She couldn't even feel her leg, but she knew where the dragon had bit her, not completely though; she still had all her limbs with her. Apparently the dragon couldn't -- or perhaps wouldn't? -- finish the job. The fire in Toothless' eyes came back to her, chilled her beyond what the water now was doing. She had never seen an animal act with so much ferocity, with so much pointed hatred, and Toothless was just an animal after all, wasn't he? He wasn't so violent before. Was simply flying him as invoking of violence as capturing him and chaining him? What was in that creature's mind, that he lashed out like this? Was it that connection, that thing the dragon boy had spoken of all these days? That maybe the dragon somehow had a mind of his own, and was offended by her forgery of training. How did he know she was only copying the boy? Wasn't it enough she gave him food and was kind to him? The boy worked magic with those other dragons, how could she not even befriend one already tame? But the Night Fury was Hiccup's dragon, and somehow that ownership seemed to lend his spirit to that creature, as if the boy's own weakness was channeled into a hatred in this thing he called friend.

Dusty ash was coming down, the smell of that volcano rumbling far away. She could hear the war around her thick and sharp, dragons spilling fire onto wood, flying arrows coming at them, the sound of warriors and death. She inhaled, paddled her arms and kept afloat. Maybe she underestimated those creatures. Those eyes were not mindless, they knew what they were doing, and it wasn't based in mere survival. That boy always had said that much, and she felt it in the way he acted around them. She never really believed it, but now, as his presence seemed to hang over her, and his dragons' eyes, the thoughtful, hated evil in them -- it wanted to make sense to her.

There was a sound above suddenly, the wings of dragons, close to her, and a voice calling out the name of "Hiccup, son!!" She opened her mouth, leaned her head, the water washing over her. Her movement made her unstable, and she started to sink, panicked and sent the water washing faster over her. "Hiccup--" the gruff man's voice came again, Stoick's voice, and she put together quickly what he thought. He would not be happy when he discovered his mistake. The wrath of a dragon had almost killed her, and now to face the wrath of man? This man . . . She looked up at him, but his dragon swept in suddenly, too fast for either of them to see the other, and she felt him grab her, in a haste that was definitive of war, the creature sweeping down, splashing in the waves, rising up again, his wings collecting the air and sucking in the vortex of wind in the dragon's shrill scream. Stoick's big hands held firm to her arm and she gasped as the motion tested her will against the injuries inflicted by Toothless. She latched her other hand to Stoick's arm, instinct telling her to hold on, as the wind waved her white cape deftly behind her. She mumbled something, a cry of fear when she saw how red and stained she had become, the color seeping through her clothing through the water soaking her. Stoick's arm tensed suddenly and he looked down at her, starkly. "You--" Shocked, horrified.

She opened her mouth, thought better of it.

"Where's Hiccup?" The man's voice was faint, breathless, not a question as much as a realization. She kept her grip on the man's arm, as the dragon roared again, as if he knew the tension in the air. She was at a loss, her mind whirring. Would he believe anything she said? Would he believe her if she said she didn't want to kill his son anymore?

Stoick jabbed his arm up suddenly, bringing her up, and she gasped as his arm gripped her clothing with a vicious anger. "You murderer."

"I did not kill your son," she gasped.

"What kind of liar do you think you are?"

She inhaled, looked into those eyes that boiled with anger, hatred, love for that boy she tried so hard to destroy. Suddenly he just looked like a father, a father like her own, here in the windy vastness of the sea, in the dirty grime of war, the anger and conviction in his face. It was her own father, without the guilt, without the pain, without the life he now led. She looked into those eyes, without fear suddenly of the vengeance that she was sure that was coming to her. The wind was kicking up around them, the roll of thunder and the yell of warriors as the dragon flew into the Hooligans' forces, far from the Skirra Véllite line. "Would you believe me if I said he's still alive?" she yelled, through the mad noise of battle.

"Why should I?"

"Because it's true."

The dragon descended suddenly, a sweeping flight alongside a ship, splashing down by the hull, the ship shaking to the motion. The dragon growled, swinging his body to align with the ship, as if in practiced motion, efficient for battle. To Heather who had never seen dragons act with such discipline all she could feel was Hiccup, his touch in this place, on these creatures. Stoick hauled her up on the ship, threw her on the deck, and she found herself surrounded by the enemy, faces shocked and confused, looking to their leader, who gave none of them a glance, but only looked at her, stared at her, his eyes hard and intent on justice. Heather didn't move, kept her place on the deck, stared back with the same intensity and confidence that she found in those eyes. She was a girl who wouldn't show her emotions, not to the enemy.

"Is that who I think it is?" drawled a one-legged warrior with a rock for a tooth.

Stoick firmed his hand on his axe, knelt down and leaned to her. She craned her neck to face him, her hand searching for her sword, but finding none there in her scabbard.

"If you didn't kill my son," he whispered, his voice hard, "then what have you done to him?"

"He's alive, isn't that enough?"

He grabbed her, his thick hand on her collar, raising her off the ground. "Don't play with me."

She choked on his grip, still chilled from her experience in the water, looked up at him, her voice thin. "What do you want me to say?"

He shoved her down, and she pursed her lips, expecting the worst. He balled his fist and threw it into her, knuckles on her jaw. She screeched, grabbed his hand and held it. "Where is he?" he shouted into her face.

"I don't know," she gasped.

"This is my son's life we're talking about, where is he?" His voice broke angry over her, spit on her cheeks.

She lashed in his grip, and he pressed harder, the steam of his anger rushing from his soul. But what use would it be to lie to him? Did she have too many options after all? Those eyes of Stoick's spelled death and she knew it was her lot in his hands. It was over ever since Toothless downed her. It was planned that way, wasn't it? Wasn't that Fate? "My father has him," she breathed, without much care or thought.

"Rune?" His voice broke.

"He'll try to kill him, but he won't," she whispered, her fingers curling around his big hand, her mind beginning to feel the after effects of the past events, the sparking pain of Toothless' wrath, the pressure to her throat. She looked up to him, saw his mind working behind the anger in them. "Does my brother still have Hiccup?" he whispered, a fear and horror, mixed with anger in his tone. He didn't wait for her answer, raised his hand suddenly to his men. He shoved her towards one of the men who came forward, commanded him to take one of the prisoners they'd captured. "Send him back to my brother with a message," Stoick said thickly, his heavy voice laced with suppressed wrath. He stared at her and she inadvertently shivered in his glare. She knew what he was about to say before he even said it, and somehow it felt right, even as she knew it would burn her father's heart. She wanted this to be over, she wanted it all to end, and she was even contented now if Hiccup survived.

:: ::

The Night Fury had struck out far and fast and aimless over the ocean now, and it seemed suddenly like years had passed since he flung his fangs over that girl. He could feel the soft skin now, the way her legs struggled and fought under his jaws. She was scared and she deserved to be. He was a dragon, and this was the payment for the hatred he could read in her soul, for the scars he had seen in the heart and body of his precious boy. This was for trying to take him, for trying to ride him.

And yet, it was something only Dagr the Night Fury would have done. It was a wild move, one he felt came from a place within him deep and almost long forgotten, the same place which spurred him into rebellion against the human foe, the one which fought against the look in Hiccup's eyes, that look and that expression which told him to leave him and never return. It was a right thing he had done, but why this screaming in his soul?

It was madness, it was confusion, in his heart that was heaving from the violence he had just enacted to the love that was yelling for him to go back to his boy and yet not to return, and yet listen to what his boy had commanded him. He wanted to find Hiccup, and yet he wanted to believe Hiccup, trust Hiccup, when the boy told him to leave. But whom was he to trust now? The one to whom he had given his life, or the one who had just taken a life?

Toothless screamed, yelled a mighty dragon's roar in the middle of the ocean, with the wind swirling and lashing around him, the water cold and sharp against his scales, the white foam breaking on him, the skies darkness and filled with murder and warfare, other flying dragons, with riders on them, Berk dragons he could sense -- and wild dragons who were only pretending obedience. It was the beginning of the rebellion, he could feel in his gut, the way those island dragons swept and turned back at their riders, in their dragon eyes a slick deception, and only in a few the same look which Berk dragons so peacefully sported, only in a few who were truly at one with their riders.

Toothless turned his head down, let the water wash over him, and he sensed the movement within the sea, the calm, consistent wave of water under him, not the crashing waves or the riotous sea, but another motion -- a hushed, pulsing motion, warm and almost peaceful in the madness. He sank lower, let the blackness take him, opened his eyes in the salty prison and looked, saw that beneath the ships there lay the humming mass of lights, the pulsing dance of the water dragons, their green and yellow glow soft, gentle under the war ships, as they licked the blood of war from the wash of the ocean, their collective mass breaking into contractions as they swam, as they swarmed with the pulse of the sea.

Toothless kicked his legs, towards them, their strange calm drawing him, tempting him. They were dancing now, not just to the sea, not just to the pulse of the storm. It was a ritual now, the way their bodies moved as one, slowly rising, quickly falling, a chant in an old, old dragon's tongue, a chant of memory, of remembrance, of mourning. Toothless felt his body tense suddenly, and in the dark of the sea, staring into the hum of lights before him, he knew what they were speaking of, what their sorrowed bodies were trying to convey. In that old language he heard it, the language the Great Dragon had spoken long before even he had first met him, long before the first battle between Toothless' father and the Skrill, long before he grew to love and respect that Great Dragon as his own father, the one who cared for him, warmed him with his large body against the cold of the sea and of a life lost of one's parents. The water dragons did not notice Toothless in their chant of sadness, but in their lonely service, they told Dagr all he needed to know -- that this old dragon, who had lived so long, so well, and who had maybe a chance to love a human as he did, if he had but time to learn, that he was gone, that he had been killed, that by dragon's fire and man's weapons the majestic creature had passed from this world and into the unknown.

Toothless listened a while, heard the story repeat itself in the chant. He was gone, gone forever. Toothless rose, took in the air of the troubled sky, the rainy, ashy sky. Something new breathed within him, death so violent and then one so tenderly remembered. His own actions and one done by an evil dragon and the violent species called mankind. And suddenly the strong conviction that no matter what his boy had told him, he could not let him die, and he would never chant to entomb a boy in an old dragon's tongue.

He turned and let the crashing waves guide him, back to the island, to the enemies, to Hiccup.

:: ::

It was the only comfort against the vengeance of Ragnar's whip, the knowledge that he had done his best and that no more death would befall by his hand. Hiccup hated the thought that his Dad would find him here, killed without honor on the beach, without a sword in his hand or even his hands free. At least Hervi said he'd tell his story, but he longed to see Astrid now, to tell her himself, to give her some kind of goodbye. The last he'd seen of her was to tell her he was going to be fine, and he thought he could protect her. The tears stung in his eyes and Ragnar shouted at him for the tenth time if he would stand up and do his dragon training.

"No," Hiccup hissed for the tenth time, and for the tenth time, Ragnar lashed the sharp leather into the back of the tense, small shape under his mercy.

Hiccup clawed the earth, the small, wet pebbles squeezing out of his gasping hand. Blood was swelling across his back, shards across his clothing, over his cheek and the bare skin of his neck and his hands. He shoved his face into the sandy wet ground, wincing, telling himself this was all worthwhile. He could hear Hervi in the background, but the words were only a muddle in his mind. A trail of red found its way across his forehead, and slowly like a tear pooled into the corner of his eye. He moved his tired hand to wipe it away but the whip bit him again, made him yell when its edge broke on his cheek, cutting into the back of his hand. Ragnar laughed, seemed to take pleasure in scarring him, and it made Hiccup sick to be taking it.

"Changed your mind about dragons now, slave?" he taunted, his voice close as Hiccup leaned up, through the nervous sweat and blood, looking into that horrid face with a disgust that welled up in his throat.

"You're a sick man, Ragnar," came Hervi's voice suddenly.

Ragnar turned from Hiccup, the whip in his hand curling sinuously around his arm. "And what does this insolence mean?" he spat at the old man.

Hiccup took the moment from the flogging to collect his nerves, to try and cope with the pain running, screaming through his body. Hervi had put Iggy behind him, his old wrinkled hands vaguely shielding the young boy's face and more importantly his eyes. Hiccup set his cheek on the sandy shore below him, tried exhaustedly to steady his breathing, the tide lapping softly under his arms. He could hear Iggy still yelping, asking why he couldn't do something, while Ragnar turned his attention to the old slave with a crack of arrogance in his voice. "What was that, Hervi?"

The old man gathered his voice, and Hiccup could read a strength in the words that followed, an unnatural strength, borne from the moment. "Hasn't he suffered enough?"

"The chief wants him to train dragons." Ragnar's lisp was casual, like he knew he had the advantage. And he was right. Don't risk yourself, Hervi, Hiccup breathed. He needed that man to help Astrid, or at least tell her what was happening. He leaned up, bent his cold, wet back and tried to catch Hervi's eyes. Pain clawed up his tortured body, and he tensely, silently screamed, his jaw locked in an open contortion. "Don't-- Hervi," he gasped, holding out his hand, his palm landing on the sand. The old man gave him a glance, pity and horror yelping through his old eyes and Hiccup begged him, don't, but the man had had enough and faced Ragnar and then the crowd. Something long hidden and subdued was pulsing through those old eyes and Hiccup sensed that it was hopeless, that there were going to be two dead bodies on the shore today. He felt Hervi, saw him step closer to Ragnar's heavy build, away from Iggy, who took the brief moment to jump out of Hervi's grasp, run and skid to Hiccup's side, his knees almost automatically sliding onto the gravel. A childlike gasp popped out of his lips and he clapped a small hand to his mouth, staring at Hiccup, wide-eyed.

"Bad isn't it?" Hiccup smirked, his own voice thinner than he expected.

Iggy's face turned into a fierce pout, his eyes narrowing. "This is wrong," he spat and kneeled up, looking behind him. Hiccup reached out and grabbed his arm. "Iggy, no," he whispered, holding him back, forcefully, his weak arm pulling Iggy's to the ground. Were they going to follow the wishes of a kid? Would they even listen to him? He would not have a child's blood on his hands. "Iggy, don't worry about me, okay?"

"But I gotta do something!" Iggy's little arm revolved in Hiccup's hold, trying to escape.

"You want to do something?" Hiccup swallowed, tense, feeling the speech that was revving in Hervi's voice, the whip that was tightening in Ragnar's hand. He pulled the small boy close to him, gasped quickly. "Go up to where you're staying and tell the girl there that everything's okay."

"But it's not."

"Just do it for me. Please, Iggy." The child opened his eyes wider, innocently, watching Hiccup. Hiccup licked his lips, his voice hoarse and pained. "Tell her Toothless is safe, that she got to get out of here. Tell her that--" He gasped a smile suddenly. "--that I wish we could have had those green-eyed kids." He squeezed Iggy's arm, realized how far away it was she posed the question to him, and how different he felt now. He looked earnestly into the young boy's eyes. "Would you do that for me, Iggy?"

Iggy bit his lip. "Gee." He rubbed his nose and looked at Hiccup, his small eyes heavy and his lips curving into displeasure. "Okay," he sighed.

Hiccup let the boy go, watched him scamper up away from him, passing Hervi whose voice was loud and clear now, strong and talking more to the slaves in the watching crowd than to Ragnar. Hiccup leaned back down on the rocks, the cool sea washing up on him, finding his blood and washing it gently around him, as he listened to the old man and realized he was talking about him, how he wasn't a traitor like Ragnar had made him out to be that day with the slaves.

It's no use, Hervi.

"Did you not hear what he said about dragons? He's doing this for that creature, as incredible as that sounds. I was with him, I know. He's not a traitor to his people."

Hiccup winced, leaned his head up and looked up into the sky that was turning black fast above him, the ash in the air that was coming down gently like a soft rain, the hum of dragons behind him, still hissing and growling at their masters, and the warriors, getting fewer on the shore and thicker on the ships in the sea. He could hear the crack of thunder now, the closer hum of dragon's fire and catapults over the sea. And Ragnar's whip, lashing the earth, spitting rocks. His voice, "Enough, Hervi. Would you have me tell your master what you said now?"

"I think it's time I spoke the truth."

"You speak treason."

"Then so be it."

A great sorrow, mingled with a hope, hummed through Hiccup's heart. A few more words were exchanged, Ragnar telling Hervi to get Rune, that there would be consequences for what just took place, as he commanded the slaves around to scatter, scram. "There's nothing to see here." And then the boots came up step next to him, crunched over the rocks, the thin splash on the shallow water still lapping like a bitter comfort on his arms. He swallowed, felt his body tense, as the figure knelt down and spoke to him. It was Ragnar, those dirty black boots, with the patched leather on the toes, the ones he had memorized in the last fifteen minutes here on the ground.

"It's funny how gullible slaves are," Ragnar said, under his breath.

Hiccup didn't answer, kept his eyes on those boots, the water squeezing out from the soles. He didn't know what he meant, didn't have the strength to care, in too much burning pain to react.

Ragnar edged the hilt of his whip under Hiccup's chin suddenly, lifted the boy's head and Hiccup winced and faced him. Ragnar's eyes searched him, cooly, unattached. ". . . and how foolish some can be." He let go of Hiccup's head, stood up and wound the whip again. Hiccup felt the lash before it came, as it dug into his back, into the raw gashes already there. It was harsher this time, irritated, like swatting at an insect which would not be killed. Hiccup wanted to let out the yell fighting in his throat, but he kept it back, ground his teeth together, turned his head into the sand and let the desperate tears gush out from his eyes, those eyes stinging with the mingle of blood and sand and perspiration. The lashing grew faster and senseless, as Ragnar realized there was no winning in his game. Hiccup would not train dragons, he would not, and he would not beg for mercy. Hiccup felt himself grow weaker, his adrenaline reserves waning, his own strength consumed long ago. His body was alive with emotions of its own -- his back terrified, his head white with fear and blinding pressure, his arms desperate to hide, as the leather snapped over his scalp, slit around the blades of his shoulder and the back of his waist. He felt like he was drowning, for in shock his chest had locked up on him and he struggled to gasp air through clasped lips buried in the sand. The world thundered in his heart, pounded like armies in his head. Ragnar did not ask Hiccup anymore if he would train dragons, only punished him for his answer. Hiccup could still faintly hear the voices of the enemy around, talking of the war, of the dragons that were useless now, of the casualties on both sides, someone telling Ragnar there was a war to fight, "leave the kid. The chief wants him executed anyway."

"I think he's just about dead," someone else said, without emotion.

Hiccup let his breath out, struggled to gain the next one, his body shaking. A chill swept through him, and a clutched, sharp pain stabbed his middle, paralyzing him. Ragnar had stopped, and Hiccup finally let out the moan that gasped desperately out of him. He turned his head to face away from Ragnar, faced the dragons that were still latched and chained, their wings lifting and flapping, angry at their capture. Hiccup let his eyes rest on those dragons, blink slowly and clear from the tears. He saw someone on the other side of the captured beasts, saw a dragon landing and a warrior stepping off from him. There was a hurry in the man's step and Hiccup wondered why he was even paying attention to him. He closed his eyes, breathed, then felt the steps of that man approach him, stop in front of him. He peered up one more time, looked at the figure. "I could have sworn valkyries were female," he choked, coughing on his own words. But the man -- and he was sure it was a man now -- didn't look at him, but spoke out with a harried, frantic urgency.

"Get the chief -- the Hooligans have got the chief's daughter. Stoick is demanding a ransom. Daughter for son."



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