SUMMARY: The King of the Wilderwest, Hiccup, goes on a scouting mission at the Uglithug, Outcast and Lava-Lout territories and returns quite different from before...
WARNING: Some parts of this story contain slight gore/torture/blood. If you are uncomfortable reading these, please don't force yourself to. Instead, you can check out my another fanfiction: Love me or love me not?.
Please do not edit this page/change anything on it. The only people I give exceptions to are administrators (only allowed to change spelling and grammar mistakes and not the whole plot). If you know the books well, or want to change something in the plot, please leave a message on my wall and DO NOT EDIT ANYTHING until I give you permission to.
Please note that both the plot and the story on this page belong to me and I wish to be credited for any repost/share. The characters belong to Cressida Cowell, from the original book series. If you haven't read them, I advise you to do so before you read this fic ;)
I will be adding transitions, a.k.a. short chapters before each main chapter. Comments on how to improve are highly appreciated!
FINE PRINT: This story may contain some British spelling, because I am from Singapore, so I apologise to any American users who may find this hard to read.
Rating: PG, hurt/comfort, no mature scenes, slight romance, friendship
LEGEND: Dragonese is in italics, and thoughts are in bold.
Chapter 1: The Fallen King
The Windwalker only returned at dusk.
He and Hiccup had been doing a patrol run around the Uglithug, Lava-Lout and Outcast territories. It was terribly dangerous. Camicazi and Fishlegs had volunteered to come along with him lest something go wrong (which was typical). The shaggy figure of the Windwalker gently touched down, and Camicazi and Fishlegs dashed towards it.
There was no rider on his back.
Actually there was, but that particular rider was draped on the Windwalker’s back, too tired to even steer the dragon, so the Windwalker had flown all the way back to Berk on his own. The weak figure, supported only by the Windwalker’s strong body, was Hiccup.
There was no sword in Hiccup’s hand. Instead, the Endeavour was clutched tightly in the Windwalker’s talons.
Camicazi and Fishlegs stopped dead in their tracks. Through the dim light of the setting sun, they could make out numerous cuts and bruises on the Windwalker’s sleek wings, all over his body, and jutting in and out like an uneven sea on his tail.
The duo had to stifle an involuntary gasp as they set their eyes on Hiccup - the King of the Wilderwest.
He was a pathetic sight, lying on the back of his nervous riding-dragon, unarmed and scarred, his hunting-dragon flapping anxiously above his head.
In the middle of his torso, a little to the left - was a large, gaping sword wound. If you looked closely, the flesh was torn more than expected, like the attacker’s sword had serrated edges.
“Hiccup!” Camicazi cried in shocked horror. “Hiccup!” she called again, when the boy did not respond.
In response, Hiccup’s body gave a shudder and he raised his sword-arm in a painful salute.
“No!” Fishlegs yelled, for the hand was covered in dark red blood. The hopeful shine had faded from Hiccup’s blue eyes, and was replaced by a look of fear and dread.
The lumbering figure of Stoick the Vast, the chief of the Hooligan tribe, walked over at that moment. The mighty chieftain, so renowned for his terrifying reign over the Hairy Hooligans, dropped to his feet and started in horror. A few other members of the tribe, namely Snotlout’s father Baggybum, Nobber Nobrains and Gormless the Grim, gathered around Hiccup upon seeing their chief.
By then, a crowd of watching Hooligans had gathered around Hiccup. Valhallarama of the White Arms and the Chunky Thighs, Hiccup’s mother, knelt before the Windwalker, watching Hiccup with hopeless grief.
Old Wrinkly came waddling towards the boy with the Eldest Elder, a sad old Bashem-Oik. Gobber the Belch, Hiccup’s old mentor, was expressionless, though if you could read his eyes, they told you that all hope was lost. Old Wrinkly sat in front of the boy and the dragon, tut-tutting sadly.
After a long time, Old Wrinkly stood up on his creaking, wobbly old legs. “We will have to seal the wound.” the soothsayer announced.
Hearing this, the nervous Toothless’s ears stood like they had been electrified and he squeaked, “Y-y-you must be j-joking! You’re n-n-not going to do whatever that is to T-t-toothless’s master, you’ll l-leave him alone!” Of course, nobody there could speak Dragonese, so they just ignored the little dragon’s pleas. Old Wrinkly rudely shoved the fluttering Toothless aside.
“How?” Camicazi asked, wiping the hot tears off her cheeks, for Bog-Burglars do not cry. She didn’t see any sewing equipment to seal the wound.
“It is bleeding badly,” Old Wrinkly mumbled sadly. “We will have to cauterise it.”
A pained gasp from Hiccup.
A wave of angry muttering from the crowd.
“Cauterise it? That’ll be torture!” Camicazi retorted. Fishlegs covered his eyes in fear.
“I’m afraid we have no choice. Either that, or the boy bleeds to death,” the Eldest Elder wheezed. Fishlegs and
Camicazi knew that. No matter how protective they were of their friend, they would have to choose what was right for the sake of the Wilderwest and Hiccup.
So they averted their gaze as a Hooligan offered Old Wrinkly his sword. The shining blade of the sword was then heated with the fire of a feisty-looking Monstrous Nightmare. The evil-looking sword glinted maliciously in the dim light. Old Wrinkly slowly brought the steaming blade down as three Hooligans mercilessly put their hands over Hiccup’s limp body to prevent him from struggling. Hiccup looked desperately at his two friends, and they gazed back at him with the same desperation.
Old Wrinkly’s sword touched Hiccup’s bare flesh.
Upon the contact, Hiccup’s body jerked away violently and he screamed.
A long, tormenting scream that tore from his lips and seemed to ring in Camicazi and Fishlegs’s heads like a thousand bells. Camicazi dashed to her friend, with Fishlegs in tow.
“Hiccup!” Camicazi yelled. Hiccup was writing under the three Hooligans’ grip, and fresh tears were pooling in his sea blue eyes. There was a sulfurous smell of burning flesh and the spine-chilling sound of sizzling.
Slowly, Old Wrinkly worked his way around the wound, ignoring his grandson’s yells. Camicazi rested Hiccup’s head on her shoulder as she mumbled comforting words under her breath and prayed to the great gods Thor and Woden that he would be safe.
Finally, Old Wrinkly’s hands stopped their painful work. “He’ll live,” he croaked.
Then, under the stares of a hundred watching Vikings, Hiccup drew another shuddering breath and cared not to fight the unconsciousness creeping over him, consuming him.
Stoick rushed to Hiccup’s side and placed his hand over the unconscious boy’s chest.
The crowd waited with bated breath.
“He’s alive!” Stoick gushed hoarsely. “Hiccup is alive!”
Cheers from the crowd.
Carefully, Valhallarama stepped forward and picked her son up in her strong metal arms, trying not to touch the wound. Wordlessly, the great Hero marched towards her hut, the crowd around her parting like the Red Sea as she did.
Camicazi and Fishlegs followed her silently, with Stoick and Old Wrinkly behind them. Fishlegs had a terrible rash, which was what happened when he was nervous.
Taking the cue, the other Hooligans departed from around the injured Windwalker, leaving Nobber Nobrains to escort the whinnying dragon back to the dragon stables (which was extremely hard, as the Windwalker refused to be moved and strained after Hiccup).
Nobber Nobrains was trying for the third time to forcefully drag the poor creature back to the stables when a scroll fell out of the saddle-bag at the dragon’s side.
Out of curiosity, Nobber unrolled the scroll.
And then it dawned on him.
Hiccup had been trying to dragon-mail a letter to Berk when it happened.
Chapter 2: Redemption
Valhallarama and Stoick, the two great leaders of the tribe, were soundlessly dabbing at Hiccup’s warm forehead with cold towels.
Camicazi and Fishlegs looked solemnly at the family, unable to comfort them.
Toothless, selfish little Toothless, was pathetically pressed at Hiccup’s chest, his spines all floppy, his tail dangling at his side.
Fishlegs tried to cheer the little dragon up while Camicazi picked out some fresh oysters (without the black bits) for him, as they figured it was the least they could do for Hiccup.
But the little dragon refused to eat.
He refused to take a bite.
He refused to even sniff the food that Camicazi brought him. He didn’t try to kill the live lobsters that Fishlegs painstakingly caught from the sea.
Instead, the self-centered little dragon curled up into a tight ball and sobbed.
Fishlegs and Camicazi felt helpless. Even Fishlegs’s Deadly Shadow, Arrogance, Innocence and Patience, was resting its heads at Hiccup’s feet, blowing out sad smoke rings and sending out a mournful lightning bolt or two.
Stormfly, Camicazi’s naughty little dragon, wasn’t tricking Toothless or stealing food, much to Camicazi’s surprise. She was perched on her master’s shoulder, weeping big, fat tears and not even turning slightly purple.
Horrorcow, Fishlegs’s vegetarian hunting-dragon, was offering Toothless bits of cucumber and carrot, which he angrily swatted away. As she was terribly good-natured, she continued trying.
“Chief!” the door burst open.
“Whossat?!” Stoick bristled angrily, abruptly standing up and banging his knee on a chair in a very undignified way.
It was Nobber Nobrains.
“Nobber,” Stoick explained patiently, “as you can see, we’re in the middle of a-”
“Yes, but with all due respect, chief,” Nobber interrupted, “I found this in Hiccup’s saddle-bag that you… uh… missed out, and it seemed… important that I showed it to you.” he waved the scroll that he had found earlier in the air.
“Give it to me, then,” Stoick huffed, still in a bad mood. Carefully, Stoick’s loyal soldier dropped the scroll into his hands.
Stoick unrolled the scroll.
His jaw fell agape.
The mighty chieftain turned white.
“What is it, Stoick?” Valhallarama asked in a quavery voice.
Trembling, the chief handed the scroll to his wife.
Valhallarama, the great Hero, the fearless fighter, the invincible warrior, froze.
On the scroll, read: ‘Friend. Help. Berk. Outcast. Dragons. Come quick.’
What was more, the ink used looked dull red and reminded the two rulers of…
The message was written in blood.
Whose blood, they tried not to think about, but in their heads, a voice screamed: Hiccup. Hiccup. That is Hiccup’s blood…
“You may leave us,” Stoick ordered Nobber formally, but there was a pronounced quiver in that strong voice.
What was Hiccup doing on Outcast Island?
Had Hiccup not gone for a patrol run?
It was nearly impossible that the Outcasts could take down a man when he was riding a dragon.
Yet, the wound on Hiccup's torso seemed to suggest otherwise. Only an Outcast could craft suck a crude and horrible form of weaponry.
Stoick wasn't the smartest Viking in the bunch (in contrast to his puny little son), so he took a long time trying to figure everything out.
But the Outcasts did lose everything when Hiccup became King.
They lost their ruler, their land - basically everything a Viking could ask for.
They were told to call off their blood feuds with the other tribes, to which they obliged reluctantly.
And why had Hiccup written 'Dragons' on the dragon-mail scroll earlier?
Why did he need dragons if he was doing a patrol run? Surely even the Outcasts, Uglithugs and Lava-Louts couldn't shoot down a highly manoeuvrable dragon like the Windwalker (who had shed all of his shaggy scales, which were replaced by sleek, waterproof ones which aided in his flight)?
But he knew that dragons couldn't stand being captured.
What if Hiccup had been kidnapped?