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Hiccup had never really felt like he belonged in Berk.
That didn’t mean he hadn’t tried.
He adjusted everything—his posture, his tone, even the way he talked about dragons.
He sharpened his words, dulled his curiosity, forced himself into shapes that looked more like a Viking and less like… well, him.
It rarely worked.
But sometimes—sometimes—he got close.
Case in point:
He had taken down a dragon.
Technically.
(And then immediately let it go, his brain added helpfully.)
Most of the village assumed he’d lied.
Still, it had earned him attention. Mostly bad, but attention was attention.
Which, in hindsight, meant things could absolutely get worse.
And, unfortunately, they did.
Normally, a person would listen to the voice in their head.
The one that sounded suspiciously like Astrid yelling:
“Dragons will kill you if you don’t kill them first!”
Hiccup, tragically, did not.
Which was how he ended up crouched on a rock, sketching a dragon like a complete idiot.
At least it hadn’t noticed him.
That was something.
It gave him time.
And Hiccup—Hiccup—never wasted time when there was something new to learn.
Charcoal moved quickly in his hand.
Lines became shapes. Shapes became form.
Wings.
Body.
Tail—
He froze.
His hand hovered over the page.
The tail he’d drawn was whole.
The one in front of him—
Wasn’t.
Hiccup’s stomach dropped.
No.
No, that wasn’t—
He leaned forward, squinting.
Half a tail.
Gone.
Clean.
Wrong.
His breath hitched.
“Oh, Thor—”
The realization hit all at once, sharp and sickening.
He had done that.
The bola.
The shot.
The fall.
Hiccup screamed.
Loud.
Startled birds exploded from the trees, wings beating frantically into the sky.
The dragon jerked, snapping its head up.
Hiccup didn’t stay to see more.
He ran.
Branches tore at his clothes as he bolted through the forest, mind racing faster than his feet.
I did that—
I grounded it—
It can’t fly—
By the time he reached the village, he was still yelling.
Villagers turned. Some stared. Some stepped back.
Stoick called after him.
Hiccup didn’t stop.
Didn’t hear.
He had one thought, and it drowned out everything else:
Fix it.
Back in the cove—
The dragon was waiting.
It didn’t trust the silence.
It didn’t trust the place.
And it definitely didn’t trust the human.
It had hidden well.
Stayed still.
Stayed small.
A grounded dragon didn’t get second chances.
So when the human came back—
Loud.
Fast.
Holding something—
The dragon tensed.
A growl built low in its throat.
Fish.
It hesitated.
Suspicious.
Hungry.
The human fidgeted under its stare.
“I know we got off on the wrong foot—uh, paw? Claw?”
The dragon didn’t react.
What kind of question was that?
The human swallowed.
“Okay. Right. Fish first.”
He held it out.
The dragon lunged.
Gone in one bite.
Better.
Still watching.
“I noticed your tail,” the human said.
The dragon flicked what remained of it.
Obviously.
“And I might be responsible for that.”
…
Yes.
“I want to fix it.”
The dragon stilled.
“I’ve got designs,” the human rushed on, words tripping over themselves. “But I need your permission.”
Permission.
That was new.
The dragon studied him.
Weighed him.
Measured the distance between intent and action.
It turned.
Showed the ruined tail.
Growled low.
Try.
“…I’ll take that as a yes,” the human said.
It bared its teeth.
Don’t waste it.
The first design failed.
The second failed worse.
By the fifth, Hiccup was lying flat on his back, staring up at the sky.
“…You are very picky,” he muttered.
Toothless (because apparently he had a name now, and Hiccup was not taking that back) nudged another rejected tail aside.
“It worked on paper,” Hiccup defended weakly.
Toothless huffed.
Hiccup pushed himself up.
“Okay, fine. What’s wrong with it?”
Toothless tapped the artificial tail.
Then his own.
Oh.
“It stands out,” Hiccup said slowly.
Too different.
Too obvious.
Toothless warbled.
Yes.
“Right,” Hiccup sighed. “Predator survival instincts. Of course.”
Back to the drawing board.
Several attempts later—
Scratches, burns, and one very close call with a snapping jaw—
They got it right.
Dark.
Textured.
Seamless.
Toothless tested it.
Launched.
Hiccup held his breath.
The dragon cut through the sky—
Smooth.
Whole.
Free.
And didn’t come back.
Hiccup swallowed.
Of course he didn’t.
That was the point.
“…Right,” he said quietly.
A shadow passed overhead.
Hiccup looked up—
And barely had time to react before he was tackled into the ground.
Warmth.
Weight.
A familiar, pleased rumble.
Toothless pressed their foreheads together.
Hiccup laughed—half breath, half disbelief—and wrapped his arms around him.
“…You came back.”
A soft chirp.
Obviously.
Hiccup squeezed his eyes shut.
“…Thank you.”
Toothless rumbled again.
Satisfied.
Later—
When Stoick stared at him like he’d lost his mind—
Hiccup shifted slightly, scratching behind Toothless’ ears.
“Dragons won’t stop being a problem overnight,” he said. “But the queen keeps them in line.”
“And if she doesn’t listen?” Stoick pressed.
Hiccup shrugged.
“Then we’re dead.”
A pause.
“…Great plan,” Gobber muttered.
Somehow—
It worked.
Not perfectly.
Not easily.
But enough.
Dragons left.
Some followed Toothless.
Some didn’t.
But he still came back.
And Hiccup—
With one leg and a thousand adjustments—
Learned something important.
Freedom wasn’t about fixing something.
It was about giving it the choice to leave—
And having it choose to stay anyway.