#and a ryker and viggo who are NOT prepared for berkian madness

[autumndragon]

summary: ryker has been tasked with bringing the boy to viggo's tent—a task that proves to be much more difficult than he thought.

this one is for @thedragon-and-hisboy @evilwriter37 and @eat-your-milk because i know you all love this as much as i do<3

for context: it's a canon divergent au where hiccup and toothless accidentally crash land on the isle of hunters after a storm during season 1 of race to the edge, so it's their first time running into viggo and ryker, and vice-versa!

enjoy<3

Getting the boy into Viggo's tent is an ordeal that tests Ryker's patience—and he barely has any to begin with.

The boy thrashes like a wild creature caught in a snare as they move down the stone path, all lean sinew and fiery fury, twisting in Ryker's grip so violently it's a wonder the hunter hasn't dropped him yet. His wrists are bound tightly in front of him with a piece of coarse rope, a strip of cloth tied between his teeth to keep him from sending another hunter to the healer for stitches.

Lars flits about beside them like a nervous sparrow, hands half-lifted to help, though Ryker pointedly ignores him, wrestling the feral thing in his arms without assistance.

The tent looms ahead, at the very end of the maddening spiral of the quarry that Ryker has never cursed more than today. The heavy flaps of canvas stir slightly in the sluggish morning breeze, and inside, the air is cooler, heavy with the scent of oil lamps and paper.

Viggo stands behind his desk, hands folded neatly behind his back, gaze already fixed on the boy as Ryker shoulders his way in.

The boy bucks again, teeth flashing behind the gag, boots dragging uselessly against the fine rugs that line the floor. Ryker mutters a low curse under his breath, shifting his grip on the boy and hoisting him fully off the ground so his feet cannot find purchase, one thick arm locked under the boy's bound arms, the other cinched tight around his middle.

Still, the boy fights, now free to kick without grounding—and he does, viciously, catching a low-standing cabinet near the entrance with a sharp blow of his metal prosthetic. The cabinet rattles violently under the assault, sending a carved model ship, a few wooden cups and a heavy brass compass that once belonged to Ryker's grandfather toppling and clattering noisily to the floor.

Ryker growls another curse, wrenching the boy's writhing form away from the wreckage, manhandling him forward toward the desk with grim determination.

"By the gods," Ryker mutters through gritted teeth, shifting the boy's weight with a grunt when its threatening to slip out, "how are you still fighting?!"

Behind the desk, Viggo watches the scene unfold with a calm, inscrutable expression, a single hand still held behind his back. The polished surface of his desk rocks violently when the boy slams his boot against it in passing, enough to shove it half an inch across the rug. An ornate pencil jar rattles precariously near the edge, then topples, scattering pencils like fallen arrows across the floor.

"Oh for Thor's sake—!" Ryker tightens his grip and hauls the boy back with a grunt, earning him a fresh flurry of muffled snarls and protests from his captive.

Viggo, unbothered, lifts a hand to catch the pencil jar before it can roll off the desk, calmly putting it back on its designated spot in the corner. For a moment, he regards the boy quietly—dirt-streaked, rope-burned, breathing hard through his nose, hair tangled wildly about his face, green eyes burning with a mixture of terror and fury.

The desperate thrash of someone convinced he must fight now or perish.