#oak cask | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

knight-hiccup · 2 months ago

Text

𝐌𝐀𝐄𝐋𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐌 | Hiccup x Fem!Reader ₁₀

This is Chapter 10 to this Hiccup series -> Masterlist here. Previous Chapter : Next Chapter

Pairing: Hiccup x fem!reader Genre: romance, fantasy, suspense, drama, angst, dark, vioIence, friends to lovers, dark themes, heavy Viking lore, Norse mythology, canon divergence, slow burn Word count: 12.3k Warnings: This will have the lore of the films + shows but with much darker themes. Gore/blood, mentions of death, Norse mythology, some realistic dragon themes, more realistic scenarios, and mature themes starting at the point httyd 2 ark comes in, so, ofc NSFW. Any other warnings will be properly tagged upon story progression. A/N: Reader description not described besides clothing true to Viking/httyd fashion from time to time.

CHAPTER 10

In the hours since you'd left the Great Hall's yard, word had spread like wildfire through Berk: Stoick had rallied the island to war. Every soul—man, woman, warrior, and smith—had been summoned to the ships, their faces etched with grim resolve as they obeyed the chief's command.

You and Hiccup had watched, helpless, as the docks transformed into a hive of frenzied preparation. Longships lined the water's edge, their sleek hulls carved from oak and pine, reinforced with iron rivets that glinted dully in the daylight. These were vessels of legend—drakkars, their prows crowned with snarling dragon heads, a nod to the Norse gods who watched from Valhalla.

Each boat stretched thirty paces stem to stern, their sides bristling with oars and shields hung in tight rows, painted with runes of protection: Algiz for defense, Tiwaz for victory. Barrels of dried cod and smoked mutton jerky were hoisted aboard, their wooden staves bound with iron hoops, alongside casks of mead that sloshed faintly as they were secured—provisions for a month's voyage to and from into the abyss of Helheim's Gate, the mythic threshold to the dragons' nest.

Weapons followed, a clattering arsenal hauled by sweat-slicked hands: broadswords with hilts wrapped in leather, their blades etched with serpentine patterns; axes with crescent heads honed to split bone; spears tipped with blackened iron, their shafts hewn from ash wood.

Catapults loomed among the cargo, their frames of sturdy yew lashed with rope, their arms poised to fling boulders or flaming pitch into the enemy's maw. The Vikings moved with a precision born of centuries of war, their grunts and shouts mingling with the creak of timber and the clang of metal, a symphony of impending doom.

Yet it was their eyes that cut deepest—glaring up at the cliff where you stood with Hiccup, their stares venomous, lips curling into snarls of contempt. Hiccup flinched under each one, his shoulders hunching as if to shrink from their judgment, but you squeezed his hand, your grip firm and unyielding, a silent reminder that he was more than their scorn. He steadied then, his jaw tightening, though the flicker of shame lingered in his green eyes.

The scene below grew darker, more brutal, as the Vikings turned their wrath on Toothless. The Night Fury's wails pierced the air—high, keening cries that clawed at the soul, striking a chord of anguish in any heart still soft enough to feel. They'd bound him in chains, thick iron links that rattled with every thrash, and ropes that bit into his obsidian-like black scales, leaving raw, red welts.

When he fought, rearing against his captors, they struck back—fists slamming into his jaw, boots driving into his skull with sickening thuds that echoed up the cliffs. A new head-brace followed, a cruel contraption of rough-hewn wood bolted tight around his neck, pinning his head immobile, his jaws forced shut.

The dragon's resistance faded, his body slumping as if the fight had bled out of him, his eyes—once bright with defiance—dimming with an inward weeping that no sound could convey. The sight was a dagger to the gut, a raw, visceral cruelty that laid bare the reality of your world: Vikings and dragons locked in a dance of blood and fire since the days of Odin's first breath.

Hiccup's knees buckled, the weight of it too much, and he sank to the cliff's edge, the damp grass soaking through his trousers. You dropped beside him, your arms encircling him, pulling him close as his hands clenched into fists, knuckles whitening against the strain. His jaw locked, eyes squeezing shut as if he could block out the pain unfolding below—Toothless's pain, mirrored in his own chest, a wound that throbbed with every muffled whimper from the dragon.

You pressed your forehead against the side of his head, your breath mingling with his in short, ragged bursts, tears welling in your own eyes as you tried to anchor him through this. The salty streaks burned your cheeks from the already endless tears shed earlier, but this was different—sharper, laced with the helplessness of watching a creature you'd come to love brutalized before you. Your hands tightened around Hiccup, fingers digging into his gilet, a futile shield against the brutality that had always defined your people.

As the sun dipped lower, its rays bleeding crimson across the horizon, the longships began to move—one by one, their oars dipping into the water with a steady, mournful cadence. The dragon-headed prows sliced through the waves, sails unfurling like the wings of carrion birds, dyed red and black with runes stitched in gold thread: Eihwaz for resilience, Uruz for strength.

The fleet stretched across the harbor, a flotilla of war bound for the dragons' nest—a place whispered of in sagas, sought for generations by chiefs who'd fallen to its fire. Toothless was lashed to the lead ship, his chained form a dark silhouette against the fading light, his head bowed under the wooden brace.

The Vikings' chants rose, low and guttural, invoking Thor's hammer and Freyja's wrath whilst they hit their shields with their chosen weapons in beat to the drums, a battle hymn to steel them for the journey into Hel's domain. The sea swallowed their wakes, the boats drifting into the haze, and the cliff grew still, the wind carrying away the last echoes of their departure.

Hiccup remained seated, his gaze fixed on the vanishing fleet, his face a mask of numb despair. Blame gnawed at him, a relentless beast that whispered this was his doing—his secret with Toothless, his defiance in the arena, his failure to bridge the chasm between his father and the truth.

His hands rested limp in his lap, the calluses on his palms stark against the pallor of his skin, and his breath came slow, as if each inhale cost him something vital. You stayed beside him, your hand still clasped in his—the other wrapped around his shoulder, the warmth of your touch a faint tether against the void swallowing him whole.

Tears lingered in your eyes, unshed now, as you watched the horizon claim the ships, the weight of war settling over Berk like a shroud. The cliff's silence was oppressive, broken only by the distant crash of waves and the rustle of grass bending under the wind—a requiem for the dragon lost, the boy beside you, and the island teetering on the edge of its own destruction a reminder of reality.

Hiccup's mind, glimpsed through that omniscient veil, was a battlefield of its own. Guilt lashed at him, a scourge sharper than any Viking whip, each blow a memory—of Toothless's trust, of your faith, of the moment he'd chosen to reveal the dragon and unraveled everything.

He saw the nest in his mind's eye, a jagged maw of stone and flame in the pits of a volcano that revealed a beast so great like from the tales of old, a place where Níðhöggr might gnaw at the roots of Yggdrasil itself. His father led this war, driven by a fury Hiccup had sparked, and the cost—Toothless' suffering, Berk's blood—now rested on his shoulders.

Yet your hand in his, steady and warm, was a lifeline he didn't deserve but couldn't release. He'd lost so much, but you remained, and in the hollow of his chest, a flicker of resolve stirred—not enough to banish the blame, but enough to whisper that he'd fight to make this right, whatever the cost—somehow.

The sun sank fully, its last light bleeding into the sea, and the cliff grew cold, the wind sharpening as twilight draped Berk in shadow. You and Hiccup sat there, two figures etched against the darkening sky, hands entwined, no words exchanged, watching the empty seas that carried war and sail away—bound for a fate no rune could foretell.

Three days had bled into one another since the longships carved their path into the sea, leaving Berk a skeletal husk of its former self. The island's remnant souls—those too old, too young, or too broken to join the war—drifted through the village like specters, their eyes averted whenever Hiccup's shadow fell across their path.

The air hung thick with unspoken scorn, a miasma that clung to the cobblestones and thatched roofs, seeping into every corner he once called home. Mildew, that gnarled old wretch with a face like curdled milk, became a fixture of malice—his sneers sharp as a blade's edge whenever Hiccup dared venture into town. The man's yellowed teeth bared in a grimace, his staff tapping the ground with deliberate disdain and spit to the ground as Hiccup passed, head bowed, footsteps quickening to escape the weight of those venomous glares.

Hiccup had retreated from the public eye, a self-imposed exile that you watched unfold with a growing ache in your chest. He'd asked—quietly, almost ashamed—if you'd bring him food rather than force him to face the village's judgment, and you'd agreed, offering your home as a refuge after Stoick's disownment had stripped him of his own. The boy who'd once been a spark of defiance against the odds now bore the mantle of outcast, a title that settled over him like a leaden cloak, dragging him deeper into himself.

You saw it in the way his shoulders slumped, the way his hands trembled when he thought you weren't looking—depression gnawing at him, slow and relentless, breaking the spirit that had always burned bright despite the world's disdain. It was a quiet shattering, a million jagged pieces scattering before your eyes, and each day the light in him dimmed further, swallowed by a darkness you couldn't reach.

Mornings became a ritual of futile hope. You'd bring him breakfast—warm oatcakes drizzled with honey, paired with a strip of smoked herring—its scent wafting through your small home, a faint promise of comfort. But he'd only pick at it, nibbling a few reluctant bites before sliding the plate aside.

Menace, who you decided to sneak back to your home so you could care for them both—plus her lack of company in the cove—would pounce on the scraps with a gleeful yap, tail wagging as she devoured what Hiccup couldn't stomach. You'd watch, jaw tight, as the food disappeared, the act a silent testament to how far he'd fallen.

Hours stretched into bleak eternities where he wouldn't leave the bed, his lanky form curled beneath the furs, staring at the rough-hewn wall or the ceiling's cracked beams—motionless, hollow, a statue carved from despair. The worry festered in you, a coal smoldering in your gut, until it flared into something fiercer, a fury that refused to let him waste away.

On the third afternoon, you'd had enough. With a sharp yank, you tore the fur blankets from his frame, the heavy pelts thudding to the floor in a tangled heap. His protest came—a weak, rasping "Hey!"—but you ignored it, seizing his hand with a grip that brooked no argument. His skin was cool, clammy against yours, and you hauled him upright, dragging him toward the door despite his dragging feet.

The afternoon light spilled through the threshold, a harsh golden flood that stung his eyes, unaccustomed to anything but the dim shadows of your home. He squinted, flinching against the brightness, his voice a low mumble as you pulled him toward the forge.

"I'm not in the mood," he muttered, the words barely audible, but you shook your head, undeterred, your boots crunching over the gravel path.

"I refuse to watch you wilt," you said, your tone firm, cutting through the sluggish haze he'd wrapped himself in.

The forge loomed ahead, its stone walls blackened with soot, the air around it heavy with the lingering scent of charred wood and molten iron. You guided him inside and sat him on one of the cold wooden chairs, its surface worn smooth by years of use. He slouched there, a pitiful figure—lanky limbs folded in on themselves, his tunic wrinkled and askew, dark circles smudged beneath his eyes like bruises, a testament to sleepless nights and a mind gnawed raw by stress. His gaze drifted, avoiding yours, fixed on the scuffed ground as if they held answers you couldn't give.

You stepped before him, the forge's dormant hearth casting long shadows across the room, and sank to your knees, the rough stone biting into your skin through your trousers. Gently, you took both his hands in yours, their chill seeping into your palms, and lifted your eyes to meet his—a quiet plea woven into the gesture.

He resisted at first, his head turned aside, but slowly, reluctantly, he met your gaze. Those green eyes, once alight with restless curiosity, now searched yours with a dull, weary emptiness, as if seeking something he'd lost the will to find. Your thumbs brushed over his knuckles, tracing the familiar ridges and scars, a soothing rhythm that eased the tension in his fingers, though it couldn't pierce the sorrow cloaking him.

"Hiccup, talk to me," you said, your voice low but steady, cutting through the forge's stillness like a blade through fog. The words hung there, heavy with the weight of days unspoken, a lifeline tossed into the abyss he'd fallen into. The air between you thickened, laced with the faint metallic tang of the forge and the earthy musk of the damp wood around you both. He said nothing, his lips parting only to close again, but his eyes held yours—searching, questioning, a flicker of the boy he'd been struggling against the tide of what he'd become.

Hiccup's mind was that of a omniscient veil, like a storm-ravaged sea, of hitting waves of guilt and isolation crashing against the fragile hull of his resolve. The island's—his fathers—rejection had flayed him open, each sneer and turned back a lash that echoed Stoick's disownment—a wound deeper than any dragon's claw.

Toothless' absence gnawed at him the most, a constant ache that pulsed with every memory of the dragon's wails, and now, cast out by his own people, he felt the weight of his choices crush him. Your presence—your hands on his, your voice calling him back—was a beacon he didn't deserve, a warmth he feared he'd snuff out with his own darkness. Yet as your thumbs moved over his knuckles, a thread of something stirred—faint, fragile, a whisper of the fight he'd once had, buried beneath the wreckage but not yet lost.

The forge stood silent around you, its tools untouched, the fire unlit—a hollow shell mirroring the boy before you. Outside, the afternoon waned, the sun dipping behind the cliffs, casting the village in a muted glow that filtered through the open doorway. Your knees ached against the stone, but you held his gaze, unwavering, the plea in your voice a quiet anchor in the storm that threatened to swallow him whole.

The air hung so heavy, thick with the scent of cold iron and the faint char of extinguished embers in a cold stillness that pressed against you as you sat there on your knees. His voice rasped into the silence, brittle and halting.

"I—," he began, but the words snagged in his throat, dry as the dust that hung in the air.

You reached for the waterskin slung at your side—a precaution you'd carried for moments like this—and pressed it into his hands. He took it with a faint nod, sipping slowly, the leather creaking as his fingers tightened around it. Water glistened briefly on his lips before he shook his head, eyes squeezing shut, a long, weary sigh slipping from him like the last breath of a dying fire.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to do," he murmured, the admission heavy, sinking into the space between you.

You tilted your head, listening—truly listening—because that was all he needed, even if it wasn't his usual spark of ingenuity lighting the way. "I think you do," you said softly, your voice a steady thread in the dimness.

"No—I don't, not this time," he countered, his tone fraying at the edges. "Everything is. . .gone. Look at the mess I created."

His hands gestured vaguely, a helpless sweep toward the unseen horizon where the longships had vanished, then fell back to his lap, limp and trembling.

"I thought I could fix things—make them see dragons aren't the enemy. But it's all gone now. The village hates me, Toothless is chained up somewhere, probably suffering—probably not eating, and I can't—." His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard, the sound rough against the quiet.

"I can't undo it. I don't even know where to start. It's like I've torn everything apart, and there's no hammer big enough to put it back together."

He paused, his breath hitching as the weight of his words settled, and then the floodgates creaked open, slow at first, then rushing forth at last—as you waited.

"My dad—Stoick—he's always had this vision of the perfect son. Someone strong, you know? A Viking who'd stand tall, swing an axe like it was part of him, and lead Berk into battle with a roar so fierce even Thor would take notice. That's what he's wanted me to be, what he's tried to shape me into ever since I could walk."

He pauses for a long moment. "But that's not me. It never has been. I'm the kid who stumbles over his own feet, who'd rather sketch gears, tinker with ideas, and sharpen blades than fight. The one who thought—naively, maybe—that I could end centuries of war with just a dragon and a crazy, half-formed plan!"

A bitter laugh escaped him, sharp and jagged, the awkward Hiccup you loved flickering through the gloom. "He disowned me. . .because I couldn't be that son. Because I messed it all up—everything—and now he's out there, sailing to that dragons nest blindly—not knowing what he's brought upon himself, fighting a war he can't win, and I'm just. . .here. Useless."

His rant spilled out, a torrent of worry and stress that had festered for days, his voice rising and falling in that familiar, stumbling cadence—earnest, raw, and painfully honest. You watched him, the boy who'd once faced down dragons with nothing but wit and a wild heart, now unraveling before you, his freckled face taut with anguish. The forge's shadows stretched long across the stone, the afternoon light filtering through the open doorway in a muted haze, catching the dust motes that danced in the air like silent witnesses to his confession.

He glanced at you then, his breath easing into a faint, weary sigh. "Just come out with it," he said, voice low, threaded with a mix of curiosity and resignation, as if he knew you held something back.

Your fingers brushed the workbench beside you, its rough edge biting into your skin as you hesitated, the words teetering on your tongue. "Do you really want to hear what I have to say?" you asked, your voice catching briefly, a tremor of uncertainty beneath the calm.

His green eyes flicked up, steady despite the shadows bruising their depths. "Pretty much all the time," he replied, the faintest quirk of his lips betraying the Hiccup buried beneath the weight.

"Alright then," you said, letting out a slow breath as you met his gaze, silently willing him to listen.

"You're not useless, Hiccup—not even close. You're the strongest person I know, something only I've had the privilege of seeing—and them? They haven't truly seen you for who you are—and they won't, not unless you let them. And I think your dad cares more for you than you realize."

The words lingered in the air, raw and honest, as you shifted closer, the chill of the stone floor seeped through your knees.

He tilted his head, brow furrowing, confusion carving lines across his face. "What makes you think that? After all he said."

You steadied yourself, the air thick with the tang of metal and the memory of his father's fury. "Look, Hiccup—it's hard to say this out loud, but when has Berk ever valued you until those trials? Not that it's a bad change, but your dad's the chief. He's got to juggle their respect, their fears, with what he feels for you—and that's a burden heavier than any longship. They've always wondered if you'd ever fill his boots, and before, that seemed impossible."

You hold his hands tighter, eyes and brow furrowing with so much emotion. "Your ideas, your inventions, they didn't match their mold of a Viking. Stoick's been caught in that bind—protecting you from their doubts while proving you're one of them. He knows you're different, not like him or them, and I think he's always seen it. He's been carving a space for you, pushing you to fit, not to change you, but because he loves you. Don't let their expectations—or his—blind you to that. But don't let them twist who you are to earn it, either."

Hiccup's eyes fluttered shut, a shaky breath rattling through him as he swallowed, the sound thick and raw in the forge's hush. Then, in a sudden, unguarded surge, he leaned forward, his forehead pressing against your neck—his warmth seeping through your skin and sleeve, his auburn hair brushing your skin like a fragile tether. The world shrank to the space between you, the villages distant hum fading into a stillness that clung to the air, heavy with the unspoken. His shoulders trembled faintly, the weight of your words sinking in, and you felt the heat of his breath against you.

"Why do you always know what I want to hear?" he whispered, voice quivering, barely more than a murmur against your skin. "Always know what I need?" His fingers twitched on his lap, hovering as if yearning to grasp this moment, to hold tighter to the lifeline you'd become.

You drew a slow, shuddering breath, your heart thudding loud and insistent against your ribs, a drumbeat urging you toward the edge of your confession that needed to be said.

"Because. . .Hiccup I lo—" you started, the words cracking under the strain, each one a step into the abyss you'd buried for too long.

But before they could spill free, a clamor erupted outside—boisterous laughter and the sharp clatter of boots on stone as a gaggle of teens stumbled past the forge, their voices slicing through the quiet like a flung axe. You faltered—all boldness leaving, the moment splintering, your breath catching as the noise yanked you both back to the world beyond the forge's walls.

Hiccup's head lifted slightly, his eyes blinking open, the spell broken but not lost. The teens' chatter faded down the path, leaving the forge steeped in silence once more, the air still tingling with the weight of what you'd almost said. His gaze lingered on you, searching, a flicker of curiosity sparking through the haze of his sorrow—a thread of the Hiccup you knew, tugging at the edges.

"I loathe the thought of you becoming some hollow version of yourself that isn't you," you said instead, redirecting the tide of your thoughts, your voice steady but laced with a quiet fervor.

The confession you'd nearly spilled retreated, buried once more beneath layers of caution, though its echo lingered in your chest, a dull ache of what might have been. You squeezed his hands, your thumbs pressing harder against his knuckles, grounding yourself in the roughness of his skin—a lifeline to tether you both to this moment.

Hiccup's brow twitched, a faint flicker of something crossing his face—disappointment, perhaps, though he couldn't name why. The shift in your words left a hollow space he didn't understand, a vague longing for something unsaid that tugged at the edges of his battered spirit. He opened his mouth, a breath of protest forming, but before it could take shape, you moved—instinct guiding you where words had failed.

Rising slightly from your knees, you leaned forward and pressed your lips to his forehead, a long, deliberate kiss that lingered against his skin. The warmth of him seeped into you, his faint scent of leather and forge-smoke filling your senses, and for a heartbeat, the world beyond him dissolved—all swallowed by the quiet intimacy of the gesture.

You pulled back slowly, standing to your full height, the stone floor cool beneath your boots as you straightened. Hiccup's eyes widened just an inch, a subtle flare of surprise that broke through the fog of his despair. His heart stuttered, then surged, a frantic beat thundering in his chest—faster than it had ever raced, even in the face of dragons or his father's wrath.

The kiss, so simple yet so uncharted, left a warmth blooming across his forehead, a mark that tingled against the cool air of the forge. He stared up at you, his breath catching, the dark circles beneath his eyes stark against the flush creeping up his freckled cheeks. For a moment, he was unguarded—raw and open, the boy you'd always known flickering back to life beneath the weight that had crushed him.

A flush crept up your neck, a warm prickle beneath his unwavering stare. He looked at you, unblinking, his eyes widening just enough to reveal a glimmer of something unguarded—surprise, maybe, or the stir of a quiet realization finally come to light. The air between you thickened, heavy with the scent of cold iron and the faint char of the unlit hearth, a stillness that hummed with the weight of what just happened. You nudged his leg with the toe of your boot, a gentle prod accompanied by a nod, urging him past the moment's fragility.

"I want you to eat something," you said, your voice firm yet soft, cutting through the silence. "You've barely eaten."

His lips twitched then, curling into the smallest smile—a fragile, fleeting thing, the first you'd seen in what felt like an endless stretch of days. It was a crack in the gloom that had cloaked him, a glimpse of the Hiccup you'd feared lost to Berk's scorn. He rose slowly, following your lead, his lanky frame unfolding from the chair with a creak of wood against stone.

You guided him out of the forge, the afternoon light spilling across the threshold in a golden wash that stung your eyes after the dark shades. The path to your shared spot wasn't far, a familiar trek over gravel and patchy grass, the wind sharpening as you climbed, carrying the briny tang of the sea and the distant cry of gulls wheeling overhead.

At the cliff's edge, you stopped, the harbor sprawling below in a restless expanse of deep blue, its waves glinting under the waning sun like shards of broken glass. Hiccup stood close, his shoulder brushing yours, a quiet tether as you reached into the pouch at your side. From it, you drew a small bundle wrapped in cloth—his favorite breakfast muffin, a creation you'd crafted just for him.

Its dense, warm blend of egg, melted cheese, and tender strips of smoked meat, its aroma rising in a faint, savory curl. You handed it to him, and his face broke into another smile—wider this time, a spark of recognition lighting his green eyes—and his stomach rumbled. He took it, his fingers brushing yours on purpose, and stepped nearer, closing the small gap until his presence was a steady warmth at your side.

You both ate in silence, standing there atop the cliff, the wind tugging at your hair and the muffin's flavors grounding you in the moment—rich yolk, sharp cheese, the faint salt of the meat melding into something comforting, something yours. The ocean stretched endless before you, its ceaseless rhythm a counterpoint to the stillness between you, and after a while, you let your head rest against his shoulder.

The fabric of his tunic was rough against your cheek, carrying the faint scent of leather and forge-smoke, and his frame steadied beneath your weight, a quiet strength you'd missed. The world felt smaller here, the village's judgment and the war's shadow fading into out of your minds but for a moment, leaving only the two of you and the cliff's unyielding embrace.

The peace held, fragile and precious, until the crunch of boots on gravel broke the spell—a deliberate, measured sound drawing nearer from behind. You turned, lifting your head from Hiccup's shoulder, and saw Astrid emerging from the path. Her blond hair caught the fading light, strands whipping in the wind, and her axe hung at her hip, its iron head glinting dully.

Her steps slowed as she approached, her sharp blue eyes flicking between you and Hiccup, assessing, calculating, a purpose brewing beneath her calm exterior. The cliff's edge grew taut with her presence, the air shifting as if the sea itself held its breath, waiting for what she'd bring to this quiet reprieve.

Hiccup saw her and tensed. Astrid's arrival tugged at the edges of that fragile calm, a reminder of the world he'd been cast out from. He felt the weight of her gaze, the unspoken questions it carried, and though your shoulder against his anchored him, a thread of tension coiled in his chest—bracing for what she'd say, what she'd demand of the outcast he'd become.

The cliff's edge trembled with the weight of the moment, the wind curling around you in sharp gusts, tugging at your hair and carrying the briny sting of the sea. Astrid stood a few paces away, her boots grinding into the gravel, her blond braid swaying as she shifted her weight. The fading sun painted the horizon in streaks of amber and shadow, casting a faint glow across her face as she broke the silence. You nodded, a subtle tilt of your head inviting her closer, and she stepped forward, closing the distance until she stood beside you both.

"Hey," she began, her voice rough-edged, faltering as if unsure where to land. "Haven't seen you around. Thought I'd come check on you." Her blue eyes darted between you and Hiccup, searching beneath her steady gaze.

You shifted slightly at Hiccups side, the grass beneath your boots slick with the day's damp. Hiccup's shoulder brushed yours, a quiet reassurance, and he spoke, his words clipped, evasive.

"Been thinking," he offered, a thin excuse that veiled the depths he'd sunk into—depths you'd only just hauled him from, though he wouldn't let that slip. His voice rasped, still dry from days of silence, a raw thread woven with the turmoil of the past several weeks.

Astrid's gaze softened, though her words cut sharp. "It's a mess," she said, her tone blunt but not unkind. "You must feel horrible. You've lost everything—your father, your tribe, your dragon."

She listed them like blows, each one landing heavy, while you tried to wave your hand to stop her and Hiccup's head snapped up, his brows furrowing in a mix of confusion and irritation. He stared at her as if she'd sprouted a second head, then lifted his brows, unamused, a faint wave of his hand punctuating his reply.

"Thank you for summing that up," he muttered, the sarcasm dry as bone, though it carried a faint tremor of exhaustion.

Astrid flinched at herself, her hand hovering awkwardly mid-air, unused to softening edges or lifting spirits. She glanced at you, a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, but you held steady beside Hiccup, your presence a quiet bridge between them. He turned his gaze to the sea, its restless waves glinting far below, and his voice dropped, raw and jagged.

"Why couldn't I have killed that dragon when I found him in the woods?"

The question hung there, aimed at the horizon but meant for you both. His eyes slid to yours, and you met them with knitted brows, worry etching lines across your face—you knew exactly what he meant, the memory of that moment a shared memory between you.

"Would've been better for everyone," he went on, his words rough with self-reproach, the weight of his fathers scorn and Toothless' chains dragging them down further.

You opened your mouth to respond, a breath drawn to counter his despair, but Astrid spoke first, her voice cutting through.

"Yep! The rest of us would've done it. So, why didn't you?" She paused, watching him, then pressed again when he hesitated. "Why didn't you?"

Hiccup's jaw tightened, his hands flexing at his sides. "I don't know. I couldn't," he said, the admission quiet, almost lost to the wind.

"That's not an answer," Astrid shot back, her tone firm, unrelenting.

He rounded on her, annoyance flaring as he stepped to the side, away from both your gazes. "Why is this so important to you? And all of a sudden?" His brows furrowed, his voice rising with a brittle edge, the stress gnawing at him again.

Astrid glanced at you, and you gave her a subtle nod, an exchanged look urging her to press on. She squared her shoulders, her eyes locking onto his. "Because I want to remember what you say, right now," she said, her words deliberate, carrying a weight that stilled the air.

Hiccup threw his head back, a groan rumbling from his throat as he rubbed his face with both hands. "Oh, for the love of—"

He sighed heavily, the sound scraping against the silence. "I was a coward, okay? I was weak. I wouldn't kill a dragon!" The confession burst out, sharp as his voice cracked under the strain.

Astrid tilted her head, catching the shift. "You said wouldn't that time."

"Whatever!" Hiccup snapped, his tone spiking as the stress clawed back, but your fingers tightened on his arm, a gentle pressure to calm the tide from rising in him again. He exhaled, the fight draining as he continued, voice raw but steadier.

"I wouldn't! Three hundred years, and I'm the first Viking who wouldn't kill a dragon!" He turned to you, his breathing slowing, his green eyes searching yours for something—forgiveness, understanding, a lifeline.

Astrid paused, letting the words settle, then spoke after a long beat. "First to ride one, though."

"And a Night Fury of all dragons," you added, a faint smile tugging at your lips—his voice trembling with awe, not despair.

Astrid nodded, her gaze sharpening as she edged him on. "So?"Hiccup's eyes flicked between you both—first to Astrid, then to you, your head tilted in quiet curiosity—before settling back on her.

"I wouldn't kill him because he looked as frightened as I was," he said, calmer now, the fire in his voice tempered by a dawning clarity. "I looked at him, and I saw myself."

You smiled then, a soft curve of your lips as those familiar words echoed back—remembering the day he'd first told you something similar himself, a memory of the boy who'd dared to see beyond Berk's bloodlust.

Astrid's brows lifted slightly, her question cutting through the stillness. "I bet he's really frightened now. What are you going to do about it?" Urging him to do something about it.

He glanced at her, then to you, your steady presence beside him a silent prompt, before returning to Astrid. A new fire flickered in his eyes, faint but growing.

"Uh—well, probably something stupid," he said, a trace of that awkward Hiccup breaking through as he began to walk, his steps purposeful now.

You and Astrid fell in behind him, matching his pace. "Good. But you've already done that," Astrid reminded him, a dry edge to her tone.

He smiled again—small, but real. "Then something crazy," he said, breaking into a run, his boots pounding the earth as the cliff stretched out behind him.

You followed, your breath catching as you ran, a grin tugging at your lips. "There you are Hiccup," you whispered to yourself, the words lost to the wind as it whipped past, unheard by either of them but settling warm in your chest. The three of you raced forward, the sea a boundless expanse at your backs.

Your boots pounded the earth, gravel crunching beneath each stride, and you shouted after Hiccup, your voice slicing through the rush of air. "So? What's the plan?"

He didn't slow, his lanky frame weaving through the path with a newfound urgency. He glanced back, breath heaving, but his words came steady and sure as you veered toward the arena, its iron gates looming in the distance.

"We're going after them," he said, his tone laced with a clarity that hadn't surfaced in days. "The longships have a four-day start, heading for the dragons' nest, and we're not letting them get there alone—not with what they're about to face."

His gaze flicked between you and Astrid, a fierce trust burning through the exhaustion. "I only trust you two right now. You—" he nodded at you, "stay with me. We'll prep the dragons here. Astrid, I need you to round up the gang—Fishlegs, Snotlout, Ruffnut, and Tuffnut. Only them."

Astrid, then back to the path ahead, the arena's gates now in sight. Her brow lifted, her pace unwavering as she processed his orders. "Why just them?" she asked, her voice sharp with curiosity.

Hiccup clenched his jaw, his eyes squinting as the wind whipped against his face. "Because they're the only ones who didn't turn their backs," he said, his voice firm. "The others—they'd smirk and whisper behind your back whenever I was nearby." He glanced at you, his expression hardening. "And ever since Stoick disowned me, they've treated me like I'm contagious, avoiding me completely. But these others? They didn't mock me still. We need people we can count on, ones who'll stick with us to the end. I trust them."

Astrid nodded, a glint of resolve in her blue eyes. "Got it," she said, peeling off toward the village without breaking stride, her boots kicking up dust as she vanished around a bend, braid bouncing and jaw set with determination.

The air grew stiller as she disappeared, the wind's howl softening, and you and Hiccup pressed on, the arena's iron gates looming closer with every step. The village faded into a muted hum behind you—empty streets, averted eyes, the weight of Berk's rejection a shadow you outran together. You reached the arena alone, the vast circle of stone and chain eerily quiet, its stands deserted under the gathering dusk. No guards, no lingering villagers—just the two of you and the faint rustle of dragons behind their prison.

The space was a hollow shell, abandoned since the war party sailed, its silence broken only by the distant crash of waves and the creak of settling timber. You moved in tandem, hands fumbling with the heavy locks, the metal cold and gritty against your palms. Together, you heaved the gates upward, scraping against their hinges as they rose and the clank of metal echoing through the empty pit.

Inside, the air thickened with the musk of burnt wood and the lingering heat of dragon breath, the cages lining the walls silent but alive with coiled potential. Hiccup turned to you, his brows furrowed, a flicker of intensity in his green eyes.

"Before they get here," he said, his voice low but firm, "we're going to need ropes. Can you grab some from the bin by the wall?" He gestured toward a weathered wooden crate nestled against the stone, its edges splintered and stained with pitch.

You nodded, starting to turn, but his hand caught yours—a sudden, warm grip that stopped you mid-step. "No matter what," he said, his tone softening, a quiet intensity threading through it, "you ride with me."

His lips curved into a small, earnest smile, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes, and your own smile mirrored it, a spark of warmth blooming in your chest.

"Always," you replied, squeezing his hand before slipping free, your boots scuffing the dirt as you crossed to the bin.

The ropes were there, coiled in rough, hempen loops, their fibers coarse against your fingers as you hefted them onto your shoulder. The weight settled heavy, a tangible piece of the plan taking shape, and you turned back to find Hiccup standing by the Monstrous Nightmare's cage. He waited there, his lanky frame silhouetted against the iron bars, no trace of the nervous boy who'd once faced this beast with a trembling shield.

Confidence radiated from him now, a quiet assurance born of understanding—no danger lingered here, not for him, not anymore. He stood before the gate, hands resting lightly at his sides, the dragon's low rumble vibrating through the bars as he waited.

You joined him, the ropes digging into your shoulder, their coarse fibers scratching through your tunic. He glanced over, a nod of thanks passing between you, his eyes catching the dim light filtering through the arena's high slits. The silence stretched, taut with anticipation, until the crunch of boots on stone broke it—the gang arriving, their voices a low murmur as they stepped into the pit.

Fishlegs lumbered in first, his round face creased with confusion, followed by Snotlout's swaggering bulk, then the twins—Ruffnut and Tuffnut—trailing with their usual chaotic energy, heads tilted as they took in the scene. Their eyes darted from the open gates to Hiccup, then to you, questions simmering beneath their bewilderment.

Hiccup straightened, his voice cutting through the quiet as he faced them all. "Pack a bag—something light, just what you need. We're going after the longboats. They've got a four-day start, heading for the dragons' nest, and we're not letting them get there alone." His words carried a fire, steady and unyielding, the plan unfolding with a clarity that belied the days before.

"Exactly why are we going after them?" Snotlout asked, his tone sharp with confusion.

Hiccup's face softened, the tension easing as a small smile curved his lips. "We're stopping this war," he replied, his voice steady with quiet resolve.

The arena's walls seemed to lean in with tension, the air thick with the musk of dragons and the faint tang of rust, as the gang exchanged glances—Fishlegs nodding slowly, Snotlout grunting approval, the twins smirking with a spark of mischief. The pit stood silent around you, as the gang lingered, waiting for Hiccup's next move, and you adjusted the ropes on your shoulder, your gaze steady on him—the boy who'd defied an island, now ready to defy a war.

Hiccup's plan still echoed in their minds—his voice steady with his resolve a tangible weight grounding you as the others processed his words. Fishlegs broke the quiet first, his broad frame turning toward the gates, a spark of defiance flaring in his tone.

"Well, if you're planning on getting eaten," he said, his voice edged with a rare bite as he glanced back at Hiccup, "I'd definitely go with the Gronckle." He pivoted fully then, starting for the exit, his steps heavy with doubt, his shoulders hunched as if already retreating from the fight.

A spark of anger flared within you, hot and fierce, surging through your chest like a bellows stoked to life. You stepped forward, your boots scraping the stone with a sharp, deliberate grind.

"Go then," you commanded, your voice ringing out, a clarion call that cut through the arena's stillness and halted him mid-stride. "All of you if you're too cowardly."

The others froze, their eyes snapping to you, and you drew a breath, the air sharp with the tang of rust and anticipation. "Just remember. You all watched Hiccup tame these dragons through the trials—every one of you. You saw him stand where no Viking in history has ever dared walked toward, bending fire and fury to his will with nothing but his hands and his heart."

You turned, sweeping your gaze across them—Fishlegs, wide-eyed; Snotlout, arms crossed; the twins, leaning into each other; Astrid, steady as stone. "So, why doubt him now?" you pressed, your voice rising, each word a hammer strike forging conviction from the air.

You gestured sharply toward the cages, where the dragons' deep, rumbling growls echoed through the stone walls. "Hiccup's taken chaos and spun it into peace, turning enemies into allies while the rest of Berk clutched their axes and cowered in fear. If you think turning your back on him—walking away—is the answer, then go ahead and leave. But hear this: Hiccup's no coward—Unlike others. No—He's a dragon master, forging courage in a place others only see as weakness because they fear it. Anyone who abandons him now isn't just blind—they're the real cowards, too weak to stand in the fire he's kindled for us all. And mark my words, they'll soon regret it."

Your words crashed like thunder, echoing through the pit, and you stood tall, the ropes draped over your shoulder like a cloak of determination. Hiccup hovered just a few feet away, his lean frame motionless as he gazed at you—his green eyes glowing with a quiet, growing wonder.

To him, you were a revelation, a Valkyrie emerging from the haze of his hopelessness, your voice a sharp sword slicing through the mist that had clouded his mind. His chest tightened, a fresh wave of admiration unfurling within him as he saw you in a new light—not merely his loyal companion, but a fierce presence, forged from the same untamed spirit that had tied him to Toothless.

The others stirred, their uncertainty cracking beneath the weight of your resolving conviction. Fishlegs hesitated, then turned back, his round face softening as a flicker of shame melted into quiet inspiration; he gave a slow, thoughtful nod. The twins shared a quick look—Ruffnut tilted her head with a grin of approval, while Tuffnut's eyes gleamed with reckless excitement.

Astrid's lips twitched upward, a rare glint of admiration piercing her usual composure. Snotlout unfolded his arms, staring at you with a newfound intensity, as if truly seeing you for the first time—not just the quiet figure beside Hiccup, but a woman forged of steel and flame. He nodded, deliberate and grudging, respect carving itself into his posture.

You turned to meet Hiccup's gaze, giving him a steady nod. He held your look, still reeling from the force of your words, a soft flush spreading across his freckled cheeks as awe lingered in his wide, green eyes.

Tuffnut shattered the moment, strutting forward with an exaggerated swagger, his grin twisted and shadowy as he leaned into Hiccup's face. "You were wise to enlist the world's most lethal weapon," he said, his voice sinking into a dramatic, ominous growl as he waggled his fingers between them. "It's me." With a wild, toothy grin, he stepped back, striking a pose with a flamboyant flourish.

Snotlout barreled in, shoving Tuffnut aside with his bulk, sending him stumbling as he locked eyes with you, then Hiccup. "I love this plan," he announced, his voice ringing with sudden enthusiasm, fists tightening at his sides. "I'm so ready."

Ruffnut jabbed an elbow into Snotlout's ribs, her rough laugh slicing through the air as she leaned in close, her tone gritty yet playful. "You're crazy," she said, pausing as her eyes narrowed and a smirk curled her lips, her flirtation bold and unapologetic. "I like that. . ."

Astrid stepped in then, her braid swaying as she moved with purpose, pulling Ruffnut aside with a swift, practiced flick of her arm. She faced you and Hiccup, her gaze keen and focused, cutting through the chaos. "So, what's the plan then?" she asked, her voice a firm tether, grounding the group back to the task at hand.

You shifted the ropes on your shoulder, feeling the rough fibers bite deeper into your skin, and glanced at Hiccup. He drew himself up, the spark in his green eyes igniting into a fierce blaze.

"We prep the dragons," he said, his voice solid now, rough around the edges but unwavering.

"You and me," he nodded at you. "We'll get them ready while they pack light, and after that we fly out. The longboats have a four-day lead, but since Toothless knows where they're going, he'll get them there sooner than a week, not a month—however since they're all on boats we have the advantage, these dragons are faster. We catch them before they reach the nest, free Toothless, and end this war."

He turned toward the Monstrous Nightmare's cage, as the arena thrummed with fresh momentum, the gang's voices buzzing as they split off to their tasks. Fishlegs mumbled calculations about flight ratios under his breath, Snotlout shouted commands to the air, and the twins squabbled loudly over who'd claim which dragon.

Astrid shot you a brisk, approving nod before striding off to collect supplies, the faint clink of her axe ringing at her side. You stood next to Hiccup, the weight of the ropes grounding you, your earlier words still hanging in the air—a rallying call that had forged their hesitation into unbreakable resolve.

Hiccup's mind churned with gratitude and resolve. Your speech had struck him like Mjölnir, rekindling the embers he'd thought snuffed out for a moment—your voice a beacon, your faith a shield against the abyss. A warrior—a Valkyrie—of words and will who'd rallied his fractured crew. He watched as you worked to untangle the ropes, his gaze tracing your movements before settling on your lips. Almost without thinking, his feet started moving, drawing him closer to you, step by steady step.

Before he could step in front of you, a blur of motion cut through the scene—Snotlout barreled back into the pit, his broad frame jostling the stillness, a rough-hewn sack slung over his shoulder. His wild grin stretched wide, his eyes gleaming with a manic, childlike thrill, as if he'd just unwrapped a long-awaited gift.

"Alright, I've got what I need!" he bellowed, his voice booming off the walls as he skidded to a halt beside Hiccup. "Which dragon do I get?!" He bounced on his heels, the bag thumping against his back, his excitement a stark contrast to the arena's brooding weight.

Hiccup blinked, shaken from the trance of your presence that had woven around him. His head tilted, a faint shake as if clearing a fog, and his eyes darted to you again—briefly, involuntarily—catching on your lips for a heartbeat too long. A flush of confusion, of want, flickered across his face, a pull he didn’t quite understand, before he wrenched his gaze away, flustered. He turned to Snotlout, rubbing the back of his neck with a quick, awkward motion.

"Um—we'll let the dragon decide that," he said, his voice steadying as he regained his footing, though a trace of that rattled edge lingered.

Snotlout clapped a hand on Hiccup's shoulder, grinning wider, undeterred, and stood beside him, practically vibrating with anticipation.

You caught the shift in Hiccup's demeanor—the fleeting glance, the faint hitch in his breath—and a warmth stirred in your chest, mingling with the adrenaline still coursing through you. Snotlout's eagerness buzzed beside him, a chaotic counterpoint to the quiet intensity threading between you, and the pit stood poised.

The air hangs thick with tension as the others trudge back, boots scuffing against the gritty coarse stone floor of the arena. Hiccup stands resolute, his wiry frame silhouetted against the fading amber light of dusk. He gestures sharply, a silent command, and they shuffle into a rigid line before him—shoulders tense, gazes flickering between each other, a wave of unease rolling through them like a chilling gust.

Above the pit, your hands grip the rusted iron lever, the metal biting into your palms with a chill that seeps into your bones. At Hiccup's steady nod, you wrench it upward, muscles straining against the stubborn latch of the Monstrous Nightmare's cage. A groan of hinges echoes through the cavernous space as the log rose up and the heavy door grinds open. From the shadowed depths, a pair of slit eyes glints like polished embers, cutting through the gloom. The dragon's gaze locks onto Hiccup, unblinking, its massive form coiled in the corner—a predator sizing up an enigma.

Minutes crawl by, heavy with silence. The beast remains statue-still, its scales shimmering faintly with each slow breath, a living furnace of restrained power. Hiccup shifts, reaching into a burlap sack at his side. He pulls out a glistening cod, its scales catching the last slivers of sunlight, its fishy scent of salt and sea wafting into the air. The dragon's pupils flare wide for a heartbeat, a flicker of hunger piercing its stoic mask, before narrowing again as it weighs the offering against the boy who dares to stand so close.

Hiccup's movements are deliberate, his voice a low murmur barely audible over the distant crash of waves beyond the arena walls. He extends the fish, arms steady despite the weight of the moment, his posture soft but unyielding—a quiet declaration of peace. The dragon's nostrils flare, tasting the air, its ember-like eyes tracing every nuance of the boy's intent. Fear lingers in its taut muscles, a mighty creature worn thin by captivity, yet there's a spark of curiosity too, glinting beneath the surface.

A low rumble vibrates from the dragon's chest as it shifts, claws scraping faintly against the stone. It edges forward, each step a cautious dance between instinct and trust. The arena holds its breath as the Monstrous Nightmare looms closer, its jagged silhouette towering over Hiccup. Then, with a gentleness that belies its fearsome maw, it parts its jaws and takes the fish from his hand—teeth brushing the air inches from his skin, deliberate and restrained.

The dragon retreats a step, the cod vanishing in slow, savoring bites. Scales ripple as it chews, the sound a soft crunch against the stillness. Its gaze lifts to Hiccup once more, and with a tentative nudge, its snout presses against his empty hand—warm, leathery, and insistent. A plea born of hollowed hunger, etched into the gaunt lines of its frame, speaks louder than any roar ever could. It's been too long since it last ate its fill.

A faint smile cracks Hiccup's guarded expression, softening the sharp edges of his face. His fingers hover, then settle lightly on the dragon's snout, tracing the rough texture of scales worn smooth by time.

"More very soon, I promise" he whispers, the words a vow carried on the salt-laden breeze, meant only for the creature before him.

The dragon's eyes half-close, a low hum thrumming from its throat, as if it understands the weight of that promise. Hiccup steps back, slow and measured, his boots scuffing the dirt in a rhythm that coaxes the dragon to follow. The Monstrous Nightmare hesitates, then moves, its massive form unfurling from the cage's confines.

Claws click against stone, wings twitching as they taste freedom for the first time since that match. The sunset spills across the arena, painting its scales in hues of molten gold and crimson, a breathtaking contrast to the shadows it leaves behind. Together, they cross the open space, a boy and a beast bound by something unspoken yet palpable.

From their rigid line, the others watch, breaths held tight in their chests. Awe wars with terror in their wide eyes, the sight of Hiccup guiding a dragon—a Monstrous Nightmare—too surreal to fully grasp. Snotlout trembles more than the rest, his broad shoulders quaking as he shifts his weight from foot to foot. Sweat beads on his brow, glistening in the dying light, as the pair draws nearer. His hand twitches toward the ground, fingers closing around a jagged rock small enough to conceal but sharp enough to wound.

The dragon's head tilts, oblivious to the threat, its focus tethered to Hiccup. Before Snotlout can lift the stone, Astrid's hand clamps onto his wrist. Her voice is a low hiss, cutting through his panic.

"Drop it." His jaw tightens, defiance flaring, but her grip holds until the rock slips from his grasp, clattering harmlessly to the dirt.

Hiccup stops a few paces away, his eyes flicking to his cousins' pale face. He reaches out, taking the boy's arm despite the resistance that follows.

"Wait!" Snotlout's voice cracks, sharp with fear, as he yanks back, boots skidding.

Hiccup's grip remains steady, gentle but insistent. "Shh. Relax," he soothes, the words soft as a lullaby against the chaos of Snotlout's racing pulse. "It's okay, it's okay."

With care, Hiccup guides Snotlout's trembling hand forward, pressing it to the dragon's snout. The scales are warm, almost searing, and the Monstrous Nightmare rumbles—a deep, resonant purr that vibrates through Snotlout's bones immediately taking a liking to the boy and his firm strength.

Snotlouts' breath hitches, caught between dread and wonder, as the dragon leans into the touch. In that fleeting moment, an invisible thread weaves between them, fragile yet undeniable in a connection that made the boy smile—a real smile—in awe of the new friend before him.

Hiccup steps back, his boots crunching faintly, leaving Snotlout alone with the Monstrous Nightmare. The dragon's purring fills the air, his vibrations felt through the ground, a low vibration that rattles the stillness. Snotlout's eyes stay glued to the beast, his chest heaving as a high-pitched yelp escapes him.

"Where are you going!" His voice cracks, sharp with nerves, his gaze never wavering from the creature's ember-lit eyes, as if breaking contact might shatter the fragile peace.

Hiccup doesn't answer immediately. He strides toward a neat stack of ropes you'd coiled earlier, their coarse fibers glinting faintly in the dimming light. One by one, he lifts them, the weight familiar in his hands, and passes them out to the group. Each rope thuds softly into their palms—Snotlout's fingers twitch as he takes his, the others grasping theirs with varying degrees of reluctance.

Hiccup's grin breaks through, bright and unburdened. "You're going to need something to hold on to, aren't you?" His tone carries a spark of mischief.

A metallic screech cuts through the moment as you haul open the latch to the Hideous Zippleback's cage. The air grows thick, heavy with the acrid tang of smoke that billows out, curling in tendrils across the arena. Visibility fades, the sunset's glow swallowed by the haze.

Hiccup, undeterred, presses two slick, silvery fish into the twins' hands—Ruffnut and Tuffnut exchanging a glance, their bravado a flimsy mask. He guides them to the center, arms outstretched like offerings to the unknown. Their shoulders stiffen, chins jutting out in feigned courage, but their eyes betray them—wild, flickering with panic beneath the surface.

From the smoke, a single head emerges, sinuous and deliberate, its scales glinting like oil on water. The gas head of the Zippleback slithers toward Ruffnut, its movements serpentine, hypnotic. Her head tilts slightly toward Tuffnut, seeking reassurance, but Hiccup's voice cuts through the tension, steady and calm.

"It's okay," he murmurs, his hand gently steadying her arm. "Let it come to you."

She swallows hard, obeying, her arm trembling as the dragon's snout hovers closer, nostrils flaring as it scents the fish. Its breath brushes her skin, warm and faintly sulfurous, before it dips lower, inspecting her face. Her eyes squeeze shut, a reflex against the intimacy of the moment, until its jaws part delicately, claiming the fish. A rough, long-slit tongue flicks out, grazing her hand, hungry for more as it licks her palm.

Tuffnut's attention snaps to his sister, worry etching his features, until a glint of movement draws his gaze. The spark head emerges, its eyes narrowed with a mix of anger and curiosity, locking onto him. He freezes, the fish dangling from his grip as he lifts it slightly, a hesitant peace offering.

The dragon's head rears high, scales catching the light, its stare piercing. Tuffnut mirrors it, his own eyes wide and searching, a silent question hanging between them. Slowly, the spark head descends, its scrutiny unrelenting, until it blinks—a single, deliberate motion—and snatches the fish in one swift gulp, the tension easing like a held breath released.

The gas head nudges Ruffnut again, its touch gentle now, almost affectionate, while the spark head lingers on Tuffnut. Their gazes hold, a quiet acknowledgment passing between them, a bond taking root in the shared stillness. The smoke swirls, a witness to their tentative truce, as the twins stand bound to their twin-headed companion.

Next, Fishlegs shuffles forward, his bulk betraying him with every quaking step. His legs wobble visibly, knees knocking as Hiccup raises a hand, signaling you above. The latch of the Gronckle's cage groans open, and the arena trembles with the dragon's arrival. It doesn't emerge with caution—it bursts forth, a furious buzz of wings and a snarl of defiance, slamming against the cage's edge before launching into the air. Dust kicks up in its wake, the sound of its flight a low roar that sets your teeth on edge.

The Gronckle hovers, its stubby wings beating against the smoke-laden air, its beady eyes darting between the other dragons and their newfound riders. Confusion stalls its aggression, a flicker of doubt in its bristling posture. Then its gaze lands on Hiccup, and instinct takes over.

It dives, a familiar charge aimed straight for him, its growl reverberating off the stone walls. But Hiccup only smiles, unflinching, his hands already cradling a fistful of dragonnip. The scent hits the air—earthy, pungent—and the Gronckle falters mid-flight. Its tail wags, a comical pendulum, and it crashes to the ground with a thud, belly flopping against the dirt in eager submission.

Hiccup's laughter rings out, clear with joy, as he turns to Fishlegs. The boy's hands shield his face, his frame shrinking as if he could vanish into the shadows. Hiccup steps closer, pressing the dragonnip into Fishlegs' clammy palm, and nudges him forward.

"Hold it out," he urges, voice soft but firm.

Fishlegs complies, arm trembling as the Gronckle bounds toward him, its tongue lolling out in a frenzy of delight. The dragon's rough licks coat his hand, slobber glistening in the fading light, and Fishlegs' nervous giggle escapes—tight and shaky at first, then blooming into something genuine, a burst of joy as the Gronckle's tail thumps the ground like a drumbeat.

Astrid stands apart, the last in line, her stance a careful balance of anticipation and restraint. The air feels heavier around her, tinged with the memory of a past encounter—a sharp strike she'd once landed on the Deadly Nadder's head. Her fingers flex at her sides, betraying the excitement that thrums beneath her guarded exterior, tempered by a quiet hope that the dragon's memory isn't as long as her own. She shifts her weight, the dirt crunching beneath her boots, her breath shallow but steady.

Hiccup steps closer, his presence a grounding force amid the chaos of scales and smoke. "It's alright," he says, his voice low and even, cutting through the knot of tension in her chest. "Let her come to you. Just be calm and hold the salmon out. Show her you mean no harm." His words carry a quiet certainty, as she nods once, sharply, and turns her focus forward.

Above, your hands find the final lever, the cold iron slick with the day's dampness. With a firm pull, you release the latch, the mechanism grinding open with a reluctant creak that echoes faintly across the pit. Inside the cage, the Deadly Nadder stirs, roused from a slumber so deep it might have been mistaken for a hen brooding over an unseen clutch.

Her eyes flutter open, blinking against the intrusion of light, and she stretches her wings—vibrant feathers catching the last embers of the sunset—before stepping out. Her head tilts, first one way, then the other, her vision adjusting as she surveys the unfamiliar expanse.

The scent of the salmon in Astrid's hand wafts through the air, rich and briny, drawing the Nadder's attention like a lodestone. She moves forward, talons clicking against the stone, her gait steady and unafraid. Astrid mirrors her, determination hardening the lines of her face, her wide blue eyes locking onto the dragon's yellow ones with an intensity that feels almost tangible.

The Nadder's jaws part wide, a silent invitation, and Astrid tosses the fish with a flick of her wrist. It arcs through the air and lands perfectly, swallowed in a single, graceful motion as her head tilted—like a bird swallowing its meal.

Astrid lifts her hand, palm open and waiting, the gesture fragile yet bold. The Nadder pauses, her head cocking as she studies the offered palm with a flicker of confusion. Then, slowly, she leans forward, nostrils flaring as she sniffs the air, the warmth of her breath brushing Astrid's skin.

At last, she presses her snout into the hand, scales cool and smooth against flesh. A laugh bubbles up from Astrid, bright and unguarded, and the Nadder responds with a gleeful flap of her wings, the sound a sharp rustling chirp that cuts through the arena's stillness.

Around them, the other riders meld into their new bonds—Snotlout's hesitant pats growing surer, the twins trading wary glances with their Zippleback, Fishlegs still chuckling as the Gronckle nuzzles his hand. Hiccup drifts among them, offering quiet guidance, his silhouette weaving through the haze like a thread stitching the scene together. The dragons' rumbles and chirps blend into a strange harmony, a testament to the fragile trust taking root.

Your boots hit the arena floor as you descend from the upper ledge, the impact sending a faint jolt up your legs. You weave past the burlap sack of fish, its damp fabric brushing your arm, and pluck one from the pile—its size modest, perfect for what waits ahead.

The final cage looms before you, smaller than the rest, its latch a simple bar you lift with ease. The Terrible Terror inside bursts forth, a blur of scales and speed that forces you to spin on your heels to track it. Larger than your own Menace, yet still compact, it skids to a halt, nostrils twitching as the fish's scent hooks its attention.

You sink to your knees, the stone cool beneath you, and hold the fish out, your voice a soft coo that lilts through the air. "Come on, little one, it's yours."

The Terror's eyes—bright, inquisitive—fix on the prize, and it scampers closer, claws tapping a rapid rhythm. Hiccup approaches, his steps measured, and kneels beside you, close enough that the warmth of him brushes your side. He watches as the dragon takes the fish, its tiny jaws working slowly, savoring each bite with a deliberation that belies its earlier haste.

A gentle laugh escapes you, light and unforced, as the Terror's tail flicks in contentment—much like Menace you thought. Hiccup's gaze shifts from the dragon to you, his smile softening into something deeper—fondness etching itself into the corners of his eyes, the curve of his mouth. The arena fades for a moment, the clamor of dragons and riders dimming, leaving only the quiet space between you.

Hiccup's hand finds yours, his calloused fingers wrapping around your own with a quiet urgency as he pulls you both to your feet. The dirt clings to your knees, a faint grit against your skin, as he leads you toward the others. The night has settled fully now, the last traces of sunset swallowed by a sky thick with stars and the pale glow of the moon. Shadows stretch long and jagged across the arena, the air cooling with each passing moment.

"Get ready to fly," Hiccup calls out, his voice cutting through the murmur of dragons and riders. His tone is firm, laced with purpose. "Once we're back with what we need, we're leaving."

The group shifts, their silhouettes tense against the dark—Snotlout clutching his rope a little tighter, Astrid smoothing a hand over the Nadder's scales, the twins exchanging a quick, nervous glance. Hiccup turns to you, a nod sealing the plan, and together you stride out of the arena, the crunch of gravel underfoot fading into the night.

Outside, he pauses, the moonlight catching the sharp angles of his face. "Meet me a few steps from the arena," he says, his gaze flickering with something unspoken. "I need to tell you something." Before you can respond, he's off, his lanky frame disappearing toward his house, leaving you standing in the cool, quiet dark.

You make your way to your own home, the familiar path lit only by the moon's silver sheen. Inside, the air smells of baked bread and smoked fish, a comfort you quickly set to work dismantling. Your bag lies open on the floor, and you pack with ruthless efficiency—sacrificing space for the essentials.

One spare set of clothes is all you allow yourself, the rest filled with spices and herbs tied in small bundles, extra cloths for wrapping food, the last of your dense loaves, strips of jerky, and the smoked cod you'd prepared for journeys like this. The weight of it all presses against your shoulders as you hoist your largest—full leather waterskin, its contents sloshing faintly.

Menace chirps from her perch near the hearth. You scoop her up, her scales warm against your hands, and settle her into the leather carrier you'd crafted—a snug sling that straps across your back, designed for flights with Hiccup and Toothless. She nestles in, cooing with contentment, her tiny claws flexing against the material as you shoulder your loadon the opposite shoulder and head back into the night after having put the fire in the hearth out.

Hiccup waits where he'd promised, a small bag slung over his shoulder, a pouch of dragonnip tied to his hip, its earthy scent drifting faintly on the breeze. His waterskin hangs at his side, and a spare set of clothes bulges the pack slightly.

"Hey," he says, a warm smile cutting through the dimness as he steps toward you.

"Hey," you answer, shifting the load on your back. "Brought the food since I know no one else bothered."

He chuckles, the sound bright and easy. "Did you at least pack some clothes?"

"Of course," you retort, a grin tugging at the corner of your mouth.

The walk back to the arena is quiet, the moon's glow painting the world in muted silvers and grays. Your footsteps fall in sync, a steady beat against the quiet, until Hiccup falters mid-stride, his pace slowing. His hand twitches, as if reaching for words he can't quite grasp.

You glance at him, brow furrowing. "Are you alright?"

"Oh yeah! Yeah—never better," he blurts, his voice cracking oddly as he flashes a strained smile. His eyes dart to you, then skitter away, too fleeting to linger.

"Hiccup," you say, your tone flat, unmoved by the flimsy lie.

He lets out a breath, shoulders dipping as the pretense fades. "Seriously, I am. Thanks to you more than anything. Am I nervous still? Of course. But I just—I'm starting to realize something." His glance flicks to you again, brief and searching. "And it's strange. Something I'm not really sure of yet."

Concern creases your face, and you pivot, walking backward to face him fully as you both press on. "What is it?" The question lands with weight, your eyes fixed on his, unwavering.

A flush creeps up his neck, faint but undeniable even in the moonlight's soft glow. His mind churns, tangled in the memory of earlier—the sudden, inexplicable urge to kiss you catching him off guard. His best friend. The thought twists in his chest, unfamiliar and unsteady. He rubs the back of his neck, fingers digging into the skin as he wrestles with it—too uncertain to voice, too risky to confess—dangerous to admit—especially now, with a dragon fight looming and the nagging doubt that his mind might just be messing with him.

"I just hope we all get to them before it's too late," he says instead, his voice leveling out as he steers the conversation elsewhere. "And that we'll be okay getting there."

You stop short, making him stumble to a halt mid-stride. Leaning in—closer than he's ready for—your face draws near, your breath a warm contrast to the night's chill. His pulse spikes, heat surging from his neck to his ears, his fair skin betraying him even in the dark's faint cover.

"We'll get there, Hiccup," you say, your words deliberate and firm, a smile tugging at your lips.

"And we'll get there just fine. We have the dragon master with us." You give him a light, playful nudge, stepping back with a glint of satisfaction in your eyes, clearly enjoying the chance to tease him.

His face still burns, the flush scorching beneath his collar, and he silently thanks the darkness for concealing what his skin can't hide. You turn and march off, leaving him frozen for a beat. A shaky breath slips out, one he didn't know he'd been holding until the sound of your footsteps dwindled. With a quick shake of his head, he jogs after you, falling into step as the arena's shadowed outline rises into view.

The others are ready when you arrive, their dragons shifting restlessly in the dark—wings fluttering, tails thudding against the ground, eyes flashing like scattered constellations. They nod at you both, a quiet sign they're ready, their ropes clutched firmly in hand. Hiccup steps up, his smile broad and unguarded, a flicker of thrill cutting through the haze of uncertainty.

"Alright," he says, his voice sharp and steady. "Let's fly."

This is Chapter 10 to this Hiccup series -> Masterlist here. Previous Chapter : Next Chapter

Gifs/edits, dividers + template credit to #uservampyr my co-writer + beta reader ♡

Lovely tag list ~ @kikikittykis | @icantcryicantstopcrying | @teeesthings | @ph4nt0m19

#chapter 10 of maelstrom #hiccup haddock #httyd hiccup #hiccup and toothless #hiccup how to train your dragon #hiccup x reader #hiccup fanfic #httyd fanfic #httyd x reader #toothless #httyd #how to train your dragon #hiccup haddock x reader #dragons #race to the edge #maelstrom #rtte

164 notes · View notes

honestsycrets · 2 years ago

Text

before anyone else I: the venerable [admiral!miguel o'hara x princess!reader]

❛ pairing | admiral!miguel o'hara x princess!reader

❛ type | one-shot, sfw (minor past suggestive themes)

❛ summary | once upon a time, miguel loved a princess. upon learning about her engagement to his father, King Stone, he's back with a plan in hand.

❛ tags | forced marriage, arranged marriage, historical period not defined, royal!au, admiral!miguel, princess!reader, mention of character death, elements of implied treason and betrayal, some angst, some fluff, annoyed miguel, lyla makes trouble, self edited, f!reader, persuasion inspired, a kiss, innocent!reader, Spanish is not translated, a kiss.

❛ sy's notes | no requests were fulfilled; filled to meet this poll.

An imperial boat docks. It waves in the water a little off-kilter, pulling to the right in all its glorious majesty. On the dock itself, the head of ground forces stood dressed in full regalia, all navy blue and white, the gold buttons glistening in the fresh morning light. Jess expected this day would one day come. The seamen shouted among one another on the ship until at last the crew outstretched a thick oak plank. Boots bounded down the strong wooden ramp leading from an imperial ship to the dock. The awaiting crowd was rough and rowdy, casting bellowing screams at the admiral and his crew.

“There he is!” Jess boomed, clapping her umber hands together.

They were freckled, with the frequency of her exposure to the sun. Today, her skin was shielded by a heavy coat. She abandoned the thing over her chair as she wrote letters, recommendations, and battle orders. But she preferred it when her poet shirt was thrown open, teaching the men and women in her charge.

Admiral Miguel O’Hara led the charge, passing by the lackeys throwing down trade goods from the belly of the boat. Compared to Jess, his clothing was rough, punctuated by his time at the sea. What use was there for a thick coat with the spray of sea spray daily? No, he stood in dark brown breeches and a thrown open poet-shirt, sodden with sea water, likely from dealing with whatever injury brought his ship back to this usually forgotten port.

He was glad to be back on the Spanish shore, if only it weren’t this shore and the many stairs he would have to brave to get to the castle while the engineers worked on the Venerable. Miguel loosened the sweat from his coarse locks, his shoulders bunched and ready for another fight. He came to a stop in front of Jess, exhaling deep, rage-filled breaths. Jess shifted back on her boot heel, a grimace on her countenance.

“That’s a pretty good hole. She’s taking on water quick. You hit something, Miguel?”

“Me? No, I don’t hit rocks.” Miguel snorted, casting a look over his shoulder to the woman that stood at his side. Lyla’s eyes averted, not quite saying anything and saying everything at the same time. Lyla obscured herself behind her thick honey-brown bob. “Someone was distracted with the king’s cask of Carribean rum.”

“Lyla?” Jess came up behind her, grasping her shoulders for emphasis. “No. Our Lyla couldn’t’ve done that number.”

“It was once! One in eight years.”

“Those... those changes you wrote me about. They have you on edge, paranoid. Let’s have a drink with the imperial guard. They have missed you.”

Miguel threw a hiss back at the two as he stormed up the stairs, bundling buttons of his dirty poet shirt to obscure the sight of his dark chest from onlookers, namely the sex-deprived women and men of the capital whose hungry eyes ogled his crew. He didn’t need a loon bothering him right now, not here, he might punch them into a permanent, instantaneous sleep.

“Oh, come, Miguel, these things happen. Look how sorry she is.” She says as if he cares. Jess rushed to catch up with him, the beads on the ends of her braids snatching and clicking. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, his head heavy. He doesn’t have time for this.

“What she meant to do is as much irrelevant as it was irresponsible. If you’ll excuse me, Jess, I now have to prepare a new ship to set sail.”

“The king wants to see you. It’s about her,” she shouted. Miguel’s steps came to all but a grinding halt, his finger fingers flexing into a tight fist. His mouth was dry, and it wasn’t due to a lack of hydration but the mention of your name on Jess’s lips. She brought her hands to her hips, her hands on the golden embroidered loops. His face sagged, all irritation melding into something different, inscrutable. He threw her a look.

“Fine.”

But first-- he had to get this sea stank off of his skin.

“Admiral O’Hara! There is just the man I have been looking for. Come, come, let me pour you tea. No? No tea? Of course not, it seems I don’t remember the boy I used to know. You’re a man now. And one of decisive action! Coffee, yes? You are better suited to black coffee. Am I correct?”

Everyone thinks he is thirsty in this blasted place.

He didn’t belong here. He was, as he preferred to be, stuck at sea. The unforgiving sea required his attention lest his men befall a terrible end. He could handle that burden. He stood below a great sigil of a sea dragon whirling to chew its tail. Its hands secured a great many orbs in its sharp, jeweled talons. His eye tracked across the inside of the crest, turning over the word hopelessly on his tongue.

“Rum,” he answered caustically, his eye dropping from the great sigil before him to the jeweled sapphire and emeralds that were embedded in the floor. Between rows of sentinel were porcelain statues, their hands wrapped around blunt and aged swords, their fingers almost palpable on the artifacts that remained from times of old. The deep navy blue curtains and tapestries are detailed in ineffectual teal. He never cared for the other assortment of pots and jars that were so-called mythical artifacts and rolls of paper that would soon house the king’s poorly-made royal decrees.

“Aha! A good seaman and his alcohol,” the king minced his laughter. The noise aggravated him, the memory of the man’s words buzzing in the back of his head. Now he kissed up to him. How he’d fallen. He blinked up to the royal crest, then down to the aged king. His long, grey hair at the middle of his back reflected his many losses. Miguel turned his eyes back down to the king, eyes crinkling at the corners, taking a glimpse of him. His tone slipped. “It makes the time pass more tolerably, does it not?”

“It does.”

He pops open a glass bottle of rum, pouring it into a cup encrusted with more fine jewels. Miguel doesn’t drink.

"I suppose you want me to get to the point.”

That would be a nice change, yes. His eyes held modest deference, his heavy dark brown boots pacing toward a hearth in the middle of the king’s study. Wisps of vibrant blue fire threw embers into the air. He finds himself staring at a stained glass effigy of your mother. A woman who undoubtedly would have been ashamed of the husband that stood before him now.

“You recall my daughter,” How could he not? He released a small grunt, an acknowledgment of the king’s words. Mindful of his reaction, Miguel turned his hands over the hot air, plumes of warmth kissing his sun-worn cheeks. As the king spoke, the flickering flames warmed the slight ring on his thick fingers. “I’ve arranged her marriage to Lord Stone. An alliance of sorts.”

Miguel’s eyes go wide, aghast, staring into the blank flames. He grits his teeth together, the thin blade of his patience whittling down with every word from the king. He kills his face of the horrified, fleeting emotions that dappled his skin like obvious spots. He might have snapped a look at the king before his eyes calmed, trained to maintain the illusion of composure.

“How unfortunate.”

“King Stone?” around the corner, his second-in-command squeaked. He should have left her outside. Miguel brought his hand to cup his slight forehead, throwing her a warning look. “That old coot is still--”

“Lyla.”

“Yes, he is quite old, isn’t he? I was surprised when he asked for her hand in marriage, truly,” the king said tightly, born in annoyance. He has gone ashy, eyes desolate as he recounts the death of the prince, or perhaps his own. “I would have preferred an engagement to his son. I trust you heard about his assassination. It was a great surprise. A tragedy, indeed.”

“We have heard many things about it. I am surprised that you would agree to such an alliance after what he's done.”

It was impossible not to hear rumors in the ports he sailed through. Miguel did not only hold to royal ports but those that held slimy crowds of pirates and prostitutes. If he did not, he would never have the truth behind the many rumors that swirled through the air. Women in richer towns had time to spread rumors. Those suffering from poverty had no time for them. Their lives were ones of perpetual struggle. What use had they for the death of stupid princes?

“Feelings change.”

Did they really--

“Miguel. Truly, I understand your apprehension. But unless you have the magic to raise my dead sons from the grave, I have no choice.” The king sighed, beating his old knuckles on the game board. He’d sacrifice another child for his own safety-- the illusion of it. Coward. “I must know if I can I trust you with her transport.”

“She won’t last.” Miguel stared at him, breathing the words out, his frown darkening the rest of his features. “She is a balm to any battle-worn king, but Stone is not just old. He is dangerous. If you send her there, you will send her to her death.”

“His wives are well cared for,” your father argued mildly because it was not him who would face the rest of a lifetime with Stone. He brought a fist to his mouth and bit down upon it, a vestige of the man he used to be. “Perhaps your feelings for her cloud your judgement.”

“I can separate my feelings from my professional judgements, mi rey.”

“Yes. I suppose you can, admiral. How long has it been since you bore the responsibility of being the Head of Guards? Seven years?”

“Eight,” Miguel cropped, his hand shifting to the top of his pommel. “It has been eight years since I left the crown city.”

“Head of ground forces regulates my guard now. I find them lacking,” he grabbed Miguel’s cup of undrunk rum and threw it back, his tongue snapping against the roof of his tongue. He felt for the sentinel of guards in the room. “My soldiers, that is. If they had been stronger, perhaps my sons would still be alive.”

Be it like him to find fault in everyone but his own battle choices.

“But I am ever humbled by your selfless service, mi hijo,” he spoke mildly, “Please know it isn’t a decision I make lightly. I know my daughter. She would feel more secure if you were the one to take her to Stone.”

They were nice words from a soon-to-be puppet king. Miguel turned his gaze onward, locating Lyla by his side. Her small, scarred hands warmed themselves over the ancient blue flame. A surge of heat turned over in his stomach, punctured by a fear he hadn’t felt in a while. He steadied his voice.

“I would not be so certain.” Miguel wrinkled his forehead, throwing a look that looked almost off-kilter. After this many years, would it be easy to face you again? No, he decided. Not for this purpose. “Soft women are fickle to easy words.”

What of me?

Not you, Lyla. You’re not soft.

“If you do not want to, I can send her by way of Jess,” a long sigh slipped off the king’s lips. Then quiet, only broken by a clatter and Lyla’s frantic attempt to replace game pieces into their proper position. Miguel swayed to where she was, grabbing the head of a miniature oak knight and popping it into the proper position.

“For her sake, I will deliver her.”

Miguel said nothing more. He failed to wait for the king to dismiss him, perhaps out of confidence in their relationship, that this was not something he had to tread lightly around. Lyla rushed by his side, the wordless guards drawing the heavy doors open to the wide stone hallway before them.

“You cannot take her there,” Lyla spoke with a rigidity that Miguel admired, mindful of the volume of her words, only a whisper. “Your father is--”

“Yes, Lyla, I know very well.”

“Then what next?”

At the end of the hall, Miguel rushed down the steps, out of the king’s chambers, and into lush, almost stabilizing grass. Free of the constricting walls that he would have once called home, Miguel took in the fresh air, his hands behind his neck. To take you there meant certain death. To not take you there, well, he regarded both just as poorly. The fat roses bobbed on their pointy stems. Miguel expects to see you there, with your chambermaids, eating fruits on an Arab blanket.

“We take Jess up on her offer. She’ll be expecting me.”

“Miguel, the intent in horseback riding is that your ride the horse.”

“You know, on top,” Lyla jumps onto Jess’s sentence. “He hasn’t been on top of anything in years--”

“And break its back?” Miguel held the reins in his thick fist. The horse, a chunky mocha and white painted thing was a profit from his voyages overseas. Not only was it subjected to awful sea travel, but now to have a man of muscle on its back? With his newfound speed, it was a risk he did not need to take. “No. I have two feet. I can walk.”

Miguel was many things, but he wasn’t a monster. Or so he liked to think.

“I think you’re quite sweet, Admiral O'Hara.” Jess’s own guard, Gwen, spoke. She was a willowy thing, barely a sprout of a woman with a good heart. He could tell. Miguel looked down, opting for silence as he crunched down full blades of grass under his foot.

“Miguel doesn’t like compliments,” Lyla said.

He also didn’t like long, relaxing walks in the valley. Jess proposed something like drinking in her office. It would have been glorious-- but Lyla, whose recent binge nearly scuttled his ship, chose a good ol’fashioned horseback ride. Something that didn’t remind her of sitting on the patchwork doll that was the Venerable.

“The princess would marry someone she does not know?”

Dread filled Miguel’s stomach at the words, the truth in them half-cocked and wrong. He found no words on his tongue that could fit the weight of bitterness that he felt about the arranged marriage. Everyone knew, everyone but Gwen. She was a young thing.

“It’s not her choice,” Lyla spoke in your defense. “It’s her father’s.”

“Forced marriages are a thing of the past. They are not right. Has the princess ever even met Lord Stone?” Gwen asked.

In less than a week’s time, following the festival of roses, they would sail eastward. Or, so said the sailing plans he laid out for Jess. Who, for her part, looked away. Lyla and he exchanged a glance of mutual understanding. That was what he liked to call a sign.

“No, before their deaths, her brothers never would have allowed her travel to Alche. This whole alliance is a sham. We’re expected to deliver the princess in some false faith that he keeps this so-called alliance. He will not. I cannot decide if the king truly believes in this alliance or if he is hopeful he will remain as a ruler. In either case, it is foolish. Stone would murder his own legitimate heir and for what?”

Except they aren’t his words. Those words flowed freely from Jess’s lips.

“The king will fall.”

“Miguel. Those are treasonous—“

“Treasonous? He is incapable of governing.”

“The council helps him,” Jess says, but the words come out slanted. She convinces herself as much of the truth as him. Gwen’s lips close, looking down to the sword at her side, then back to Jess’s troubled eyes. Miguel had her where he wanted her. Where she wanted to be-- abandoning this foolish faith in a man who long since gave up hope on a strong, independent nation.

“A counsel of plants. Five of his sons have fallen. If this keeps up, we will fall next.”

Jess felt the words running bone-deep.

“You have a plan.”

He always did.

The deep night sky was a sea of twinkling stars. Oil lamps illuminated the solitary garden. Miguel fit his hands in balls on his hips, eyes flickering from the blades of grass to the long stems of lilies. He breathed softly, drawing in breaths that should have been relaxing, but morphed into something awful, some unfiltered fear of the failure of his plans.

“These are her gardens, aren’t they?”

“They are,” Miguel answered. “If nothing has changed, she cares for them herself and harvests them with the peasants. She’ll be here, tomorrow, for her last harvest as a princess.”

On one hand, overturning the king and his council could go seamlessly. He had Jess, that much was for certain. Gwen, who seemed to go with her bidding, held a good heart about the ethics of arranged marriage. She turned her nose up at it, the suggestion that you would be forced into a marriage with an old, cruel king. Lyla, his Lyla, held no apprehension to the plan. She treated him with deference, seeking only his happiness as his best friend.

Would this-- being king-- make him happy?

Miguel looked down. Soft pink roses, ripe and ready for the rose-picking festival. Your last, if things went to your father’s plan. He hadn’t thought about it: about how you might feel in the push for another engagement. Not one to an aged, cruel man-- but… he never thought to find you, to ask. He wasn’t sure he could stomach the rejection and yet still force you into a marriage with him.

It wasn’t that he wanted to-- but had to.

Miguel turned his hand into the suit vest across his chest, removing a bit of aged parchment with a broken wax seal. He turned his finger over the old ink. In every interaction I face, I long to spot you, hidden among the roses, the lilies, to be one of the heads of delighted harvesters. But you are not here. You are never here. I fear you never may be.

“Miggy,” Lyla said. “Miggy look.”

Miguel lifted his head to look at Lyla. She wasn’t looking at him, peering across the garden, somewhere Miguel couldn’t see from where he stood. He lifted his dark brown boots, stomping around the corner. His sharp red eyes were wide in shock, bags of exhaustion lifted by your sight. Had it-- really been eight years?

Panic works in tandem with longing. He could run for Jess’s chambers, crumple there like the very coward that ran this fastly crumbling kingdom. Face you another day. He couldn’t help but indulge himself in the gentle lilt of your voice, the way you rolled the ‘r’ on his last name, even though it was very much not an ‘r’ to be rolled.

“Is that you, Miguel O’Hara? ¿De verdad?”

No, Miguel thought. Not yet.

His mind was overwrought, more stimulation than he had in months of battling the sea. He could climb ropes, fix sails, fight pirates, throw out orders, and care for the ports. No issue. None. But as you stood there, looking finer than any treasure he ripped from the hands of the most experienced of pirates, he found himself unable to locate his practiced words.

You were meant to be his. To be by his side. Of that much, he was certain. Miguel folded the letter in his hand and tucked it back into his dark coat, exploring your gown. A light, white off-the-shoulder dress, embroidered in teal and ombre details, with the most beautiful seafoam bowed sash. You pulled at the rebozo over your long dripping sleeves, the jewels of your hairpieces tinking together as you moved, pulling up your skirts saucily over your ankle.

“Is it not the admiral?” your handmaiden whispered.

“I did not know he was back,” said the other.

“Please excuse us, girls. Lady Lyla, I would prefer a private audience with the admiral. If you would,”

“Of course! Of course, come, hurry up, you're slow--” Lyla did not need to be told twice. She made herself scarce, grabbing the mid-backs of the girls, forcing them up the steps and out of sight. Miguel dipped down to take a lantern that one of the girls had forgotten.

“Hola, mi amor,”

Miguel turned around, offering you his forearm. Your jeweled eyes fell on it. You took his broad arm with one hand, minding the train of your dress in the other. The pads of your fingers shifted along the muscle. It took a moment for him to register your curious touch. The increase in his muscle mass, particularly as of late, must have been jarring. His brows knit together, his eyes crinkling around the edges in a way that reflected his age by sea. You moved through your gardens. Miguel, your ever-patient servant, followed your lead.

At night time, your garden was impossibly beautiful. It was lined by bushels of healthy, salt-tolerant roses, cloaked in the secret of darkness. Miguel remembered the small pond as if it were yesterday, the secret place of his youth. Small bugs sang in the heaviness of your mutual silence, breaking with the pop of your lips.

“I saw you had a letter in your hands. From a woman, perhaps?”

He lifted his hand, offering the lack of a marriage band. No wife, not even a love on a distant shore. The memory of your kisses, your bodies strewn in bed, overrode any ability for him to find another woman. What happened to your eyes-- you began, reaching to touch him. He turned his face away. You were the first to notice. Or, perhaps, just unbothered by tethers of propriety.

“You are still unmarried? Then why did you never answer my letters?”

“What would you have me say, princesa?” Miguel’s words came at last. He hadn’t meant them to come out the way they did. A long, painful lament on his tongue, marked with barbs. “You chose your family over my proposal. Your rejection was quite clear.”

“You, above everyone else, should know it was not an easy choice. I could not have told them the truth.” You sat down on your stone bench, fixing your skirts. “You would have hung.”

“Yes... well. How funny is it that they are now dead,” he bit out. “While I stand here alive.”

Your eyes were bright, watery, bits of tears slipping down from the corners of your eyes, over pink blush at your cheeks. Shit, he hadn't meant to say that. A slow breath leaked from his mouth. You stood up, brushing the tears away with the flowing sleeves. It hurt to see your pain well to the surface.

“Miggy, I know you hate them, but please don’t talk ill of the dead. They did what they thought was best for our nation and nothing more.”

Right-- to secure the possibility of an alliance through an arranged marriage, how charitable of them. You stood before a bushel of roses, turning your eyes over the fat blooms as an excuse not to look at him. You poisoned your mind with the lies of your father and brothers. He turned you, lip trembling.

“What of what was best for you?” His hand found your cheek, rolling away the tears that spilled openly before those in the garden. The sentinel who watched, the flowers that grew in peace. You leaned into his touch, eyes closing at the comforting warmth that welled up in your chest. He was here, again. “That has always been the only thing that I am concerned with.”

“I know. My brothers couldn’t understand. They only understood politics.”

“What of your father? He knows how I feel.” Miguel said. The words were smooth and soft, gentle like the sill waters of your pond. “He may not know that I was your first--”

“Miggy,”

“Your virginity belongs to me. Stone cannot take it,” he punctuates the words. They seem to draw some ancient feelings loose, drawing back with your hand to your chest, cooling the heat that bubbled in your chest at the mere memory. His voice milded out, a smile warring at the corners of his lips. Eight years, and he knew you thought of that very warm summer’s night on the pavilion. "But your father would still allow you to live in misery."

You're not thinking of your father when Miguel speaks of such silly, youthful things. It's hurled into the past.

“You remember.” The tone in his voice pulled at a question, but he asked none. You tugged on your rebozo and turned away from Miguel once more, embarrassed. He couldn’t resist. His hands cupped your slight shoulders, rippled with goosebumps, though it was not a cold night out. His lips worked on your ears, kissing the delicate earrings that dripped from your earlobes. “The last day of the rose harvest.”

“Miggy, not here.”

“Your guards fell ill for their night shift. I took their place. You bathed in petals and perfumed your skin that night. I dare say, on purpose. You were so good for me.”

The memory must have made you clench, your blood runs warm, leaning into the soft kiss he set behind your ear, the scrape of his fang. Oh, stars, you cried.

“We should stop, my father--”

“Knows what love we have. Even if he is a spineless coward.”

“Have? Miggy?”

He held his chin level, swaying where he stood, seeking some acknowledgment that your feelings had not changed. For what seemed like the hundredth time that night, you faced him. In place of a response, silence was the best course of action. A grim smile worked on his face, his head pounding with the lack of alcohol, that little friend of his that had made these years pass so easily. You tugged him forward.

“You are mine?” you ask.

“I am yours. I am loyal to you before anyone else.”

To his surprise, you held out your hand, your fingers twiddling at him.

“Then prove your loyalty to me.” You hummed. “Give me that letter. I want it.”

“You can’t trust me, can you?” He sighed, slipping his hand into his coat pocket. Finally pulling it free, he unraveled it. Its crispy, flaked edges slipped from your fingertips. The royal seal glimmered in your eyes, wrought in sudden delight at your own handwriting.

“This is mine. And you’ve kept it so close to your heart this whole time? Oh, Miggy,”

“Don’t start,” Miguel took a step away, rubbing the frustration out of his forehead. Blood rushed to Miggy’s dark face. He should be so lucky that it was night, that the moon was not full, and that you would not weaponize it. You plucked up your skirts, daring a twirl, jewelry jingling, skirts whirling. His lips pulled in a smile at your delight, a party all on your own. Congratulations on your victory, he wanted to say, as if it hadn't resulted in years of endless longing.

“I knew it.”

“You did not,” Miguel bit out, kicking out his feet over the inky blades of glass. “You interrogated me regarding its source. Another woman when I have a princess? How asinine.”

“Oh, Miggy. If you write me a letter, just one,” you settled it back in his coat jacket. “I can be at peace with this marriage. I’ll close my eyes and think of you.”

His mind reeled at your words. He shot you a wan look, which you returned with a confused flicker of your long lashes, wondering what you said that was so wrong. Miguel looked toward the armed guards, men who-- in the day, he served with. He trusts them in a way that is unique to service under the crown-- to you.

“What sort of man do you take me for?” he bit out, his tone tapering dangerously low. “To think I would allow you to marry that man?”

“What choice do I--”

“You listen to your father regarding the oddest things. You would marry an archaic sack of shit but not the love of your life.”

“Oh,” breath punched from your chest, exhaled in a shaky breath. Your hand came to your chest, twiddling the jewelry at your chest. Miguel turned his head back to face yours, his scarlet eyes trained on yours. “I wasn’t aware of your offer.”

He couldn’t help it. Not anymore. The time at sea, eight years of suppressed pleasure through memories of your warmth, and the letters you sent all culminated in overcoming longing. He dipped down, his lips sliding against yours. He swept his tongue past your lips, drawing you closer with a stabilizing hand behind your back. He was many things, but never a coward, savoring the tender taste of fig and honey and you on your lips. You were as sweet as he remembered. His lips parted, words barely a puff.

“I don't believe I ever retracted it, Princesa.”

Yes, you say delightfully. He wonders if you'll still say yes after you learn of what he's done. He doesn't always like the decisions he has to make-- but they're for your good. One day, perhaps, you'll understand.

#miguel ohara oneshot #miguel o'hara x you #miguel x reader #miguel o'hara oneshot #miguel ohara x reader #miguel x you #miguel x y/n #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara/reader #atsv imagines #atsv au #atsv imagine #atsv x reader #atsv miguel imagine #atsv x you #atsv angst #miguel o'hara angst #royalty au

749 notes · View notes