Hiccups point of view:
It's been One year.
A full orbit around the sun since I got isekai'd into this Viking meat grinder. And what a year it's been. Let me tell you, being a baby with a teenager's brain is a special kind of hell. You're basically a prisoner in a soggy, uncooperative meat-suit.
The "fun" started right after I popped out. Stoick presented me to the village the next day, holding me up like a prize fish he'd just caught that turned out to be undersized and not to his liking.
I could see their faces. The warriors, the hunters, even some of the other woman Vikings. Their looks said it all. Runt. Weakling. Disappointment.
I made a mental note of every single one of them. Frankly, I couldn't care less. They're all just sheep in wolf pelts, following their chief's orders without a single original thought between them.
It's pathetic. There have been many Generations of Vikings on this rock, and not one of them had the brainpower to figure out the solution to the dragon problem. You want to find a hornet's nest? You follow a hornet. It's not rocket science. I mean it's a basic hunting strategy!!! You let the predator escape and it will always run towards its territory or in this case their nest.
But the worst part, the thing that truly makes my blood boil, are the raids.
Every time the horn blows and the shouting starts, my stomach twists. I'm always left behind, bundled in the house with Gothi watching over me, listening to the chaos outside. My parents are out there in the thick of it, and I know exactly what they're each doing.
Mom is out there, trying to lessen the bloodshed. I can see it in her eyes before she leaves—a desperate, sad hope. She's probably trying to reason, to protect, to do something other than killing everything on site, in my eyes she is a saint. And Dad... Dad is doing what he does best. Being a blunt instrument of death. He's out there hacking and smashing, killing creatures I know are just scared, hungry animals following orders of their own in order to survive. Every roar of pain from a dragon feels like a personal insult. They're magnificent creatures and he's turning them into trophies to be proud of.
On top of the existential dread, I've had to deal with the... logistics of babyhood.
Let's just say there was an incident with breastfeeding. A very brief, very loud incident. My 17-year-old mental age rebelled. Hard. I screamed the house down until they finally got me milk from a yak. Which, for the record, is surprisingly delicious. Creamy, with a weird grassy aftertaste. Way better than the alternative, which was just monumentally awkward for me and completely confusing for everyone else.
And before anyone gets any weird ideas—no. I didn't, and I wouldn't. The thought is disgusting. I've read stories about people reborn in situations like this, and let's just say I don't want to be a freak like that one guy from Jobless Reincarnation. My conscience, and my love for my mom, are very much intact. She's Valka. She's kind, and fierce, and looks at me like I hung the moon in the night sky, even though I'm the size of a loaf of bread.
I love her. Way too much.
Seeing her sad when I refused to breast feed was awful. So now, I make it up to her. I cuddle into her neck. I give her slobbery baby kisses on her cheek. She melts every time, calls me her "smart little boy," and her smile feels like the only real warmth in this frozen place.
It definitely doesn't make me stupidly happy. Not at all.
But those moments are bittersweet. They're a ticking clock. Every time she hugs me, I remember. The knowledge sits in my gut like a stone.
She will be taken. Soon.
It's not a maybe. It's a when.
So I get clingy. Extra clingy. When she holds me, I grip her tunic with my tiny fists like I can physically anchor her to me. She is my mother. In this brutal, ridiculous world, she is my first and only true point of light in this world.
And I know a storm is coming to snuff it out. All I can do is hold on until the sky falls.
I've wanted to warn her so many times it feels like a scream trapped in my chest. But I'm a baby. My tongue is useless, my vocal cords won't form the words. All that comes out are gurgles and cries. I can't tell her that one day soon, the wood of my nursery is going to explode in a rain of splinters.
I can't say, "Mom, a dragon you will nam Cloudjumper is going to crash through that wall right there. You're going to rush back into the house grab a sword to defend me, your heart hammering against your ribs. But you'll stop. You'll see it in his eyes—not malice, just a deep, alien curiosity. And in your moment of stillness, you'll startle him. His claw will catch my shin. It'll be my first scar, a thin, burning line of pain. You'll realize he didn't mean to, that he was being gentle until you moved. You'll have that moment... that 'my soul is a reflection of your own' connection the movies talked about.
And then Dad will ruin it.
His axe will come swinging in, a roar of pure fury, and Cloudjumper will panic. He'll snatch you up, not to hurt you, but to flee. And he'll take you with him. You'll leave Berk. You'll leave me.
And I'll be alone with Dad."
And Stoick... by the looks he gives me now, the way his enthusiasm withers when he picks me up, I don't think my future here is the heartwarming single-dad story from the movies. He'll either ignore my existence entirely, or he'll see me as a duty. He'll dump me in Gobber's arms for "training" and call it fatherhood. No bedtime stories, no quiet talks by the fire. Just a chief and his disappointing heir.
So here's my deal, Dad. If you're a good father? If you try? I'll meet you halfway. I'll be your son. But if you disappoint me... well, I didn't have a father in my past life. It won't be a problem in this one either.
Please don't disappoint me.
He was one of my favorite characters. The man who fought dragons with his bare fists! How can you not love that sheer, stubborn awesomeness? And in the show, he compromised. He cared. Deeply even if at times his stubborn ness hurt those he was close to. However when it mattered he showed that he loved me/hiccup. That's the man I'm hoping for, buried under all that beard and bluster.
In the meantime, I've met the rest of the future Dragon Riders. All of us are babies, which is a surreal experience.
The twins, Ruffnut and Tuffnut, are already a special kind of plain old stupid. Their favorite game is head-butting each other. Constantly. Their mom finally sewed them these tiny, ridiculous Viking helmets, which just made them look like aggressive, wobbly mushrooms. I think the brain damage was already done though, but hey, at least they're having fun.
Snotlout, my cousin, is a cryer. An ear-splitting, world-ending siren of a cryer. It's so annoying it actually helped me. Every time he'd start, every muscle in my body would tense with the urge to smack him. Controlling that baby-reflex rage was my first real lesson in bodily control, it was a lot harder then I thought it would be because the erge to hit him was quite strong. I also found his 'off' button—a weird tickle spot under his chin. He'll definitely grow into the egotistical coward I remember from the show. No doubt about it.
Fishlegs is... peaceful. Actually he is the most tolerable. He just stares at things with wide, curious eyes. We can sit in quiet companionship, which is a miracle. I think I might have accidentally given him the habit of intensely observing everything, his little brow furrowed in concentration. Sorry, buddy. You were supposed to be the nervous one and shy one, not the tiny scholar.
And then there's Astrid.
She is, by far, the most normal. She is also, weirdly clingy. If I crawl even a foot away from her, her lower lip trembles, her eyes well up, and she either lets out a warning wail or starts determinedly crawling after me. I've made a game out of it. I'll shuffle a few feet away, she'll sniffle and charge, and when she finally catches me, she just latches onto my arm with a triumphant giggle. It's actually... kind of sweet. I make sure she always wins. Her happy grin is worth the minor captivity.
I met them all because Mom seems to be Berk's unofficial head babysitter. She gathers us in our longhouse, a chaotic nursery of future warriors, and she handles it all with a patience I never knew she had.
I let out a mental sigh, watching her soothe a fussy Fishlegs. I wish... I wish I could change it. I wish I could bar the window, reinforce the wall, scream a warning that would make her not come inside on that one, fateful night.
But I can't.
I'm powerless. All I have is this borrowed time. So I'll soak it in. Every hug, every silly baby game, every time she calls me her smart little boy. I'll bury the memory of her smile deep, where the coming cold can't touch it.
It hurts, knowing what's coming. But for now, she's here. And I'll enjoy every single second I have left.