One of my favorite tropes, and one I most enjoy associating with Hiccup x Elsa, is the idea that she is a force of nature far more powerful than she could ever imagine, while he is just an incredibly stubborn man.
I find it interesting to see Elsa as the one who falls in love first, captivated by the "ordinary" things Hiccup does—cooking, sewing, drawing, even simply breathing, or sometimes bleeding. The idea that someone with so much power could be drawn to the heroic qualities of a man who does good not because there is something to gain from it, but because he genuinely and consciously wants to help others.
She would find his way of loving fascinating. He doesn't touch her with fear or caution; instead, he treats her as if he were the one meant to protect her. There is something deeply compelling in that.
Hiccup, in turn, would see Elsa as a leader who thinks with a cool head, who restrains herself to avoid hurting others, and who helps keep him strong—not only when it comes to fighting, but also when it comes to protecting the people who depend on him.
The celebration began even before the dust had settled.
The inhabitants of the Enchanted Forest surrounded Elsa almost immediately. Grateful voices were raised everywhere. Some congratulated her, others excitedly recounted what they had seen during the mission, and more than one insisted that the forest once again owed them its tranquility.
Elsa tried to respond with a smile. However, Elsa realized that the man in dragon scale armor had disappeared, she saw him cross through some bushes with urgency, as if something was insisting that she come closer. Although Elsa wanted to ignore it, something called her too, worried? It was something I hadn't felt in a long time. Following the trail she had seen Hiccup on, she clearly remembered Hiccup's arm around her as they turned down the hill. It was unnecessary, she has fallen from higher places and without a single scratch, but Hiccup couldn't stop being a hero for just a minute.
She noticed that Hiccup's helmet was on the ground, not left delicately as he always used to do and criticize when they didn't; Now it was lying on the ground in despair.
Then she saw him, kneeling before the river’s edge, cutting a scrap of cloth with his dagger—the blade flashing silver in the afternoon light. Hiccup first wiped the blood from his face and using the reflection of the lake he tried to clean the wound, but it was very complicated to do. The river was cold, but not nearly cold enough for a proper compress—she knew that instinctively, the way one knows the taste of winter air before the first snow falls.
Hiccup heard Elsa's footsteps approaching him and turned his head. They both saw each other for a moment, but Elsa did not flinch, she continued walking towards him and calmly and politely sat down next to him, she raised her hand delicately, palm up. "May I?" she asked, her voice quiet but carrying the weight of command—not the sharp-edged kind, but the kind that glaciers wield when they carve mountains.
Hiccup hesitated, fingers tightening around the damp cloth he'd torn from his tunic. Blood dripped from his temple onto his wrist, stark against the pale skin. He could feel the water from the lake seeping into the fabric, lukewarm and useless. "It's not—" he started, but Elsa’s gaze cut through his protest like winter wind.
Hiccup sighs and gives her the cloth, his fingers brushing hers—briefly, accidentally—but the contact sends a jolt up his arm anyway. Elsa takes it without comment, turning the fabric over in her hands. She exhales, and frost spirals from her fingertips, crawling across the cloth in delicate, branching patterns. The water stiffens into tiny crystals, the linen stiffening with cold. Hiccup watches, transfixed, as her magic works—not the wild, explosive bursts he’s seen in battle, but something precise, controlled. The way a blacksmith might temper steel.
She presses the compress to his temple, and the cold bites—sharp, immediate—but then the pain dulls, replaced by a numbness that spreads like ink in water. Elsa’s fingers are careful, methodical, dabbing at the cut with a gentleness that belies the ice in her veins.
Hiccup tries not to flinch, but his breath hitches anyway, trying to focus on anything but the cold press of the cloth against his wound. It's futile. His gaze drifts—first to Elsa's fingers, long and pale, moving with the precision of a surgeon. Then higher, tracing the delicate bones of her wrist, the faint blue veins beneath skin like porcelain. He notices everything: the way the sunlight catches in the loose strands of her platinum hair, silver-white against the muted green of the forest. There are freckles dusted across her nose, so faint he might've missed them if he weren’t staring—tiny constellations, like snowflakes frozen in time.
Her skin is flawless, unmarred by scars or sun, and it strikes him as impossible. He's spent years among warriors and dragons; everyone bears marks. But Elsa—she's carved from something else, something untouched. He wonders, absurdly, if she’d feel as cold as she looks.
Then Hiccup looks at her eyes—ice blue, impossibly clear, like glacial water frozen mid-cascade. The rest of her had seemed untouchable, but this—this was worse. Her gaze held the weight of centuries, depths he couldn’t fathom. He’d seen dragons with eyes like that, ancient and knowing, but never human. Never someone who looked at him like he was worth seeing.
Elsa, for her part, didn’t notice at first, was trying—and failing—to focus solely on the task. His skin was warmer than she’d expected. Alive in a way that defied the winter in her veins. She traced the cut with careful precision. The blood was darker than she remembered—human blood, not the shimmering essence of spirits. She’d almost forgotten how fragile skin could be, how easily it split. Her own hadn’t bled in years. But Hiccup’s did. His pulse thrummed beneath her fingertips, warm and insistent, a rhythm at odds with the stillness she carried.
Then she felt it—the weight of his stare. Not the awed glances of villagers or the wary eyes of those who feared her magic. This was different. Unflinching. Curious. She lowered her gaze and met his—green, not the vibrant hue of summer leaves but the muted shade of moss clinging to winter stone. Alive. Tired. So painfully human. And his eyes—gods, his eyes.
They stayed like that for a moment longer than either intended—locked in a silence that felt heavier than the forest around them. Elsa then got lost in Hiccup's eyes, they were not perfect, they had imperfections, imperfections that made them unique, imperfectly perfect, something she had never seen before, she found it… beautiful.
The pain flared then, sharp enough to make his vision white out for a second. He gritted his teeth, fingers digging into his knee, but he didn’t pull away. He couldn’t. He didn't want to look away and lose a moment of Elsa's gaze—those impossible eyes, the way they flickered like sunlight through ice. And it seemed they were getting closer—or maybe he was leaning in. He wasn't sure anymore.
Until finally the pain won and Hiccup flinched—a sharp gasp escaping him before he could bite it back. His hand jerked instinctively toward his temple, fingers brushing Elsa's wrist as he recoiled. The contact was brief, accidental, but it shattered the fragile stillness between them like thin ice underfoot. Elsa's fingers stilled mid-motion, the cold cloth pressed against his wound suddenly forgotten. For a heartbeat, neither breathed.
"I—" Hiccup began, but the words died in his throat when Elsa withdrew her hand. She looked away first, breaking the spell with deliberate grace.
"We should go back," she murmured, her voice softer than snowfall. "The others will be waiting." She folded the bloodstained cloth neatly—too neatly—as if it were a shield between them. "The wound isn't deep. It'll heal."
Hiccup reached for her wrist before he could stop himself. His fingers closed around her sleeve, careful not to touch skin. "Wait." The word sounded almost like a plea, rough-edged and unplanned. He swallowed, throat dry. "Please… stay." The request lingered between them, fragile as snowfall on bare branches.
Elsa hesitated. She should leave—should pull her hand from his grasp, stand, and walk back to her people, but she didn´t, instead she sighed and sat back down, closer this time. Close enough that Hiccup could see the faint rise and fall of her chest beneath the intricate embroidery of her gown.
Elsa placed the palm of her hand on Hiccup's cheek that was free—half to hold him and half to feel the warmth of his skin—and pressed the cloth back against his temple. Their knees brushed, barely, but neither moved away. The fabric hissed faintly as frost crystallized along its edges, but the cold didn't matter now. What mattered was the way Hiccup's breath hitched—not from pain, not this time—when her thumb traced the arch of his cheekbone, smearing away a streak of dirt. She told herself it was practical. Necessary. A lie so thin the wind could've torn it apart.
Hiccup, for his part, had stopped pretending to look at the wound altogether. Her gaze traced the curve of Elsa's lower lip, the way it trembled when she exhaled, like snow shaken from a branch. They both exchanged glances appreciating each other's minute details, until they both felt they were getting too close, but there were no complaints.
