CinnamonLin3 Art

The morning after the forge, Berk looked too bright.

That was the first strange thing.

You had grown used to the island wearing grey like a second cloak. Most mornings arrived with fog curled around the cliffs, sea wind snapping at shutters, and dragons cutting through low clouds like living shadows. Berk was not gentle when it woke. It groaned. It smoked. It shouted from one end of the village to the other before the sun had even decided whether it wanted to be involved.

But that morning, sunlight poured over everything.

It turned the frost on the rooftops silver. It caught on dragon scales and made the village glitter in brief, sharp flashes. It stretched across the wooden paths and warmed the damp railings, softening the edges of a place that had always seemed carved from stubbornness. Even the sea looked calmer, as if it had briefly agreed not to throw itself against the rocks out of pure spite.

You stood outside your guest hut with your cloak pulled around your shoulders, breathing in cold air and wondering why the brightness made you uneasy.

Perhaps because light had a way of revealing things.

Perhaps because last night, in the forge, you had seen something you were not meant to see.

Hiccup’s notebook.

The soulmark sketches.

The diagrams.

The map of your walks through Berk.

It should have frightened you more than it did. That was the thought that kept returning, soft-footed and unwelcome. It should have lodged under your ribs like a thorn. It should have made you withdraw. After all, chiefs did not casually sketch the movements of foreign envoys under the guise of protection, and inventors did not fill pages with symbols from another person’s skin unless interest had already become something heavier.

But whenever you tried to hold onto suspicion, Hiccup’s face rose in your mind.

His awkward smile.

His red ears.

His nervous hands.

The way his voice had softened when he said he wanted to understand the thing that brought you to him.

And there was the bond too.

That complicated, impossible thing.

Your soulmark had not faded after that first day. It remained just above your heart, faint most of the time, like moonlight sleeping beneath the skin. But when Hiccup stood near you, it warmed. When he looked at you too long, it glowed. When his hand brushed yours, even accidentally, it answered with a pulse that made your breath catch.

You did not know what to do with that.

In your homeland, destiny belonged in temple murals and old songs. It belonged to heroes and saints, to tragic lovers and dead kings. It did not belong to you, standing in borrowed boots on an icy island, wondering whether your diplomatic mission had quietly transformed into a marriage negotiation without asking your permission.

A dragon landed nearby, shaking snow from its wings.

You startled, then turned to find Astrid sliding from Stormfly’s saddle with the ease of someone stepping off a porch.

She took one look at you and smirked.

“You’re awake. Good. I was half expecting Hiccup to have stationed guards around your hut and told everyone you needed another three hours of rest for diplomatic reasons.”

You blinked. “Does he do that?”

Astrid’s expression sharpened just slightly.

It was brief. A flicker. The kind most people would miss. But you had spent years in diplomatic halls where entire wars could be hidden inside a pause.

“Hiccup worries,” she said.

That was not an answer.

You folded your hands in front of you. “So I’m learning.”

Astrid studied you for a moment, then stepped closer, lowering her voice. The village was too loud for anyone else to hear, but something about her posture made the conversation feel sealed.

“Look, I know this whole soulmark thing is… a lot.”

You let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “That’s one word for it.”

“Berk has old beliefs about it. Strong ones. People here don’t treat soulmarks like pretty symbols or romantic gossip. They treat them like law written by gods who got tired of being ignored.”

“And Hiccup?”

Astrid looked toward the forge.

You followed her gaze.

There he was.

Across the village, near the wide doors of the workshop, Hiccup stood with Gobber and a pair of riders. He had a leather strap clenched between his teeth while he adjusted some mechanism on a saddle. His hair stuck up in every direction, his sleeves were rolled, and there was soot on his wrist. He looked busy. Harmless. Entirely himself.

Then, as if tugged by some unseen thread, he looked up.

His eyes found yours instantly.

Not searched.

Found.

The world seemed to pause around that look.

Hiccup’s face changed at once. The focused tension eased from his jaw. A smile formed slowly, private at first, then sheepish when he realized you had caught him staring. He lifted his hand in a small wave.

You lifted yours back.

Astrid watched both of you.

“Hiccup,” she said quietly, “doesn’t believe in anything halfway.”

You turned to her.

The words did not sound unkind. If anything, there was a sadness in them, the worn affection of someone who had known Hiccup long before fate touched his chest and called your name.

“He’s loyal,” she continued. “Brilliant. Stubborn enough to argue with a thunderstorm if he thought it was wrong. But when he decides something matters, he builds his whole world around it.”

Your fingers brushed the place above your heart.

Astrid noticed.

Her voice softened.

“I’m not trying to scare you.”

“That’s not very reassuring.”

A smile tugged at her mouth. “I know. I’m terrible at this. Usually I just hit things until the emotional tension gets embarrassed and leaves.”

You laughed despite yourself, and Astrid seemed pleased by that. She jerked her head toward the training grounds.

“Come on. Before Hiccup starts inventing a safer axe.”

“A safer axe?”

“He tried once.”

“Did it work?”

“It exploded.”

“That sounds unsafe.”

“Exactly what I told him.”

The training grounds sat on a broad stretch of packed earth near the edge of the village, ringed by wooden posts, weapon racks, and scorch marks that suggested many lessons on Berk ended with someone shouting at a dragon. Several young riders were already there, practicing with shields while a pair of Deadly Nadders watched with bright, judgmental eyes.

Astrid handed you a practice axe.

It was blunted, but still heavy enough to make your wrist dip.

“You’ve handled weapons before?” she asked.

“Ceremonial blades. A little archery. Mostly enough to look composed at formal events without accidentally stabbing a minister.”

“So no.”

“Diplomatically, we would say my training is symbolic.”

Astrid gave you a look. “On Berk, symbolic training gets you bitten.”

For the next hour, she taught you how to stand, how to shift your weight, how to avoid locking your knees, how to move with the weapon instead of fighting it. She was patient in the way warriors were patient, which meant she corrected you before your mistakes had a chance to become habits and did not praise you unless you had earned it.

You liked that.

It was grounding.

Since the soulmark appeared, everyone had treated you as though you might shatter or ascend. The villagers bowed their heads. Servants appeared with food you had not requested. Children whispered your name like you had come out of a fireside story. Even visiting elders looked at you and Hiccup with the solemn delight of people watching prophecy lace its boots.

Astrid, at least, tossed an axe at you and told you your grip looked like a dying crab.

It was refreshing.

By midday, your arms ached, your shoulders burned, and your pride had suffered several minor casualties. You were laughing when your practice axe landed nowhere near the post Astrid had told you to aim for.

“That was better,” she said.

You looked at the axe, which had struck the ground with the tragic dignity of a dropped spoon.

“Was it?”

“No. But you looked less terrified.”

“So progress.”

“Tiny, pitiful progress.”

You pressed a hand to your chest in mock offense. “Your encouragement could move armies.”

“It has.”

That made you laugh again.

Then the ground shifted beneath your feet.

Not literally. Not enough to throw you. But enough that your soulmark pulsed hot beneath your clothing, sudden and sharp. You froze, one hand flying to your chest.

Astrid noticed at once.

“What is it?”

You inhaled.

The mark warmed again.

Not like when Hiccup stood near. This was different. A tug. A pull. A line going taut somewhere inside you.

You turned.

Hiccup was standing at the edge of the training grounds.

You had not heard him approach.

Toothless stood beside him, tail swaying, green eyes fixed on you with bright satisfaction. Hiccup’s expression, by contrast, was open and concerned, but too carefully arranged. He held a waterskin in one hand and a folded cloth in the other. His gaze moved over you quickly, taking inventory.

Your face.

Your hands.

Your stance.

The axe.

Astrid.

Then back to you.

“Hey,” he said, voice light. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Astrid crossed her arms. “You walked directly into the training grounds.”

“Right. Yes. That does make the interruption argument weaker.”

You smiled despite the strange heat still simmering under your mark.

“We were almost finished.”

“Good. Great. Not because I’m trying to stop anything. I brought water.” He held up the waterskin. “Which is very normal. People bring water. To training. For hydration. Very important to not collapse during diplomatic axe humiliation.”

Astrid narrowed her eyes.

“Did Gobber tell you we were here?”

“No.”

“Fishlegs?”

“No.”

“Snotlout?”

“Please. Snotlout thinks subtlety is a kind of cheese.”

“Then how did you know?”

Hiccup paused.

It was not long. Barely a breath.

But you felt it.

“I saw Stormfly fly this way,” he said. “And I figured.”

Astrid did not look convinced.

Neither were you.

But Hiccup was already stepping closer, offering you the waterskin with a smile that made suspicion feel rude.

“You okay?” he asked. “You looked like you were doing pretty well from over there.”

“From over there,” Astrid repeated.

Hiccup grimaced. “A reasonable distance over there.”

“Behind the fish drying racks?”

“A strategic distance.”

You took the waterskin to hide your smile.

“Were you watching?”

His eyes widened.

“No. Not watching. Observing. Briefly. In passing. With concern. Chief concern.”

Astrid made a sound that was very nearly a snort.

Hiccup shot her a look, then turned back to you.

“I just wanted to make sure Astrid didn’t start you with something insane.”

“I gave them a blunted axe.”

“That’s still an axe.”

“This is Berk.”

“Which is why I worry.”

The words came out soft.

Too soft.

The playful rhythm faltered. For a second, no one spoke. Your mark warmed again, gentler this time, as if recognizing him beneath every layer of awkwardness and soot.

You lowered the waterskin.

“I’m fine, Hiccup.”

His eyes settled on your face.

He nodded slowly.

“Good.”

Just that.

One word, yet it carried too much relief.

Astrid looked between you again, and this time her expression was unreadable.

The rest of the day should have returned to normal after that.

It did not.

Once Hiccup appeared, the village seemed to reorient around him and, by extension, around you. A few riders wandered over. Gobber shouted something about “young love and poor axe form” from across the yard, which made Hiccup turn scarlet and Astrid threaten to demonstrate excellent axe form on his good leg. Ruffnut and Tuffnut arrived with a basket of something that smelled suspiciously flammable and claimed it was a traditional Berkish snack.

“Is it supposed to smoke?” you asked.

Tuffnut peered into the basket. “Only if it respects you.”

Ruffnut nodded solemnly. “This one respects you deeply.”

Hiccup confiscated the basket before anyone could eat it.

By afternoon, you had somehow been pulled into a loose gathering near the central firepit. Someone brought stew. Someone else brought bread. Children hovered nearby, pretending not to stare at your soulmark whenever your cloak shifted. Toothless sprawled behind you like an enormous shadow, his tail curved around the bench in a way that made leaving difficult without stepping over him.

You told yourself it was coincidence.

A friendly dragon seeking warmth.

A protective companion.

A beast with no understanding of personal space.

Then you tried to stand to help carry bowls back to the hall.

Toothless lifted his head and placed his chin directly on your lap.

The entire bench shook with his weight.

You looked down at him.

“Excuse me.”

He blinked.

You tried to shift.

His eyes widened with such theatrical innocence that you almost admired the performance.

Hiccup, seated on your other side, covered his mouth.

“Toothless,” you said, firmer this time.

The dragon made a tiny chirping sound. A sound no creature his size had any right to produce.

“He likes you,” Hiccup said.

“He is trapping me.”

“Affectionately.”

“That does not make it less trapping.”

“No, but it makes it harder to prosecute.”

You looked at him and found him smiling, not smugly, not openly, but with a warmth that made your chest tighten. He looked happy. Deeply, dangerously happy. As if seeing Toothless pin you in place beside him confirmed some private hope he had not dared speak aloud.

You should have pushed the dragon away.

You did not.

Instead, you sighed and scratched behind Toothless’s ear. His eyes slid half-shut in triumph.

“You two are very alike,” you murmured.

Hiccup tilted his head. “Me and Toothless?”

“Yes.”

“I’m afraid to ask.”

“You both act harmless when you want something.”

Toothless huffed.

Hiccup went still.

It was subtle. The kind of stillness that did not interrupt his breathing or his expression, but touched everything beneath it. His smile remained, yet his eyes sharpened, as if your words had slipped through a crack and landed somewhere tender.

Then he laughed.

A little too late.

“That’s… probably fair.”

Your gaze lingered on him.

Before you could say anything else, Snotlout appeared with a bowl in each hand and enough confidence to fill a warship.

“So,” he said, dropping onto the bench across from you, “how’s Berk treating our future chief consort?”

Your spoon paused halfway to your mouth.

Hiccup’s head snapped toward him.

Astrid, who had been speaking with Fishlegs nearby, turned so fast her braid swung over her shoulder.

“Snotlout,” Hiccup said.

Warning lived inside his name.

Snotlout missed it with heroic dedication.

“What? I’m just asking. Everyone’s thinking it. Soulmark appears, village celebrates, envoys get nervous, Hiccup acts like a lovesick Terrible Terror with access to government authority.”

“Snotlout.”

This time, the word cut colder.

You looked at Hiccup.

The warmth had vanished from his face.

Not anger exactly. Something controlled. Something that made the firelight seem less friendly. He had gone quiet in a way that reminded you of the maps beneath his hand, of pages covered before you could read too much.

Snotlout finally noticed.

His grin faltered.

“I mean… in a good way?”

Ruffnut leaned over from beside him. “That made it worse.”

Tuffnut nodded. “Much worse. A whole funeral for the sentence.”

You set your bowl down.

“Future chief consort?” you repeated.

Hiccup turned back to you at once.

The change was immediate. His expression softened, his shoulders lowered, and his voice became gentle, careful, almost pleading.

“It’s not… official. No one should be calling you that.”

“But people are?”

No one answered.

That was answer enough.

A strange silence spread around the firepit. Even the dragons seemed to notice, lifting their heads from the snow. The children had stopped whispering. Gobber looked away. Astrid’s mouth tightened.

Your heart beat once, hard.

You had known the soulmark mattered. You had known Berk treated it seriously. But knowing in theory was not the same as hearing your future dropped casually into conversation by a man eating stew.

You looked around at the faces watching you.

Not hostile.

Hopeful.

That was worse.

Hostility could be defended against. Hope made you feel cruel for wanting room to breathe.

Hiccup leaned closer, not touching you, but close enough that you felt the heat of him.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Look at me.”

You did.

His eyes held yours with almost frightening focus.

“No one gets to decide anything for you.”

The words should have comforted you.

They almost did.

Then he continued.

“Not the village. Not your council. Not even the bond. You get time. As much as you need.”

Something in you loosened.

He sounded so sincere.

So safe.

Then his gaze dipped briefly to your soulmark, hidden beneath your clothing, and the softness in his face deepened into something near devotion.

“I can wait,” he said.

The fire snapped.

You heard what he did not say.

I can wait because I know how this ends.

The conversation scattered after that, though not naturally. Astrid dragged Snotlout away under the pretense of needing help with something near the training ring. Ruffnut and Tuffnut began arguing about whether stew could be used as hair adhesive. Gobber loudly announced that anyone who wanted to gossip about soulmarks could do it while cleaning dragon stalls, which cleared half the gathering with impressive speed.

Hiccup remained beside you.

Toothless’s head was still on your lap.

You stared into the fire, feeling suddenly far from home.

“Do they really think that?” you asked.

Hiccup did not pretend to misunderstand.

“Some do.”

“That I’ll stay?”

His fingers flexed around his bowl.

“They hope.”

“And you?”

He was quiet for too long.

When he spoke, his voice had lost its humor entirely.

“I don’t want to make you feel trapped.”

Again, not an answer.

You turned toward him.

“That isn’t what I asked.”

Hiccup’s face shifted, and for once, he did not manage to hide quickly enough.

Want crossed it first.

Raw, unguarded want.

Then fear.

Then something harder, buried so deep beneath tenderness that you almost missed it.

He looked away.

“I think,” he said slowly, “that fate doesn’t do things by accident.”

Your throat tightened.

“That still isn’t an answer.”

His laugh was soft and humorless.

“No. I guess it isn’t.”

He set his bowl down and rubbed a hand over his face. For a moment, he looked exhausted. Not boyish. Not charming. Just young, and burdened, and terribly human.

“I want you to stay,” he admitted.

The words were quiet.

No performance. No rambling. No cleverness.

Just truth.

Your mark warmed.

You hated that it did.

Hiccup looked at you then, and there was so much emotion in his eyes that you forgot how to breathe properly.

“I want it so badly it scares me,” he said. “And I know that’s not fair to you. You came here for diplomacy, not…”

He gestured vaguely between you, searching for a word large enough to hold destiny, desire, village expectations, ancient belief, and whatever had started growing in the forge while he sketched your mark by firelight.

“This,” he finished.

You swallowed.

“Hiccup.”

He smiled faintly.

“Yeah. I know. Very eloquent. Chiefly, even.”

“I don’t dislike being here.”

The words came out before you had fully decided to say them.

His eyes lifted.

You continued, because stopping now felt cruel.

“I don’t dislike you. That’s part of the problem.”

His expression stilled.

“That’s a problem?”

“It makes everything confusing.”

He absorbed that like it mattered more than any formal treaty you could have brought him.

“Confusing can be okay,” he said carefully. “Confusing means you haven’t decided against it.”

You should not have smiled.

You did anyway.

“That’s a very inventor way to look at feelings.”

“I prefer optimistic disaster management.”

“That sounds accurate.”

For a brief moment, the tension eased. You sat together in the fading afternoon, the fire crackling before you, Toothless warm and heavy against your lap, Hiccup close enough that his shoulder almost touched yours.

Almost.

He never crossed that final inch.

That was one of the things that made him so difficult.

He hovered at the edge of every boundary with exquisite care. Never stepping over. Never giving you a clear reason to pull away. He did not command your time. He simply appeared where you were. He did not forbid you from leaving. He simply made every path away feel colder, harder, less kind. He did not say you belonged to him.

He made Berk say it for him.

You wondered if he knew.

Then you looked at him and knew, with a sudden chill, that of course he did.

Hiccup Haddock noticed everything.

That evening, a formal dinner was held in the Great Hall.

You had expected another negotiation session, perhaps a discussion of trade routes, resource exchange, and dragon-assisted transport. Instead, you walked into a hall transformed by garlands of winter greenery, candlelight, long tables, and enough food to feed a fleet. The great central hearth roared. Music carried from somewhere near the back. Villagers filled the benches, their faces bright with a kind of anticipation that made your stomach twist.

You paused at the entrance.

Hiccup, beside you, paused too.

His expression changed the second he saw your face.

“You didn’t know,” he said.

It was not a question.

You looked up at him.

“Know what?”

His jaw tightened.

For the first time since you arrived on Berk, Hiccup looked genuinely angry.

Not at you.

Never at you.

At the room.

At the flowers.

At the candles.

At every hopeful face turned toward the doors.

Gobber approached with a grin that began to fade when he saw Hiccup’s expression.

“There you are! We were starting to think you two had gone and gotten all sentimental somewhere.”

“Gobber,” Hiccup said quietly. “What is this?”

Gobber’s brows drew together.

“Dinner.”

“This isn’t dinner.”

“Well, there’s food, so I’d argue.”

“Gobber.”

The older man glanced at you, then back to Hiccup.

Something unspoken passed between them.

Gobber’s voice lowered.

“The village wanted to honor the mark.”

Hiccup’s hand clenched at his side.

“Without asking either of us?”

“It’s tradition.”

“So is throwing shields at children until they learn to duck. We moved past that.”

“Some of them learned beautifully.”

“Gobber.”

The hall had started to quiet.

You could feel attention gathering like storm pressure.

Gobber sighed.

“Hiccup, lad, no one meant harm.”

“I know.”

The words were calm, but his voice cut clean through the hall.

Everyone heard.

“But meaning well doesn’t give anyone the right to corner them.”

Them.

Not my soulmate.

Not the envoy.

Not the future consort.

Them.

Your chest tightened.

Hiccup turned slightly toward the room, and the entire Great Hall seemed to remember that the awkward, soot-marked inventor was also the chief who had ended wars, united riders, and taught Berk to live beside dragons instead of beneath their fire.

“This celebration is over,” he said.

A murmur moved through the crowd.

Your eyes widened.

“Hiccup,” you whispered.

He looked at you immediately, his anger softening the moment it touched your face.

“It’s okay.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I do.”

Then, quieter, just for you:

“They need to understand.”

The villagers looked stunned. Some embarrassed. A few disappointed. But no one argued. Not openly. Slowly, the music stopped. People began shifting, gathering cups and plates, muttering among themselves.

You should have felt relieved.

Instead, guilt swept over you like a wave.

They had meant it kindly. Clumsily, perhaps, but kindly. And Hiccup had just dismantled an entire celebration in front of everyone because your face betrayed hesitation for half a second.

You touched his sleeve.

He looked down at the contact.

So did you.

It was the first time you had reached for him without thinking.

Your soulmark glowed beneath your collar.

His eyes darkened with something too tender to be triumph and too intense to be relief.

“Let’s go somewhere quieter,” he said.

You let him lead you out.

That was the thing.

You let him.

Outside, the cold struck your cheeks. The sun had set while the village prepared its doomed celebration, leaving the sky deep blue and full of scattered stars. Lanterns glowed along the paths. Dragon silhouettes shifted over rooftops, wings tucked close against the wind.

Hiccup did not take you back to your hut.

He took you toward the cliffs.

You knew you should ask where you were going. But the air was sharp, the village noise faded behind you, and his hand hovered near your back without touching, guiding but not forcing. The restraint should not have felt so intimate. It did.

Toothless followed at a distance, silent as spilled ink.

The path climbed past the forge, past the last cluster of houses, past a stand of wind-bent pines. At the cliff’s edge, a wooden platform overlooked the sea. You had seen it from below, but never stood there. The view stole your breath.

Berk spread behind you in firelight and shadow, stubborn and alive. The ocean stretched before you, black and endless beneath the stars. Far below, waves broke against rocks in white bursts, rising and vanishing like ghosts.

Hiccup stood beside you.

For a while, he said nothing.

That silence felt different from the one in the forge. Less secretive. More deliberate. As though he was giving you space and fighting himself for every inch of it.

Finally, he spoke.

“I’m sorry.”

You looked at him.

“For the dinner?”

“For all of it.”

The wind tugged at his hair. Without the forge glow or the busy movement of the village around him, he seemed older. Not in years, but in weight.

“Berk can be… intense,” he said. “We spent generations surviving things by holding tightly to each other. Family, clan, dragons, tradition. When something sacred happens, people don’t always know how to step back.”

You gave him a faint look.

“And you?”

He smiled sadly.

“I’m trying.”

It was such an honest answer that you had no defense against it.

You turned back toward the sea.

“In my homeland, soulmarks are mostly stories. Beautiful ones, usually. Tragic ones too. People talk about them like they’re proof that love can be written before birth.”

“Do you believe that?”

You watched the waves below.

“I don’t know.”

Hiccup nodded.

“That’s fair.”

You glanced at him.

“Do you?”

He did not answer immediately.

His hand rose to his chest, resting over the place where you knew his mark mirrored yours.

“I didn’t,” he said. “Not really. I wanted to, maybe. When I was a kid. Back when everyone thought I was… well, a walking argument against Viking genetics.”

You smiled faintly, but he did not.

“I used to think if soulmarks were real, then maybe there was someone out there who wouldn’t need me to prove anything first. Someone who would look at me and just…”

He stopped.

Your heart hurt a little.

“Just what?”

His voice softened.

“Stay.”

The word slipped between you and disappeared into the wind.

You did not know what to say.

Hiccup laughed under his breath, embarrassed now.

“That sounded less pathetic in my head.”

“It didn’t sound pathetic.”

He looked at you.

The soulmark pulsed.

Yours.

His.

The same rhythm.

“It sounded lonely,” you said.

His expression cracked.

Only for an instant.

But you saw it.

The boy beneath the chief. The outcast beneath the hero. The child who had once wanted proof that there would be a place for him somewhere, with someone, without needing to save the world first.

Your hand moved before your caution could stop it.

You touched his arm.

Hiccup froze.

Not dramatically. Not enough that anyone else would have noticed. But you felt it beneath your fingers, the sudden stillness of him, the way his breath caught and stayed caught.

“I’m sorry,” you said softly.

His eyes lowered to your hand.

“Don’t be.”

His voice was almost a whisper.

You should have pulled away.

You did not.

The wind moved around you both, colder now, but the space between you warmed. Your mark glowed, hidden but unmistakable, a steady pulse beneath cloth and skin. Hiccup’s gaze lifted back to yours. There was no smile now. No awkward deflection. No cleverness.

Just hunger disguised as reverence.

And it was reverence, in part. That was what made it dangerous. He looked at you like something holy. Something long-awaited. Something he had suffered toward without knowing the name of it.

But underneath that was a man who wanted.

Wanted with hands he kept still.

Wanted with words he swallowed.

Wanted with a mind already rearranging the world around you so gently that you might one day wake and call the cage a home.

“You don’t have to decide anything tonight,” he said.

“You said that before.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

The question was quiet.

You looked at him, confused.

His eyes searched your face.

“Do you know I mean it?” he asked. “Or do you just know I’m good at sounding like I do?”

The honesty startled you.

You withdrew your hand.

Hiccup let you.

That made it worse, somehow.

He turned toward the sea, jaw tight, and for a few seconds you saw him fighting something inside himself. Not anger. Not frustration. Something more intimate. A battle between the part of him that loved you enough to give you room and the part that wanted to close every distance before the world discovered how to take you away.

“Sometimes,” he said, “I scare myself.”

Your throat went dry.

He laughed once, brittle and soft.

“That’s probably not what a person says when trying to make someone feel better.”

“Hiccup…”

“No. I need to say it right.”

He looked back at you.

“I care about you. More than I should, considering we’ve known each other for days and fate apparently has terrible timing. I think about you constantly. I notice things I probably shouldn’t notice. I worry when you’re out of sight. I start making plans before I even realize I’m doing it.”

Your breath trembled.

He did not move closer.

“And I hate that part of me,” he said. “Not because it cares. Because it wants to justify itself. It wants to say it’s protection, or destiny, or responsibility. It wants to sound noble.”

The sea crashed below.

“But it isn’t always noble.”

The confession should have frightened you.

It did.

But it also broke something open.

Because monsters did not usually name themselves with such sorrow. Manipulators did not usually hand you the knife and show you where the armor split. Unless, of course, they were very clever.

And Hiccup was very clever.

That was the terrible puzzle of him.

You could not tell where honesty ended and influence began.

Maybe he could not either.

You wrapped your cloak tighter around yourself.

“Why are you telling me this?”

His smile was small and wounded.

“Because you deserve to know what the bond gave you.”

“And what did it give me?”

He looked at you like the answer was obvious and unbearable.

“Me.”

Your soulmark flared.

For one blinding second, heat rushed through you, bright enough to make you gasp. Hiccup’s hand flew to his chest at the same moment. The air between you shimmered faintly, as though the stars themselves had leaned closer to listen.

Toothless lifted his head behind you and rumbled.

The glow faded slowly.

You stood there, shaken, one hand pressed over your mark.

Hiccup stared at you.

Whatever restraint he had carefully held together began to fray.

“Did that hurt?” he asked.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Let me see.”

The words came too fast.

You stepped back.

Hiccup stopped instantly.

His face changed.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

He dragged a hand through his hair.

“Gods. See? This is what I mean.”

Your heart was beating too quickly.

“I think I should go back.”

Pain flickered across his face.

Then he nodded.

“Okay.”

No argument.

No plea.

No hand around your wrist.

Just one quiet word.

He walked you back through the village without speaking. Toothless trailed behind you, subdued now, his usual sly brightness dimmed into watchful concern. The paths were mostly empty. The Great Hall still glowed behind shuttered windows, but the celebration had truly ended. You could hear faint voices inside, lower now, less festive.

When you reached your hut, Hiccup stopped several steps away from the door.

Deliberately away.

“I’ll have someone bring breakfast in the morning,” he said.

“You don’t need to.”

“I know.”

Then, after a pause:

“I won’t come by unless you ask.”

You looked at him.

That should have been reassuring.

Instead, it sounded like a vow carved out of his own skin.

“Hiccup.”

He smiled.

It was the worst smile he had given you yet. Gentle, tired, and aching with everything he refused to say.

“Goodnight.”

He turned before you could answer.

You watched him walk away, Toothless at his side, the two of them disappearing into the dark like a story retreating before the ending could be read.

Inside your hut, the fire had been built high. A fresh blanket lay folded on your cot. A small tray sat on the table with tea, bread, and a jar of honey from Berk’s winter stores. Beside it rested a little metal charm shaped like your soulmark.

You picked it up with unsteady fingers.

It was beautiful.

Of course it was.

Hiccup’s work always was.

The metal was warm despite the cold room, as if it had been held recently. On the back, etched in tiny careful script, was a single line.

For when Berk feels too far from home.

You sat down slowly.

The charm rested in your palm.

Your soulmark pulsed once.

You closed your fingers around the gift and hated how much you wanted to keep it.

The next morning, Hiccup did not come.

Breakfast arrived by way of Fishlegs, who smiled too brightly and spilled half the tea from nerves. He told you Hiccup was busy with saddle repairs, patrol reports, a dispute involving three sheep and a Gronckle, and something he described only as “a minor chimney situation.”

“He said you should have the morning to yourself,” Fishlegs added.

You tried not to react.

“That was considerate.”

Fishlegs nodded eagerly.

Too eagerly.

“Yes. Very considerate. Hiccup is very considerate. Extremely. Painfully, sometimes. Not that there’s pain. I mean, not usually. Unless Gobber is helping with machinery.”

You stared at him.

He cleared his throat.

“I should stop talking.”

“Probably.”

He left so quickly he almost tripped over the threshold.

You spent the morning walking.

Alone, technically.

No one stopped you. No one followed closely enough to accuse. But wherever you went, Berk seemed to open paths before you and close them behind. A woman at the fish stalls gave you an extra portion “for strength.” A boy offered to guide you away from a steep trail because “Chief says visitors miss the ice there.” A rider adjusted his route overhead whenever you wandered near the cliffs.

Protection.

Always protection.

A word soft enough to sleep under.

A word heavy enough to lock a door.

By noon, you found yourself near the docks. The ship that had brought you to Berk remained anchored below, its mast rocking gently against the pale sky. Your people’s flag snapped in the wind, bright and familiar.

Home.

The sight hit harder than expected.

You walked down the steps toward the harbor.

A sailor recognized you and bowed.

“Envoy.”

“How long before the ship returns south?” you asked.

The sailor hesitated.

“That depends.”

“On what?”

His eyes shifted past your shoulder.

You turned.

Hiccup stood at the top of the dock stairs.

For one impossible second, neither of you moved.

He looked as if he had run there. His breathing was controlled, but his hair was wind-tossed, and his prosthetic foot had left deeper marks in the frost than usual. Toothless was not with him.

That, more than anything, unsettled you.

Hiccup came alone.

His eyes moved from you to the ship.

Then back.

“Can we talk?” he asked.

The sailor suddenly discovered an urgent reason to be elsewhere.

You stayed where you were.

“You said you wouldn’t come unless I asked.”

Hiccup flinched.

A small thing.

A real thing.

“I know.”

“Then why are you here?”

He swallowed.

For once, no answer came ready.

The wind moved between you, sharp with salt.

“Because I felt it,” he said at last.

Your fingers curled into your cloak.

“Felt what?”

His hand touched his chest.

“You were thinking about leaving.”

The world went very still.

You had not said it.

You had barely admitted it to yourself.

Hiccup stepped down one stair, then stopped when your shoulders tightened.

“I’m not here to stop you.”

You almost believed him.

Almost.

“Then what are you here to do?”

His face was pale in the cold.

“Ask you not to decide while you’re afraid.”

The words landed too close.

You looked away toward the ship.

“Maybe fear is reasonable.”

“It is.”

You looked back at him, startled.

He nodded, miserable but steady.

“It is. If I were you, I’d be afraid too.”

That hurt more than denial would have.

Hiccup descended another step, slow enough that you could have told him to stop. You didn’t.

“I won’t pretend I’ve handled this perfectly,” he said. “I haven’t. I’ve been trying so hard not to push you that I think I started shaping everything around you instead. Like that was somehow better.”

Your breath caught.

There it was.

The truth you had been circling.

The cage without bars.

The hand that never grabbed because the room itself had been rearranged to guide you closer.

“Why?” you asked.

His eyes shone.

“Because I finally found you.”

Such simple words.

Such devastating ones.

He looked down, laughing once under his breath with no humor at all.

“That sounds insane, doesn’t it? I know it does. We only just met. But the second that mark appeared, it felt like every lonely part of my life pointed at you and said, there. That’s where it was going. That’s why you survived. That’s why you waited.”

He looked up again.

“And I know that’s too much to put on another person. I know.”

Your chest ached.

“But knowing doesn’t change how you feel.”

“No,” he whispered. “It doesn’t.”

The ship creaked behind you.

A gull cried overhead.

You thought of your homeland. Warm stone courtyards. Silk banners. Council chambers. Familiar food. Familiar voices. The life you understood.

Then you thought of Berk. Smoke and frost. Dragons and firelight. Astrid’s blunt kindness. Toothless’s heavy head in your lap. Hiccup’s hands stained with charcoal from sketching the shape of your fate again and again, trying to turn longing into logic because logic was safer than need.

You hated the tenderness that rose in you.

You hated that leaving now would feel less like escape and more like tearing stitches from a wound that had only just begun to close.

“I don’t know what I want,” you said.

Hiccup’s eyes closed briefly.

Relief crossed his face so fiercely that you understood, with a jolt, he had expected something worse.

“That’s okay,” he said.

“Is it?”

“No,” he admitted. “It’s awful. I’m probably going to go back to the forge and invent six terrible coping mechanisms. But it’s okay for you.”

A laugh broke out of you before you could stop it.

It was small, shaky, and almost painful.

Hiccup smiled at the sound.

Not fully.

But enough.

“There you are,” he murmured.

The words were too intimate.

Your heart stumbled.

“Hiccup…”

“Sorry.”

He did not sound sorry.

He sounded in love.

That was the danger. Not the maps. Not the gifts. Not the village whispers. Those things were troubling, yes, but love was the true trap. Love made explanations sound like apologies. Love made obsession look like devotion standing in bad lighting. Love made you want to forgive a man before he had finished becoming dangerous.

And Hiccup loved you.

You knew it then.

Not sweetly. Not simply. Not in the clean, storybook way people imagined when they spoke of soulmarks.

He loved you like a starving thing learning the shape of bread.

Carefully.

Gratefully.

Desperately.

And perhaps that should have sent you onto the ship at once.

Instead, you stepped away from the gangplank.

Hiccup noticed.

Of course he noticed.

His breath caught, but he did not smile too quickly this time. He did not reach for you. He did not claim victory with even the smallest movement.

He only watched, as if the sight of you choosing not to leave had made him afraid to breathe.

“I’ll stay for the negotiations,” you said.

His eyes searched yours.

“Just the negotiations?”

You lifted your chin.

“For now.”

A thousand emotions moved through his face.

Relief.

Hunger.

Joy.

Restraint.

The last one won, but barely.

“For now,” he repeated softly.

The words sounded different in his mouth.

Not temporary.

A beginning.

You should have corrected him.

You did not.

Hiccup stepped aside, giving you the path back up to the village. You walked past him, close enough that your sleeve brushed his. The soulmark warmed at once, bright beneath your cloak, and his breath hitched audibly.

Neither of you mentioned it.

Together, you climbed back toward Berk.

From above, unseen by you, a black dragon watched from the roof of the forge, green eyes narrowed with satisfaction.

Toothless flicked his tail.

The envoy was staying.

For now, Hiccup had said.

For now was enough.

For now could become tomorrow.

Tomorrow could become habit.

Habit could become home.

And home, if guarded carefully enough, could become forever.