Hiccup had tried to free himself from the ropes, tried to get to Toothless, who was screeching and tugging on the net with him. It had been no use. “You have to go!” he shouted, pushing his friend with all his weight, eyes burning. “Go, bud! Now!”

Toothless hadn’t wanted to leave, that much Hiccup could tell. His pupils had narrowed, panicked and wild, wings twitching like he might stay and fight. But Hiccup forced the command again, gentler this time, and with a whisper he had used since the beginning, something he'd say when he needed his dragon to trust him more than instincts. “Go. I’ll be okay. Promise.”

Toothless had obeyed after that. Because he always did.

So now here he was.

Alone. Shackled. And worse—very, very aware of the pull in his chest.

He can feel you somewhere nearby.

Hiccup doesn’t know how, doesn’t try to explain it anymore, but the same tether that had lit up when your eyes met in the courtyard still burns now. Not pain—though there was plenty of that—but presence. A weight in his lungs that hadn’t been there before.

And guilt.

So much guilt.

He'd always known someone was out there. Every time he took a blow that didn’t belong to him. Every time he walked away from a battle and felt something lingering that wasn’t his own.

He knew.

And it makes everything he’s done sit like lead in his stomach.

He never thought he'd meet you. And if he did, he never expected you to be what you are.

You’re from this village—a dragon-hunter stronghold Toothless has flown over more than once, always with caution. Hiccup knew what kind of people lived here. Knew they trained their children young and taught them to kill before they could even count properly. He never expected to end up here. And certainly not like this.

Not chained.

Not half-conscious.

Not realizing—too late—that the girl who screamed when he got kicked in the ribs was the very same soul that had been shadowing him since childhood.

Hiccup closes his eyes, exhaling slowly. It’s like the gods have a twisted sense of humor.

Because somehow, impossibly, you’re his soulmate.

Not someone from Berk. Not someone who believes in peace or flies on dragonback or understands that fire isn’t always a weapon. No, it had to be someone who would look at Toothless and see nothing but a target.

It’s cruel.

But not as cruel as the thought of Astrid.

He loves her. Truly, completely, and with a steadiness he’s never been able to explain. She’s been his constant—his fiercest ally, his sharpest critic, his first and only love—even when they both knew the truth. That she wasn’t his soulmate. That she never flinches when he’s hurt.

In a way, that has always made it easier.

She doesn’t feel what he does. Doesn’t suffer for his reckless decisions. Hiccup had made peace with that a long time ago.

Or at least he thought he had.

To be frank, he thought he knew a lot of things—because he’s Hiccup Haddock, stubborn at his core and headstrong above all else.

That all came crashing down once he saw you collapse across the dirt courtyard the same second a Vikings boot slammed into his side. Until he saw your expression—shocked, disbelieving, pained—and something in his ribs cracked that had nothing to do with the kick.

This changes everything.

It shouldn’t, but it does.

He wishes it didn’t.

It’s not that he regrets being with Astrid. He never could. What they have is real. But this—you—you're like something he wasn’t supposed to touch. A closed-off room in his soul, suddenly unlocked, flooding with all the pain he never wanted to cause anyone.

And now he knows your face. Your voice. The way your knees hit the dirt when he gets hurt.

How is he supposed to forget that?

A sound stirs in the corridor. Hiccup lifts his head just slightly, chest tightening.

He knows it’s you before he sees you.

“I know you’re there,” he says into the quiet. “if you're going to lurk, you could at least say something.”

For a second, there’s nothing. Just the dim torchlight flickering across the cell floor.

Then you step into view, quiet and sure. Your cloak brushes the stone, your eyes unreadable as you stop a few paces from the bars. You don’t speak at first. Neither does he.

Gods, you’re real.

You’ve always been real, but now you’re here. And he doesn’t know where to look—at your face, at the bruises you shouldn’t have, at the anger in your stance or the ache he can feel threading between you.

His breath hitches a bit. He doesn’t say anything about how you look, but he thinks it—it’s impossible not to. You’re stunning in a way that unsettles him. Like a storm on the horizon. Like something he’s known in dreams and tried to forget.

And he hates that he thinks that.

Because this shouldn’t matter.

Because he has Astrid.

You don’t say anything right away, and Hiccup doesn’t push. He just watches your gaze flick to the corner of the cell, eyes scanning the shadows like you’re checking for traps.

“How did you even get down here?” he asks, trying to sound normal. It comes out too flat to be anything but hollow.

“Snuck in through the eastern cellar vent. No one patrols it during the night shift.”

Hiccup blinks. “That’s… disturbingly efficient.”

“I know my way around, probably better than anyone,” you say simply.

And of course you do. Of course you’re smart, observant, tactical — of course you have qualities he admires.

Your eyes drift down then, something faltering in your expression. He follows your gaze and knows what you’re looking at.

His leg.

Or what’s left of it. The boot’s gone now, tossed to the side after one of the guards had searched him.

“I didn’t notice before,” you step closer, expression guarded. “Your leg…”

“It was covered,” Hiccup replies, trying to sound casual and failing. “The boot sort of hides it.”

You stare at it for a long time. He can’t read your face—only that it’s still. Too still. Then, your voice comes out quieter, more fragile, and not sounding like anything that came before it:

“I remember when that happened.”

Hiccup’s body tenses, breath caught.

“I was fourteen,” you continue, eyes sharp now, catching his. “It was the worst pain I’ve ever felt. I didn’t know what was happening. I screamed until I couldn’t breathe. My parents thought I was cursed. I wanted it to end, I wanted to–” You stop abruptly, swallowing hard,  searching his eyes for only a second before tearing your gaze away from him.

And Hiccup wants to be anywhere but here. Because you felt that. Every second of it. The fire, the tearing, the searing end of something he barely remembers himself. He was unconscious before it happened. Woke up in a bed with one less leg and a dull, ghostly ache.

You had lived the moment he never had to.

“I–” His mouth opens, but what does someone say to that? “I didn’t—I passed out before it–before I could feel it, I mean. I didn’t even think–”

“Exactly,” You snap, eyes flashing. “You didn’t think. You never think. You’ve been out there throwing yourself into danger for years, and now I have a clearer understanding. You were falling off dragons. Fighting alpha beasts. Crashing into ships. And every single time, I feel it. Not just you.  You break a rib, and I can’t breathe for a week. And you just keep going like none of it matters.”

“I didn’t know who you were,” he confesses after a moment, like that somehow makes it okay. “I didn’t even know if you were real. I just assumed... I’d never meet you. That maybe you were out there, but far away. Untouchable."

“That made it easier for you?” you ask, bitter.

He hesitates.

Then: “Yeah. Sometimes.”

The flicker of pain in your eyes is brief, but he sees it. Sees it and wants to tear something apart for putting it there.

“I’m sorry,” he says, small and useless.

“You’re sorry?” Your voice sharpens. “You’ve been a nightmare. Do you even realize how much pain you’ve caused? I’ve woken up screaming. I’ve passed out in the middle of hunts. I nearly drowned because you hit your head in some river gods-know-where.”

“That was one time—”

“That was one week,” you fire back. “You’re supposed to be smart. Aren’t you the genius dragon boy?”

“I am smart.”

“You’re a reckless idiot.”

Hiccup exhales, long and tired, letting his head fall back against the stone wall behind him. His shoulders sink with the weight of it — of everything. He doesn’t want to argue. Not with you. Not with the person who’s been suffering in silence every time he’s made a reckless decision. Not with the girl who’s felt his pain more intimately than anyone else ever could.

“There was always a war,” he says quietly, staring at the stone ceiling like it might hold the answer. “First with the dragons. Then with the people who feared them. Then the ones who wanted to cage them. I couldn’t stop. Not when there were lives at stake. Not when dragons were being hunted like animals.”

Your face twists. “So that’s it? Dragons over people?”

“I think dragons are people,” he replies, sitting forward slightly now, heat rising in his voice. “Or close. They’re not monsters. They’re intelligent. They’re loyal. They protect each other. Every time I saved one, it reminded me that peace was possible — that we didn’t have to stay trapped in the same cycle of blood and fear forever.”

You scoff, bitterness curling at the edge of your words. “Tell that to the ones who burned our fishing boats. Who took homes. Took my parents. I’ve fought dragons. Bled because of them. And while I was out there trying to protect my village, I got stabbed through the shoulder — not even from my fight, but because of yours.”

Hiccup stiffens. His jaw clenches, words catching in his throat. And then, before he can stop himself, the frustration breaks loose.

“I never asked for this,” he mutters, voice low, shaking just enough to betray how close he is to unraveling. “I didn’t ask to be your soulmate.”

You flinch, hard.

He regrets his words immediately, and his expression softens. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he says, gentler now, “I just—this wasn’t the plan...this wasn’t supposed to happen. Not like this. I didn’t expect to find you. Not here. Not now.”

There’s something else behind your eyes now—something calculating. You’re not glaring anymore, not spitting accusations. You’re watching him closely. Reading him.

Hiccup sees the shift in you before he understands it. The way your head tilts, just slightly. The way your lips part like you're about to say something—the hesitation behind the action.

Then your expression clicks into place, and he knows you’ve figured something out.

You take a slow breath, the kind meant to steady.

“Who is she?” You finally ask.

The question lands with no warning.

Hiccup straightens a little. “What?”

“There’s only two reasons someone would be so careless with their soulmate’s pain,” you murmur, not blinking. “Either they’re truly heartless... or they’ve fallen in love with someone else.” You don’t look away. “And you don’t seem heartless.”

Hiccup swallows.

He wishes you hadn’t asked.

He wishes he could lie.

But you’re standing there, bruised from his injuries, years of pain etched behind your voice, and the least he owes you is the truth.

He shifts his shoulders against the wall, letting the cuffs bite into his skin as punishment for everything he’s about to say.

“Astrid.”

Your posture tenses.

Hiccups is looking away now, far away from your eyes that he can read so clearly despite never knowing you before today. “Her name is Astrid. She’s… she’s everything. I’ve been in love with her since we were fifteen. We’ve fought beside each other through every war, every loss. She’s strong and smart and brave and—she isn’t my soulmate. I know that. She’s always known that. But we fell in love anyway.”

He glances up, just once.

You’re still watching him, but your face has gone unreadable again. Carefully neutral. Too still.

And for some reason that hurts more than if you’d screamed.

He keeps talking, not because he wants to, but because silence might strangle him. “I didn’t know I’d ever meet you. I thought you were a shadow. A theory. I didn’t let myself think about it. Not really. Astrid was real. And I—I love her.”

Still, you don’t speak.

But your arms fall slowly to your sides, fingers curling once before relaxing again. You take a breath, then another, like you’re making sure the air still works.

When you finally speak, your voice is thin. “That’s fine.” You blink once. “You’re a dragon rider anyway. I didn’t expect anything else. You’ve betrayed every Viking before you who died trying to fight those monsters. You’re a traitor…in every form.”

Hiccup doesn’t flinch outwardly, but inside, he feels it like a blade to the gut. Not because it’s new—he’s heard worse. The people of Berk had said worse, once. His father, too. But it somehow hurts more because it comes from you. From someone who’s felt the fire of his wounds and still sees him as the enemy.

Hiccup watches you, unsure what he’s looking for. Anger. Tears. Even hatred. But you don’t give him any of it.

You’re hurt.

But you’re too proud to show it.

And that makes his throat ache worse than any bruise.

You step back half a pace, enough to make the gap between the bars feel like a wall again. “I didn’t come here to cry over fate, or have some emotional revelation, Hiccup.”

He blinks at the sharp use of his name—no softness to it, no weight of the word ‘soulmate’ underneath.

You lift your chin. “I came here to tell you to stop.”

He doesn’t understand. “Stop what?”

“Being so reckless.” You exhale hard, voice gaining momentum. “You don’t need me. I’m not asking for anything. But you need to stop acting like your life is the only one on the line. Because it’s not.”

You draw in a breath, steadying yourself. “I spent years trying not to get hurt. I pulled back. Gave up combat. Skipped raids. All because I didn’t want my soulmate to suffer. And you didn’t even try.”

He swallows hard, guilt burning like fire in his throat. “I never meant to hurt you.”

“But you did,” you whisper, “you always have.”

Hiccup doesn't know what to say. Nothing could ease what he's put you through. And so, pathetically, he doesn't say anything.

“I’m not asking you to change who you are,” you say, tone leveling out again. “Just… stop being stupid. If you’re going to throw yourself into war, then be smart about it.”

Hiccup looks at you.

Not around you. Not at your fists, your posture, your tight mouth.

You.

And for the first time, he realizes how deep the damage goes. Not just the physical kind—but everything that comes with it. The isolation. The silence. The waiting. Hoping the next wound wouldn’t be fatal. That your soulmate wasn’t already dead somewhere far from you.

A long silence stretches between you.

Then, before he can find anything worth saying, you step back from the bars.

Your gaze lingers on him, just for a moment. He sees the shift, subtle as it is—the smallest flicker of something crossing your face. And he tries to hold onto it. Tries to read you, to understand you, to find some last trace of what you’re feeling. Anything to ground him. Anything to stop the terrible feeling in his chest.

But he can’t.

You were so easy to read a few moments ago, and now you blocked him out entirely.

Your footsteps are nearly soundless on the stone. You don’t look back, and Hiccup doesn’t try to stop you.

He knows he can’t.

And then you’re gone.

The torchlight flickers in your absence, casting long, restless shadows across the cell. The cold returns fast, filling the space you left behind like it’s reclaiming what never should’ve been touched in the first place.

Hiccup doesn’t move.

Not right away.

He leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes, letting the dampness press into his skin, hoping it might numb something. The chains rattle when he shifts, but he barely notices them now. He can still feel your voice in the air — the tightness in it when you told him to stop being reckless, the way you kept your expression still even after he told you about Astrid.

You’d hidden the hurt well. But not well enough.

He goes over every second of the conversation — the way your jaw clenched when he said Astrid’s name, the way you stepped back like it physically cost you something to stand that close to him. You didn’t ask him to choose. You didn’t accuse him of betrayal or demand answers or beg for anything at all.

You just told him to be careful.

Because it still mattered to you.

Even after everything — after years of pain he never acknowledged, after realizing he’d been loving someone else the entire time — you stood there and told him to be careful.

That’s what tightens something in his chest.

Astrid is still the center of his world. He doesn’t question that. But you’re carved into the edges now — this undeniable presence that has been stitched into his life from the beginning. Not loud. Not demanding. Just... there. Like a scar that never healed right.

And the worst part?

He’d gotten used to the pain.

For so long, he treated it like background noise. He let himself believe that his soulmate was some abstract stranger, a concept that would never cross his path, never complicate what he had with Astrid. He never thought his injuries were shaping someone else’s life — keeping you up at night, leaving you breathless, training you to fear your own body.

But now he knows.

Now he’s seen the cost of his choices etched into your voice.

He lets out a slow breath, chest tight.

He doesn’t regret loving Astrid. He never will. She’s been his anchor, his sword-arm, his partner. She kept him alive. She made him brave. He doesn’t want to imagine his life without her.

But you... you make him feel something else entirely. Something terrifying. Not a clean kind of feeling, not yet. But something aching and old and impossible to ignore. Like a bond forged in fire before either of you could understand what it meant. Like a blade pressed against both of your palms, sealing you together long before names were ever spoken.

And now that he’s met you — now that he’s seen your face and heard the quiet way you said “I didn’t come here to cry over fate” — he knows he’ll never be able to forget you.

His eyes start to burn, and he hangs his head between his knees.

What is he supposed to do with that?

What is he supposed to do when every choice feels like betrayal — to you, to Astrid, to himself?

The chains dig into his skin again as he shifts, and for once, he lets them.

Maybe he deserves the weight.

You rush home crying, clutching your limb, tears and snot running freely, shouting incoherently about curses and invisible fists and how you didn’t do anything wrong.

Your mother goes very still, and her expression shifts, softening as she pulls you into her lap. She brushes your hair back from your face, listens to your ramblings, and then lets out a long sigh. Not because she doesn’t believe you, but because she does.

“You felt it,” she says softly. “Your first one.”

You blink, hiccupping through the snot. “What do you mean? It hurts, Mama.”

Her hand finds yours. “It wasn’t yours, sweetheart. That pain? It came from your soulmate.”

You freeze. The word sounds made-up, like a story. “My… what?”

She explains all of it then. About the ancient bond between souls, the kind that links pain across space and time, forged before your first breath. How some people are born tethered to another—someone far away, someone they may never meet, but whose wounds you will always feel. Whose pain echoes in your bones. Whose injuries whisper along your skin like ghosts. Some call it fate. Others call it a curse. But it’s real.

"The gods don’t pick for peace, my love," She said. "They pick for balance.”

 And balance, you learn, is not always kind.

You’re sixteen when the bruises stop being rare.

They happen almost every other day now—blows to your ribs, lashes across your shoulders, twisted ankles, bloody lips, large gashes. Some are dull. Others leave you doubled over. Once, you woke up vomiting from a head injury you never received.

Another, more agonizing time, you woke up feeling like your left leg had been completely torn off. That kept you out of commission for over a week — it was the most brutal and soul aching pain you’ve ever felt, both physically and mentally.

Everytime it happened after that, you cursed the stranger whose pain you carried.

What kind of life do they live, your soulmate? Who could possibly get hurt this often and still survive? A warrior? A criminal? A fool? You guess. You imagine.

You hope that one day it stops.

But it never does.

You’re twenty now, and you wake just before dawn to the sound of shouting, the sound rising and falling through the village like thunder.

Your eyes snap open, your body already tense before your mind catches up. You barely register the half-formed dream fading behind your eyes before the searing pain cuts through your ribs like a knife, jagged and brutal.

You gasp sharply, curling onto your side, breath hitching. For a moment, you can’t breathe at all. It’s like being crushed under a boulder. You dig your nails into the furs and fight to stay conscious.

Not again. Please not again.

Your bones scream beneath your skin, as though something struck them from the inside. Eventually, the pain ebbs, fades to a dull throb like it always does, and you lie there, sweating, the screams outside continuing.

Your soulmates hurt.

Again.

Just like yesterday.

And the day before that.

And the week before that.

And you’re tired.

Not just of the bruises or the stabbing aches or the disorientation when your knees give out for no reason. You’re tired of not knowing. Of never seeing their face. Of living someone else’s violence like a shadow.

You shove the blanket aside and throw on your light-grey tunic, lacing your boots with shaky fingers. Whatever’s happening outside has the entire village on edge. You push through your front door into cold morning air and the weight of a dozen running footsteps. Words fly past you, and you can just barely catch them:

“Captured—”

“Alive—”

“It’s him—”

“The dragon rider—”

The words land in your gut like stones. You follow the sound, drawn by a sick pull in your chest, like fate tugging you forward by the throat. The shouting thickens near the central square where a crowd has formed, and you slip through it quietly, unnoticed.

By the time you reach the courtyard, half the village has gathered near the gate. People murmur with a strange mix of awe and fury, parting just enough for you to see the commotion past the walls. There’s a group of riders—your own, warriors who fight the fiercest of battles—dismounting from their horses, and ...him. A man.

He’s a figure of ragged movement, bent slightly, face shadowed by matted hair, blood smeared down one cheek like war paint. His wrists are bound, and he’s being dragged behind a horse like some mangy dog, but when he lifts his head, you freeze.

He’s young.

You don’t know what you expected—some towering brute, battle-scarred and monstrous—but not this. Not someone your age, with pale skin and defiant green eyes that still manage to burn through the blood and dirt. There’s no pride in his expression, no smugness, but there is strength—defiance carved into every feature on his face. A quiet, stubborn refusal to yield.

The guards jostle him forward like livestock, and someone behind you shouts, “It’s a dragon rider! They got one alive!”

Alive. You don’t remember the last time that happened. The riders who work with dragons usually fight to the end. They don’t surrender. They burn, drown, vanish into the skies. They die with their beasts. But this one—he’s still breathing. Still fighting, stubbornly, like a true Viking would.

The voice of Ragnar, both the chief of the village and your uncle, cuts through the rising chatter like a blade. “Bring him through the gates!”

The crowd presses tighter. You step forward instinctively—just a little, just enough to see. Then the rider falls, legs stumbling and giving out. One of the guards kicks him, hard, in the back of his right leg, and he crumples into the dirt with a grunt.

You flinch. Then—

You feel it.

Much like the pain you woke up to, another wave slices through your calf muscle—deep, sharp, searing like a burn that spreads too quickly. Your knee buckles under the phantom force and you let out a sharp cry, staggering to the side. Someone brushes past without noticing, but the pain—your soulmates pain—roots itself in your muscles. You clutch your leg, panting.

What the—

When you lift your eyes, the rider is being hauled upright again. Blood trickles down from the corner of his mouth, staining his chin, and you taste it before you see it—copper and salt, burning your throat.

No. Your stomach turns, a sick realization dawning over you. No, no, no—this can’t be what it looks like.

But it is, and deep down, you already know it is. The constant bruises, the broken rib last spring, the dislocated shoulder you woke up with midwinter that left you bedridden for three days—none of it was yours. All of it was his.

Ragnar steps forward, towering and stone-faced, arms crossed. “What is your name, boy?”

The rider doesn’t respond — he doesn’t seem to be much for words, at least at this moment. He lifts his head slowly, grimacing through his split lip. You can see the effort it takes him to stand, but he does it anyway, chin raised, back straight. There’s something in him—not arrogance, but stubbornness. His eyes scan the crowd for a moment and—

They stop on you, gaze landing on you like a slap, and something changes in his expression. It’s slow at first, but it’s there. Recognition—as if the mere sight of you clicks something in his brain. He sees the way your hand is still clutched to your leg. The way you haven’t blinked since his eyes found yours.

He knows. 

You don't have to wonder how, or if he’s questioning it. You suppose it hits him the way it hit you a few seconds ago — not necessarily in a way that makes sense, but a guttural feeling of connection. 

You watch his eyes shift – the recognition turns into surprise. Then confusion. Then something else. His lips part slightly, like he's trying to speak but his voice is refusing to come out.

You want to look away, but you don’t; can’t, really. His eyes stay on yours, even as one of the warriors speaks up. “He said his name was Hiccup, sir.”

And your world spins, even more than it already was before.

Because you know that name.

Everyone knows it. The rumors have traveled across every village on every wind—the dragon rider, the Night Fury, the boy who rides shadows and fire and turns hunters into fools.

A beat passes, and Ragnar scoffs. “A runt. The most dangerous dragon rider on the sea is a boy with no armor and bad posture?”

Someone laughs. Someone else spits. But he—Hiccup—doesn’t answer. He doesn’t look away from you, even when another guard steps forward and drives a fist into his ribs.

That’s the one that breaks you.

You fall hard this time, doubled over with a cry of pain that tears from your throat before you can stop it.You slam a hand against the stone floor, fingers trembling, and through the haze, you hear Hiccup grunt in pain as well. You're both on your knees now, different parts of the courtyard, breathing in sync through gritted teeth. Hundreds of people stand between you and him, but they are all too enthralled with Hiccups presence to acknowledge exactly what is happening, and you don’t know if you’re grateful or not for that yet.

Hiccup lifts his head again, jaw tight. The moment your eyes meet once more, something silent passes between you. Not pity, or fear, or disgust—all of which would be normal in this situation, normal to a Viking who tames dragons surrounded by a village who hates them. Rather, it’s something gentle; a kind of apology, an acknowledgment that he’s the reason you’re in pain.

Then the guards drag him away, and you force your gaze downward because for some reason it doesn’t feel right watching him fight and scream and struggle against their grasps.

You can’t hear what’s said between them. The blood in your ears is too loud, and your thoughts are a mess of disbelief and rising horror as you struggle to find your breath.

Your soulmate is a dragon rider.

And he’s everything your people were taught to destroy.