Archive of Our Own ^beta

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Imagine that you were born in the Dark Ages, during an age infested with barbaric Vikings and savage Dragons — both being wild and untamed species in their own right — in an isolated, yet large Archipelago that the world won't ever discover for an indefinite length of time.

Imagine that you were born in the Hairy Hooligan Tribe of Berk, a tribe of unruly, smelly, thuggish, brutal, dense, strong, loud, rude, uncivilized… well, Hooligans… who think "might is right" and "only the strong belong", and look down on anything that they either can't understand or view as weak and un-Viking-ly. (I'm afraid that Vikings are rather prejudiced and superstitious people during this time period.)

Now imagine that you, having been born, are a runt — a scrawny, twiggy, fishbone-y, fragile, tiny, vulnerable little prawn-of-a-thing, barely big enough to fit the entirety of a certain red-haired mountain-of-a-chieftain with a beard as wild and untamed as a sea of fire.

Now, not only are you a Viking baby born in a Tribe of uncivilized (and not really bright) Hooligans, living in the most inhospitable, frigid, drenched, and tree-and-rock-infested place in the known medieval world, and were born a runt, but there is one thing more that you must imagine…

Something so incredibly and freakishly odd that you end up being teased and mocked (and everything else equally unpleasant) for being birthed during this extremely odd phenomenon….

You must imagine being born on the 29th of February — a leap year, occurring only once every four years.

So you can probably imagine that the birthdays were a bit… awkward, to put it mildly. Do you celebrate every year like everyone else, or every four years?

This is what it was like to be Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third, Hope and Heir to the Hooligan Tribe, who was about as odd and average and extraordinary as one could get.

One would assume that, being the Chief's Son, being born on such an extraordinary and unique day — one that occurs every four years — would surely be a good omen (being set apart by the gods and all that), and would've been seen as something to be PROUD OF! Something that only a Chief's SON could pull off and that in itself was surely a sign from the gods in Valhalla that he would accomplish GREAT and HEROIC things.

However, as I've stated previously, Vikings are, unfortunately, a prejudiced and superstitious people; and while WE in the MODERN AGE would view it as a "cool" or "neat" fact that distinguishes one as an individual, those in the DARK AGES had a completely reverse (and closed-minded, too, I'm afraid) view on the matter. Hiccup, having been born a runt, and average-looking, and scrawny, and, in short, nothing like a Viking at all, being born on a Leap Year would've been viewed as just further proof that he was in no way a Viking. In fact, some would even argue that the 29th of February was a bad omen promising doom to whoever was born on that day — even to those who lived with him.

If they were a logical people, they would have

But they weren't a logical people. And that would be ridiculous.

But this year? This year was different.

And Hiccup couldn't believe just how different it was. His Twelfth birthday — though, technically speaking, it was his THIRD birthday (like I said, awkward) — was the most eventful Birthday that he had ever had YET!

Not only did Toothless, his naughty little Common-and-Garden Dragon, destroyed and ate his Father's new throne AND the How To Train Your Dragon book by Professor Yobbish (both of these acts, in fact, almost doomed his birthday to a terrible fate), but he stole a Secret Weapon belonging to Madguts the Murderous (which was stolen before by Bertha, so, technically, Hiccup stole from BOTH of them), infiltrated the Meathead "Public" Library (which wasn't so public and HATED intruders), killed a Driller Dragon (because "knocked out" was a gross understatement), narrowly avoided being stuck on the end of one of the Hairy Scary Librarian's Heart-Slicers like a mutton kabob, he'd been lost in a dark and dusty Labyrinth, discovered the Dragon Whisperer's Way (quite by accident and just in time before getting skewered to death by Driller Dragons), dealt with an entire nest of Piffleworms (which kindly dealt with said Driller Dragons), rescued his father from death by Northbow (via Enraged-and-Humiliated-Hairy-Scary-Librarian), and Big-Boobied Bertha from being sent to the Uglithug Slavelands (courtesy of Madguts the Murderous).

Plus he stole another copy of How To Train Your Dragon and unintentionally helped his Father win the bet with Big-Boobied Bertha, had yet ANOTHER hairy-scary, adrenaline-pumping adventure with his two best friends and their dragons, and he prevented a terrible and bloody war from erupting between the Murderous Tribe and the Hooligan and Bog-Burglar Tribes.

AND he managed to persuade his Father Stoick to convince the Vikings at the Thing to reopen the Library and unban books for his Birthday — something Hiccup never thought he'd be able to do after his tirade about Hiccup reading and writing books.

All-in-all, it was probably the best Birthday that he'd had in… well… EVER, probably.

And the day wasn't even over yet!

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The sun had just sunk below the horizon when the Birthday Banquet kicked off to a roaring start. Blazing bonfires lit up the darkening sky and deep, sonorous voices chorused old Archipelago songs and Tribal anthems in the evening air.

In the Great Hall, activity was even more bustling, and the noise more volumous, and the Hall was fit to bursting with Vikings pushing, jostling, joking, fighting, competing, shouting, cheering, singing, drinking, eating their way through the Banquet, having a grand old time. Hearths were alive with roaring fires, illuminating the wood-and-stone halls with a warm, hearty glow and a fierce heat to beat back the bite of the Northern chilly winds blowing from the sea. The warmth from the fires and the steaming drinking horns of mead brought joy in their rosy cheeks and curls in their manly beards and chest hair. And a general sense of contentment and festive merriment abounded from all and sundry.

The hearths were full of bubbling cauldrons and sizzling spits cooking succulent meats and hearty stews and even some desserts (yes, even uncivilized Barbarians like Vikings had enough civilized know-how to make desserts — they weren't savages, after all), the steam evaporating and the aroma wafting and expanding throughout the Hall, their scents stirring the memories of empty stomachs, causing them to remember that they hadn't been fed in hours, and began to growl in unison like hungry wolves in anticipation of an easy meal.

Among the throng of the wild and festive crowd stood Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third, Hope and Heir to the Hairy Hooligans (O Hear His Name and Try Not To Snicker, Ugh, Ugh!), trying really hard to NOT look like a little penguin getting hassled by a huddle of fat, loud, and aggressive walruses, and deciding that it was probably best (and safer) for him to sit on his chair at the High Table — though his Father Stoick kept calling it a "throne" for some reason, even though it was nowhere near the size and level of decoration as Stoick's — so that he could actually ENJOY the festivities without getting trampled on like a fur rug.

Hiccup was in high spirits, as one would — and should — when celebrating the day of their birth. He couldn't recall a birthday that he could remember that was even CLOSE to what a birthday should be like. Not like this one. Especially not like this one.

Of course, there was the Hair-Raising Adventure he could've done without; but despite it almost claiming his life and those of his best friends (and almost threatening to completely ruin any MINUSCULE chance at having a tolerable, even decent birthday), Hiccup decided that it was for the best.

Besides, if it wasn't for that (mis)adventure to the Meathead Library, then he wouldn't have been able to convince his Father to try to unban books and reopen the Meathead Library as his birthday present.

But more importantly, the Quest gave him an unexpected gift that was more special and meaningful than any gift he will ever receive today. . . .

The knowledge that he had a secret ancestor — his namesake, Hiccup the Second — who not only was a runt like him, but also was a Dragon Whisperer who wrote a book about dragons — just like what he was doing! And knowing that the Horrendous Haddocks did indeed write books — well, I don't know about you, Dear Reader, but if you had been in Hiccup's boots and had a secret ancestor who was just like you, I'm sure you'd feel a little excited and pleased with yourself. Well, that's exactly what Hiccup felt. He stood a little bit taller (and it helped that he had grown quite a bit since his last birthday), his back a little more straighter, and his demeanor a little more confident and self-assured.

He wondered if the first Hiccup wrote any books, too, and if he was also like him?

Well… that was a Quest for another time, he supposed.

In the meanwhile, he was going to milk his birthday for all it was worth. Although he wished that the attention wasn't so much on him (though it was a futile wish, with it being his birthday and all.) Many well-wishers, having heard of Hiccup's exploits and new-found burglary skills from the second-hand accounts of both Chief Stoick AND Chieftess Bertha, decided to come by and give him their hearty (and painful) congratulations.

"Well done, well done!" shouted a Hooligan with a rough congratulatory pat that nearly sent Hiccup sprawling onto the floor.

"Splendid work, young man!"

"You've done us proud, boy!"

"That was some top-notch burglary — though a Bog-Burglar could do better!" boasted a brute-of-a-Bog-Burglar in the pleased-with-yourself manner typically expressed by members of this Tribe.

"Showed those Bog-Burglars what Hooligans are made of, eh, Hiccup? Well done, well done!"

"Ha! That'll teach those Bog-Burglars not to mess with us Hooligans! Ah, makes me proud to be a Hooligan!"

"That was some excellent burglary-skills — for a boy and a Hooligan, of course." complimented another Bog-Burglar.

However, it was Gobber who surprised Hiccup when he came by with a compliment of his own: "Decided to follow ole Gobber's footsteps, eh? NICELY DONE! Showed those mousy Meatheads and batty Bog-Burglars how a TRUE Viking burgles! PERFECT MARKS! We'll make a Viking of you YET!"

After that booming exhortation, and yet another slap on the upper back that had knocked the air out of the poor Heir's lungs (and causing him to choke on a piece of salmon), Gobber stomped off, eager to join some Vikings in a drinking contest.

Hiccup continued to eat and savor his supper in silence, hoping for a respite from any further interaction. Not many Vikings were at the High Table at the moment, save for Hiccup's many Aunts and his little cousin Adelaide, as many were busy socializing and competing.

Snotlout was nowhere to be seen, predictably (he usually made himself scarce whenever his cousin's birthday came up). Hiccup could only sigh in relief and mutter a prayer of thanks to Odin for the day of respite from Snotlout's abuse. So the Quest to Infiltrate the Meathead Public Library was a blessing in disguise after all.

As Hiccup recovered from the sudden fame and limelight, his friends, Fishlegs and Camicazi, joined him and sat beside him, after having observed the scene, and began filling their plates with their desired foods as they started a new conversation with the Hooligan Heir.

"Well… that was sudden," remarked Fishlegs as he grabbed some breaded fish sticks, before giving Hiccup a consoling smile. "But at least you're finally getting the attention that you deserve — being the Chief's Son and all. And it's about time you got some recognition around here."

Hiccup shrugged as he swallowed another piece of salmon. "Don't get me wrong, it's nice to get some positive attention for a change — especially where my birthday's concerned. But I know that after a while they'll forget, and I'm once again back to being 'Hiccup the Useless.' My own father forgets — and he's witnessed more of my exploits than anyone else. So there's no point in getting my hopes up."

"That's a pessimistic outlook to have," Fishlegs commented while devouring on some roasted potatoes (a recent addition to the Berkian diet, courtesy of Bigjob's arrow Hiccup brought home from Hysteria several months ago). "Not very Chieftain-like if you ask me."

Hiccup gave him a look. "Considering that I'm far from what a Chief's Son ought to be, that's hardly surprising."

"All I'm saying is that you should enjoy your birthday — CELEBRATE! I mean, you only get to have it every few years; it's important to make it a good one!"

Hiccup blinked in surprise, his face wearing a thoughtful expression. Weren't those the very words he had said to himself just hours prior? He turned to look at his best friend. "You're right, Fishlegs. It is important. Which is why I'm enjoying this day the best that I can."

Camicazi decided at that moment to chime in (she had previously been busy devouring the surrounding food near them). "That's the spirit!" she cheered, causing Hiccup to slightly jump. She raised the spoon she was using to devour some mutton stew (which was thankfully empty) and waved it around as if it was her sword, Invincible. "Let's show these walloping walruses how to REALLY celebrate!"

Camicazi then gave him a hearty slap on the back, causing Hiccup to choke a bit on the chunk of mutton stew that he was chewing. Despite her size, Camicazi could definitely put a lot of power into her handwork.

Fishlegs continued, heavily influenced by the festivities. "And probably the best thing about today is that we haven't seen hide nor hair of that bully Snotlout anywhere the entire day! It's a miracle, really."

Any further comment was halted by a sudden splat of creamy mashed potatoes that hit his glasses. "Hey!"

The culprit, Camicazi, who had thrown the spoonful of mashed potatoes at Fishlegs, glared at him. "Don't jinx it, Fishlegs!" she rebuked him, holding her spoon in a reprimanding manner. "You KNOW that the moment you say things like that, bad things will follow."

Fishlegs gave her a sour look as he took his glasses off, using the edge of his tunic to wipe the slop off them. Unfortunately, the portion Camicazi threw at him was full of butter, and the more he tried to wipe it off, the more it smeared on his glasses. "You could've gotten my attention without throwing buttered potato on my glasses," he grumbled, before hailing a nearby servant from Stoick's household to get him some hot water and a cloth.

"I could've," admitted Camicazi with a care-free grin, looking rather pleased with herself. "But it wouldn't have been as entertaining."

Finally having gotten his spectacles washed, Fishlegs put them on and gave her a look. "I was only making the observation that we've spent the whole day and most of the evening without Snotlout coming to mess it up. It should be something acknowledged and appreciated, don't you think?"

"It would if it didn't risk the possibility of Snotlout coming!" countered Camicazi, glaring at Fishlegs. "What are you trying to do, ruin Hiccup's birthday?"

Any further argument between the two was interrupted by a shout as Stoick sought the attention of his guests from the High Table (which he had returned to some time before) — using the typical Viking method: shouting.

"QUIET, EVERYONE! QUIET, PLEASE! CAN I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION?" when the Hall quieted down, Stoick continued, "IT IS NOW TIME FOR MY SON TO RECEIVE YOUR GIFTS!"

His massive bearded face turned to look at Hiccup and, grabbing his throne, he motioned for his son to sit on it, in front of the High Table, to receive the long line of gift-bearing Vikings that was being assembled.

Hiccup sighed resignedly. This was going to be a long evening.

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The Gift-Giving Ceremony was possibly one of the most dreaded moments of his birthday for Hiccup. Don't get him wrong, he liked receiving gifts as much as the next person, but when those gifts were what one usually gave to the typical, average, everyday, muscle-strapped, barrel-shaped, ax-wielding, violence-loving, wild-bearded Viking, rather than a Runt who was anything but the typical Viking, it can get tedious and unexciting quickly. And thus Hiccup was the victim of these unoriginal gifts from unoriginal people — just as he was on his other birthdays.

Imagine if you were in his dragon skin boots: it was your birthday and instead of it being a small birthday with only your intimate friends like you wanted, your parents throw a large birthday party and invite the entire town. (Oh, and your father is MAYOR of said town). And imagine that these people, who were mere acquaintances or even complete strangers many of them, come over with gifts, because it's obligatory. And since many of them don't know you personally, or weren't given a birthday list of any description, they just get you gifts that befit a child of your age — regardless of whether you want them or not. And imagine that most of these guests don't even like you, particularly your peers. So at the end of it all, you're stuck with all of these gifts (many of which you'll never use) given to you by people who don't really care about you or your birthday, and you have to be obligated to thank them and to let them eat most of your birthday cake.

This was what Hiccup was feeling at this moment — and had felt every time his birthday came along (which wasn't often). It's difficult to feel excited about your birthday when you're forced to throw a party for a Tribe who's almost universally torn between wishing that you either had already grown up into a muscle-bound Viking like them, or just never existed in the first place.

And since birthday cake hadn't been invented yet (it was called the "Dark Ages" for a reason), there was nothing for Hiccup to look forward to to take his mind off of this depression fact.

It truly was the Dark Ages.

And so Hiccup sat there, looking rather awkward and uncomfortable as he accepted gifts and thanked them as each Viking came by to give him a gift and a hearty "Happy Birthday!" before moving on and making room for the person behind him (and going back to what they were doing before: feasting and drinking and fighting with unreserved merriment).

"Happy Birthday, Hiccup! Here's a nice shield that I'd just gotten from the trader recently." the man leaned over, and whispered conspiratorially (and almost knocking Hiccup unconscious with his bad breath), "He said that this shield is carved with magic runes made by Almighty Thor himself to protect its bearer from harm. Perfect for a Chief's Son!"

Hiccup could only nod and thank him politely, while at the same time pitying the man for having been duped by one of the oldest sales pitches in the book. As the man left, others came forward.

"Hey, Hiccup! Here's some top-quality sealskin fur boots. Hunted the seal myself, you know! Also got you a matching fur vest, too!"

"Here's a state-of-the-art sword that I managed to acquire from a visiting trader one day. Said it came from a far-off land called Frankia. Produces the best swords on the market! Very light, too!"

As the line of bulky Vikings made their way to the Heir, all of them smiles and merriment, jostling each other impatiently like walruses on a crowded beach as they presented their gifts, the pile of presents grew and grew till Hiccup was practically sitting on his mini-mountain of gifts — little of which he would ever be able to use in the near or distant future. (Particularly, to Hiccup's great embarrassment, those that were more appropriate gifts for the other gender.)

That was the other thing that bothered Hiccup: everyone looked rather happy to come by and give him gifts, a hearty pat on the shoulder, and a warm congratulations — as if he wasn't "Hiccup the Runt" or "Hiccup the Useless". They weren't wearing their usual expressions on their faces that showed reluctance, apathy, impatience, and other negative emotions that were thinly veiled behind masks of false goodwill and sincerity. They were never happy nor eager to have anything to do with Hiccup. Perhaps they had been, once upon a time, when Hiccup was very young (not that he could remember), and the expectations of him taking on the typical Viking traits and build weren't present.

But Hiccup knew that all of this would go away once he messed up again. It always did. And he learned to shrug it off and move on, trying to duck his head and make himself as unnoticeable as he could. This was the life he lived for so long.

However, it wasn't all so bad. This time it wasn't just the Hooligans that were celebrating in the Great Hall, but also the Bog-Burglars who just so happened to be on Berk for a visit (and a little friendly competition) at the time and got to have the honor of being invited to his Birthday Banquet — the first they'd ever received in a century.

And if you ignored their loud and boisterous and extremely competitive natures — along with their love for violence, insults and pick-pocketing — they were really decent Vikings once you got to know them. And aside from the glaringly obvious fact of him being a boy, the Bog-Burglars didn't really hold it against him (though some thought that he really should've been a girl because he was too brilliant to be a Hooligan), and they didn't have the negative bias towards him that his own people had.

In fact, out of the many Tribes in Archipelago, the Bog-Burglars were always friendly towards him in light of the fact that Hiccup saved their Chieftess and her Heir on more than one occasion (and to his embarrassment, more than one of the younger members had a crush on him). So when they came to his Banquet, they definitely went out of their way to bestow on him magnificent gifts fit for a Chief's Son, their competitive nature wanting to outdo the Hooligans in the gift-giving solely for the bragging rights.

Even a group of Meatheads, with a scowling Mogadon the Meathead and a grinning Thuggory at their head, managed to drop by earlier with well-wishes and a couple of gifts (Hiccup had a conversation with Thuggory earlier that evening). Speaking of whom, Thuggory was next in line as he gave a curt bow and, with the smirk of one sharing an inside joke, gave him his gift.

"Happy Birthday, Hiccup!"

It was a small and ornate rectangular chest, trimmed with silver and studded with various jewels — possibly something that Thuggory's Tribe looted from the Southern Kingdoms? Thuggory often talked, per Hiccup's request, about his Tribe's raiding expeditions whenever they met (often against his father Mogodon's wishes).

What could be inside? wondered Hiccup, shaking the chest a little. Judging by the sound, it wasn't jewelry or accessories. A sax, perhaps?

Hiccup looked up again to see Thuggory still smiling, and gave him a puzzled look.

Leaning forward, the buff Meathead Heir said in a confidential aside to Hiccup, "Open it when you get home; I promise that you'll love it." he winked.

Now Hiccup was curious. With another glance towards the chest, he then brought his blue eyes to bear on Thuggory's own, a small smile on his freckled face. Hiccup bowed. "Thank you, Thuggory Chiefsson," he said, finally, using the formal and traditional title commonly used to address Heirs. It was a tad old-fashioned, but Hiccup liked it; it gave it a sort of flair and a level of importance. "Your gift gives me honor. And thank you again for coming to the Banquet. That was a gift in itself. "

Thuggory waved a hand dismissively. "I wasn't going to miss your birthday for anything. You're like a little brother to me, so it was the least I could do since I couldn't make it last year. Glad I could come." he gave him a fond grin.

A warm feeling of fondness came over Hiccup, and he returned Thuggory's grin with one of his own.

An impatient cough interrupted any further conversation as those who were waiting to present their gifts to Hiccup were shoving each other like claustrophobic walruses behind Thuggory, giving them indignant looks.

"And with that, I will take my leave," quipped the burly Meathead Heir. Bowing, Thuggory gave Hiccup an encouraging wink. "Enjoy the rest of your Night, Hiccup Chiefsson. You deserve it! Until our next meeting." And with that, Thuggory the Meathead, Hope and Heir of the Merciless Meathead Tribe, took his leave, allowing those behind him to move up and present their gifts of monotony.

Hiccup nodded, accepted the gifts, and gave polite thanks, as one ought to do in these situations, but his mind wasn't there so much as it was euphorically in another realm entirely — contentedly basking in the glow of kinship with his fellow Heirs.

After all, Dear Reader, it doesn't take much for us to imagine the expanding warmth that buoys us emotionally — that swelling of the heart that makes us lighter and soar higher than a Roman balloon. That emotion of happiness that comes whenever we have found like-kinship with another fellow human being. A soul mate, if you will.

Hiccup found that in Thuggory. And with Fishlegs and Camicazi, to be sure. But Thuggory was special: he was the first Viking who wasn't a Berkian see his worth and accepted who he was, flaws and all, and gave him respect and admiration — two things nobody had ever given him before he had killed the Green Death. Aside from Fishlegs, Thuggory was the only real friend he had. And he thanked the Fates every day for giving him such a valuable friendship — one that he had somehow earned without meaning to (not that he was going to complain).

As Hiccup politely thanked yet another giver of yet another unoriginal, thoughtless gift — seriously, he was going to need to figure out a way to get rid of all of these gifts (maybe save them as gifts to bribe warriors to join his personal retinue once he became Chief of Berk in the oh-so-distant future?) — and was placing the gift on top of his ever-growing pile of useless things, a loud voice knocked him out of his revelry.

One that he came to dread.

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY, NEPHEW!" boomed Baggybum the Beerbelly, his boisterous and ambitious uncle on his Father's side. His blond beard and hair looked a lot like sheep's wool — thick and bushy. Like all Vikings, he was burly and barrel-shaped, with your typical Viking build and strength, and could rival Stoick in many Viking-favorite games (a fact that Baggybum never hesitates to rib his older brother about it, to his chagrin).

Hiccup yelped as Baggybum slapped a meaty hand on Hiccup's shoulder repeatedly, quite painfully, and with great enthusiasm. "Well now, twelve-years-old, eh? Growing into a man, at last (thank Thor). AND," he added, rubbing his hands like a person who's birthday came early, "I've heard that you've bested those slippery octopuses, the Bog-Burglars in that Burglary Competition. Well DONE, lad, Well DONE!" His big beer belly (from which earned him his title) jiggled from the vibrations of his boisterous praise. "We'll make a VIKING out of you YET!" His Uncle's face reminded Hiccup of a happy haddock (pun not intended), only more intimidating.

Much more intimidating…

Hiccup could only nod and try not to grimace in pain at his uncle's violent (albeit well-intentioned) affection. "Thank you, Uncle." there wasn't much else to say to that. Not really.

"NOT AT ALL, NOT AT ALL!" boomed Baggybum again with a beaming (and somewhat drunken) smile plastered on his bearded face. Then he looked behind him and barked, "COME ON, BOYO! GIVE YOUR COUSIN THE GIFT!"

Hiccup's blood froze.

For stepping out of his Father's bulky mass... stood Snotface Snotlout.

His cousin… and arch-rival…

Oh, suffering scallops...