Heir and Pride

Chapter Ten

Hiccup didn't go home, his hitching breaths and dizzy head meaning he felt too ill to walk all the way up the hill. So he reached the forge and stumbled into the little backroom, his own little workroom and scrabbled for the satchel he had stowed there with a small pot of ointments and bandages. He found his spare tunic, wiped his face and slathered the ointment on his bruised and battered chest before spreading the blanket on the floor and curling up like a small animal. He wished with all his heart that he was in the cove with Toothless or, better, that he was somewhere other than Berk.

The sounds of Gobber crashing around the forge jolted him from his sleep some hours later and he lifted his buzzing head and gave a groan. The noises stopped and the blacksmith poked his head into the little workroom, seeing the bleary shape of the boy lift his battered head. Gobber sighed and crouched down by him. "Can't even follow a simple order, eh?" he muttered. Hiccup gave a pained wince as he sat up and shook his head.

"Wouldn't make it home," he murmured. "Just needed to rest..." He blinked slowly and   tried to clear his head. "Sorry, Gobber." His tone was weary. Then he took a shuddering breath and scrambled to his feet. "I owe you some work in the forge," he said with quiet determination. The smith patted him gently-which nearly knocked the slight boy to the floor-then grinned, his stone prosthetic tooth gleaming dully.

"Not saying I couldnae use a hand..." he quipped, waving his hook. "Have you eaten?" Hiccup shook his head wildly.

"But I don't think I..." he began, visualising Snotlout pouring stew over his head. Gobber patted him again.

"I'll bring something back," he reassured his apprentice as he ambled up the hill. Hiccup stared after him and a slight smile tilted his lips. He guessed he'd have an hour to work on upgrading the saddle and then he could actually do some work to earn off the materials he had stolen from Gobber. He paused and winced. Stole. It was an ugly word but accurately described what he had done.

And then he stared up at the village. They had stolen as well: stolen his childhood, his innocence, his sense of safety, his father's love, any hope of acceptance, his birthright. When he was younger, his father had loved him, he had enjoyed friends, he felt he belonged. Until they took it. And they never even let him see him when he begged to see his dying father. They just beat and punched him until his vision, his life contracted into red and white and pain and utter darkness...

He turned and ducked under the table, dragging out the saddle and peering at it. He needed some way to prevent himself just falling off. Safety lines...a harness...a seat belt! He cast around the fire, visualising the end result without even having to draw the plans. This was just too simple! All he needed was a belt with straps and hooks for attachment to the saddle. Of course, if he could prove the concept, he would need a much more secure riding vest with a better harness but for the moment, all he needed was a belt...and a pretty small one if it had to be tight around his narrow waist. He shrugged. He was a toothpick: everything about him was narrow!

He had fitted two hooks to the saddle and finished a wide, sturdy belt long before Gobber returned. In fact, the man returned to find him hammering a crooked sword straight, another already dug into the flames warming to red-hot pliability. The sound of even clangs belied the boy's battered condition, but Gobber could read the tension in his bruised face and the occasional hitch in his motion as he pulled cracked ribs or heavy bruising. Gently, the old blacksmith walked up to the boy and laid a bowl by him and a flask.