Summary: For fourteen years, he spent his life pretending he didn't exist. Alone and hidden by his father from the inhabitants of Berk, Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III takes to exploring the island under the cover of night. T for language.

Chapter One

Home

I live on a tiny island called Berk. It's twelve days north of hopelessness and a few degrees south of freezing to death. It's located solidly on the Meridian of Misery. My village. In a word? Sturdy, and it's been here for seven generations, but every single building is new. We have fishing, hunting, and a charming view of the sunset - or, so I've heard. The only problem are the pests. You see, most places have mice or mosquitoes. We have-

"Dragons!" my father shouted, slamming the door behind him. I glanced up from the book I was (re)reading - as in, for the hundredth time or so - not particularly shocked or overly concerned. "Hiccup, I want you to-"

"Stay in the house," I recited. "Don't leave unless it catches fire or gets destroyed in some various other manner. If that happens, escape out the back door and into the forest. Don't let anyone see me; you'll come get me at our designated meeting point as soon as it's safe. I know." He nodded, eyeing the door. Stoick the Vast, a.k.a my father, was the chief of the village, and was itching to be out defending it as we spoke. But his primary concern, before he would let himself do that, was me. Or rather, making sure I stayed hidden. "I'll be fine. Go."

"Stay safe," he grunted before pulling the door open as little as possible and slipping out. I sighed, tossing my book on the floor. It wasn't particularly interesting anyway. As always, I found myself peeking out the window in the crack between the furs used to keep the sun out. The usual rule was that I avoid windows at all costs, but in the chaos outside, I doubted anyone would notice me.

There was a lot of fire. And burly Vikings running around with various assorted weapons in hand. I knew none of them. Not by name, not by face. They were all perfect strangers. Well, except for Gobber, who passed out weapons like candy. Now and then, I would see others that must have been close to my age, and I found myself wondering what their lives must have been like. Probably a lot less miserable than mine. I sighed again and let the fur blind fall closed. I dropped heavily into my father's large armchair and listened to the sounds of chaos sing around the house.

It was a house that felt more like a prison. The only time I was allowed to so much as step foot outside, save for destruction via dragon attack, was in the dead of night to use the outhouse. Sure, there had been a few times when my father took me out into the forest to fish and generally get some fresh air - a Viking's home can smell pretty funky at times - but always at night, and always with him. And of course we can't forget the few times Gobber sprung me when my father was away, but still. Night. Are you sensing a pattern?

Perhaps you are asking yourself why? What reason would a father have for keeping his son locked away from the rest of the village? Maybe the son is dangerous. Or ill. Or maybe the father is ashamed. Well, I'm not ill. Or dangerous. It remains to be seen whether or not my father is ashamed of me. No, the reason for my fourteen-year imprisonment is that I have a... let's call it a skin condition.

Now, lots of people have skin conditions. Some people have an abundance of boils. Some, flaky red patches. Others, oozing black lesions. Mine is worse than all of that... Okay, maybe it's not worse than oozing black lesions, but only barely. I was born with the majority of my body covered in black reptilian scales, much like the dragons my people dedicate their lives to killing. And if people saw me, they would kill me. Or, at least that's what my father has said. Only three people on the entire island even know I exist: my father, of course; Gobber, my father's closest friend; and the village elder, Gothi.

My home is a prison, and boredom is my closest friend. The only living thing that I see with any frequency suffers from a severe case of emotional constipation.

The sounds of the fight were getting farther away, and I thought I heard catapults being fired. Curious, I stood once more and returned to the window. My eyes scanned the night sky. The dragons were retreating. Movement caught my eye, but there was nothing there, I was sure. I stared. A rock hurtled toward empty space... And it hit something. Something that was black against the black sky. A Night Fury? Did they actually manage to hit the Night Fury, the one dragon no one had ever killed. Or seen - or, survived seeing at any rate.

It didn't matter. The fight was over. The dragons had been chased away (for now), and my father would be home soon. I returned to my book, but the words blurred together. The door opened and my father slumped in. I got him a mug of mead, asked him about the fight - no mention about a Night Fury, so maybe I had been wrong - got him dinner. He didn't bother asking me about my day. It's not like I ever did anything.

After a quick visit to the outhouse, I made my way up the stairs to my pitch black room. I wasn't allowed to have a candle up there in case someone saw the glow and got curious. I looked at the stars though my window, set up on the roof where no one would be able to look inside. Slowly, I drifted off to sleep, another meaningless day of my meaningless life gone, and another one to look forward to when I woke up again.