A/N: A few things: First, a huge thank you to my dear LJ9, who was kind enough to beta this chapter. Something about this story has been giving me trouble, and she helped me see what I need to work on and captured an army of typos. Secondly, I apologize in advance for the horrible Latin. It's been a while since I studied Latin, and I was never all that fantastic at it.

"He's drawing again," Stoick told Gobber a few days later. They'd been meeting every day to swap notes on Hiccup's progress.

They called it progress so that they could keep their spirits high. No one really knew if Hiccup was improving – they weren't even sure if Hiccup knew. He still had nightmares often; Stoick had tried to intervene several times, but Hiccup reacted violently, hitting and smacking with surprising strength even when drowsy. He refused to talk to Stoick for whole days afterward whenever he tried to help. There were also the scars, and though Gobber never mentioned them again, Hiccup had caught him staring more than once, brows furrowed as he traced one mark or another with his eyes. No one knew how to help during the panic attacks, when he would rock back and forth and cradle his necklace.

Helping Hiccup was hard. He didn't seem to ever want it, and moreover, he wasn't sure how to accept it. Human interaction of any kind baffled him. Almost everyone on Berk had caught him chattering easily with their dragons, but whenever his fellow humans attempted to speak with him, Hiccup would clam up awkwardly. He wasn't fearful of people, not as though they would hurt him, but he no longer knew what to expect from them. The last time he'd been treated like a real person was when he was a boy. Now, as a man of twenty-one, he only knew how to be a servant. Being human should have been freeing; instead it was uncomfortably new.

But for Hiccup, drawing in his sketchbook meant significant progress.

"Well, that's good." Gobber sounded genuinely pleased. He put down his work and turned to listen intently. "What sort of things has he been drawing?"

Stoick shrugged. "He hasn't shown me much. Hides when he sees I'm looking. I've peeked a few times. He draws buildings. Dragons – kinds I've never seen before. Occasionally people. There is one design, though, some sort of mechanism or… or gadget. I don't recognize it. He's been working on it for days. You should ask him about it, see if he wants to build something."

Gobber let out a small laugh and nodded over at the massive pile of fire pokers, nails, barrel rings, and shovels that he would spend months selling. "I think he's set me up for a while. He's ready to move onto bigger projects. I'll see what I can do."

The next day, as Hiccup sorted through old metal scraps, tossing the rustier bits into a melting pot and picking out the better bits to reuse, Gobber glanced over to where he'd set his sketchbook on the table. He wondered if Stoick had told him to take it today.

It'd been a slow morning; he didn't think conversation would seem amiss, even for a jumpy lad like Hiccup. "Sketches?" he asked, pointing to the book. Hiccup stiffened and darted his eyes to the journal. He gulped, and shrugged.

"You sketched a lot as a kid, don't know if you remember." Hiccup said nothing, and Gobber prayed he hadn't hit a nerve. "I wager you've gotten good at it." Still no response. Gobber sighed and turned back to his work, tossing over his shoulder, "Well, anyway, if you ever draw up something you want to build, just let me know. You can make whatever you like."

Hiccup looked up at that, interest piqued. After a long pause, he went back to work, but he sat a bit more relaxed in his seat, hands moving a bit more easily.

After lunch, Hiccup came up to Gobber silently and presented him with the designs. Gobber's eyebrows rose when he saw them.

"Odin's beard," he breathed, looking at the thin lines and intricate shapes. "What's this, then?" He turned it and examined it. The letters were unfamiliar. He thought he recognized them from the exotic books Johann had sold to Stoick in years gone by. Latin? With no help from words, he studied the images to decipher Hiccup's plans.

"Is this a leg?" He pointed to a bit that looked like a foot. Hiccup gestured up at the top of the thing, which would fit much higher on a leg than his old prosthetic.

"Straps on up here," he said.

"And what's this?"

"A knee."

Gobber scoffed. He'd never seen a prosthetic with a knee. Not a working one, anyway. He glanced sidelong at Hiccup, who seemed completely serious and sure of himself. "How's it work?"

Engrossed in the design, Hiccup gestured with his hands loosely. "It uses a steel hinge with spring coils, to bring the knee up after the foot moves. Seal it with oil and a bit of leather, it works well for a very long time, and doesn't…" Gobber coughed quietly, and Hiccup stiffened as if surprised, eyeing Gobber nervously. He looked down and held his hands together in front of him. "…rust," he finished quietly. Gobber squinted at the picture.

"And eh… where'd you get all this?" Had he designed it himself?

Hiccup shrugged. "Logothete Kaloethes had one made for me."

The name made one of Gobber's eyebrows shoot up in confusion, but he tried to mask his surprise. "And what happened to it?" Hiccup still wouldn't look at him.

"I lost it."

Gobber suspected there was a larger story behind the answer, but this was the most words he'd heard out of Hiccup since he'd arrived and didn't want to press him. "Alright. Well, I can't read that. Tell me what you need."

Hiccup nodded, and squinted at the hodgepodge of Greek and Latin. It'd been a long time since he'd had to translate between Latin and Norse.

Dragon fighting was illegal in the Roman Empire.

The Roman Empire was not what it used to be, but the Romans had not lost their sense of law and order. When a watchman stumbled upon the entrance into the massive fighting ring beneath the Bulgarian town of Hrazgrad, he called in reinforcements. It was as if they had poured acid into an anthill.

The fighters ran away, some taking dragons with them, some abandoning ship empty-handed. There was screaming, swords, and blood. The leaders (most of them, at least) were captured, and some of them were killed on the spot when they tried to fight back. The excitement dwindled as the Romans began sorting through the aftermath, rounding up dragons and supplies, clearing out the bodies.

They'd left Hiccup to rot in his cell. Aside from being in a locked room, he blended in perfectly with the putrid corpses next door. He was close to dead when the Romans found him, hair crawling with bugs, skin so dirty it was impossible to tell what color it was. He could hear them as they spoke over him, but could only understand a few words.

"Estne mortuus?"

"Non scio."

"Eam pungere."

Something hit him in the side. Voices above him, muttering. Something hit him in the side again, and it hit a sorely healing rib. He groaned.

"Stercus sanctus!"

"Leader arcessare!"

"Alive!"

"Foedus est."

"Sic."

There were more pairs of boots shuffling loudly into the cell. Gloved hands grabbed him and dragged him up. He groaned again. The blood rushed from his head as they lifted him and he fell unconscious.

He woke up again to the rasping of a sharp blade against his scalp. Oh, sweet relief. The squirming, itching matt that had once been a thick head of auburn fell away and he could've cried for how good it felt to be free. Then they started lathering on the lice-eating soap, and he did cry – partially because it stung his eyes, partially because he hadn't been lice-free in over a year. He could not find strength to open his eyes, so he did not see how his caretakers were wincing at his flea-bitten skin.

While Hiccup dozed, they shaved his head, his beard. They scrubbed off the mud and soaked him in baths and oils to remove the ticks and fleas. They trimmed his nails and sewed up his wounds. His leg got special attention, though the seam on his stump had somehow sealed up cleanly after his nasty amputation months prior.

If Hakon had taught him more Latin, Hiccup would have realized that most of their grumbling concerned his slavemark, which hadn't been visible until they'd shaved his head. He was informed later that he'd very nearly been sent to trial with the rest of the dragon-ring fighters. His slavemark, in a cruel, ironic twist, had saved him from guilt by association.

When he woke up and they attempted to communicate, it became clear that he did not know Latin. He could point to objects and name them, but conversation was impossible. After a few hours, they brought in an academic-looking fellow in thick blue and red robes. To Hiccup's immense surprise and pleasure, he spoke Norse. And not the halted, awful Norse that Hakon had used, but good, fluent, if somewhat slurred Norse.

"How do you feel?" the translator asked. "Do you have any injuries that the doctors should know about?"

"I do not know," Hiccup answered faithfully, voice hoarse from exhaustion. "I can't tell what hurts and what doesn't, anymore."

The translator frowned in sympathy, and relayed this to the guard by the door. "We will keep an eye on it. Are you hungry? Thirsty?"

Hiccup shifted uncomfortably, compelled to duck his head and look away as he talked to the man. Asking for things was not normal for him. He shrugged. "…Water?"

"Of course." The man spoke briefly in Latin and a nurse produced a cup. Hiccup drank from it as though it were the sweetest nectar.

"What is your name?"

"Oska."

Because the man knew Norse, Hiccup was afraid that he would translate the horrible name into an equally as embarrassing Latin name. However, when he turned to the others, Hiccup could hear him use the name 'Oska.' He felt grateful.

After a few more pleasantries, that was that. Hiccup was given a small room with a cot and a basin. It was not much; next to nothing, actually, but to him, it was Valhalla and more. It was clean, dry, and warm. He slept for days at a time.

His leg made it difficult for him to walk, and he was given crutches to move around. It was only after he started hobbling outside of his room that he learned where he was. It was a hospital, a whole complex of buildings dedicated to medicine and recovery. He'd never seen anything like it, and wore his translator to irritation with all of his questions.

His translator's name was Carius. He was a former officer of the military who'd retired to this area with his family some years ago. The Tagma (a broad term for the Roman military) had contacted him because of his knowledge of Norse. Hiccup was not sure if he could classify Carius as a friend, but he was kind to Hiccup, and that was more than Hiccup could have said for anyone he'd known in nearly four years.

Four years. He'd been gone for four years – perhaps a few months less. It felt like so much longer. The last months passed quickly. Hiccup's leg healed over, his skin stopped developing sores, the bugs left him alone. He gained enough weight to cover the jagged ends of his ribs and spine, and his hair grew back to a peach-fuzz brown. He used his crutches to walk outside often in the warm sea air. It wasn't the Baltic, but the salt in the air resurrected something deep within Hiccup's chest that allowed him to sleep at night. But he knew it wouldn't last. He was a slave.

"What will they do with me?" Hiccup asked Carius one day. The translator only visited occasionally now that Hiccup's health was in no danger. Language barriers became less important when you could move around on your own.

Carius shrugged. "I imagine they will sell you," he said frankly. "Were you not a cripple, they might have kept you within the Tagma, taught you Latin. But the army is no place for a one-legged man, even a one-legged servant."

Hiccup nodded in resignation.

"They will probably send you to Mesembria."

"Where is that?"

"It's a port."

"Will they sell me there?" Hiccup thought back to that horrible day when he'd first been sold. How young, how innocent he'd been. Bitter scars rubbed against his heart.

Carius shrugged. "It's likely."

"What sort of people buy slaves there?"

"All sorts. Savory, unsavory. Eastern, Western, Roman, Bulgarian. Your lot in life will largely depend on what you can do. And, given your leg, what you can't do." Carius' up-front manner could never be described as compassionate, but it was practical. "What can you do, Oska? Do you have any particular skills?" Casting a critical eye over the boy's still-weakened body he asked, "Anything that would give someone a reason to buy you?"

"I was a blacksmith." Hiccup remembered. It was so long ago. "I made weapons, tools, gear."

Carius' left eyebrow rose very high at that, suspecting a lie. "A slave blacksmith? That's a freeman's trade, Oska."

Hiccup set his jaw. "I was a freeman," he whispered, feeling disconnected from the fact. They'd taken that from him years ago, and he'd forgotten what it'd felt like. "Growing up."

Carius seemed to understand. Later, Hiccup would wonder if it was common for formerly free foreigners with a slavemark to get mixed up in Rome.

"It could help you. But blacksmiths usually buy slaves much bigger than you; stronger, with all their limbs intact."

Hiccup pursed his lips and sighed. After a moment of silence, he added:

"I can talk to dragons."

Carius stopped in his tracks and turned to stare. Hiccup paused on his crutches and, for the first time in weeks, made full eye contact with another person. His eyes were steel. Wounded, calloused, and terrified, but unmoving.

"Talk to them?" Carius repeated, to be sure.

"Why else would the dragon fighters keep a one-legged man alive for so long?" Hiccup said, with a dry hatred in his tone. "I was their dragon tamer." Carius stared him down for a solid ten seconds, searching for any hint of deception. When he was done, Hiccup was relieved to look away.

"Well then," the translator said evenly. "You will want to make that incredibly clear before you step up on the auction block. You are far more valuable with dragons than you are as a blacksmith."

"I can't speak Latin to tell anyone," Hiccup protested.

"Can you read Norse?"

"Yes."

"Good. I'll find a paper and pen."

The next week, holding himself up on crutches as he stood waiting inside the fort of Mesembria, Hiccup clung to the paper Carius had written out for him, Latin words translated into Norse phonetics. He'd been memorizing the syllables frantically, pronouncing and re-pronouncing the words just as he'd been taught. He wasn't sure who he was supposed to tell about his talents, or if he should wait until he was asked, but Hiccup was bound and determined to pronounce every last sound perfectly.

It was a good thing he'd memorized it so well, because his ability to communicate his talents clearly and quickly would save him from more than just an unsavory new master.

Waiting on the platform was the hardest part. Mesembria was busy, but the slave market was not the only attraction here. Unlike the tension-filled auction block where he'd been sold to Alvar, the market at Mesembria was long and casual. Buyers haggled prices and there were rarely bidding wars between two clients. Slaves were bought at a slow pace, and Hiccup was left standing on his one good leg for hours at a time with nothing to do but have others stare at him. Hopefully they'd like what they saw.

Carius had been kind enough to find Hiccup some good clothes before he was sent away. They were dull white and horribly plain, as were all the clothes of slaves, but they fit him nicely and made him look ten times healthier than he probably was. The pure white fabric made his pale skin look tanner than it was, hundreds of freckles standing out in a way that the locals found exotic. His skinny arms were hidden by the generous sleeves, and the wide neck of the tunic showed his neck and shoulders which, despite the traumas of recent months, had persisted in filling out nicely through puberty. In all, despite so many shortcomings, Hiccup looked rather handsome. Far handsomer than the old, haggard and snarling slaves that stood to his left and right. He could not appreciate his own looks because he was too busy feeling tried and hot and concentrating on not falling over.

However, the youngest daughter of the Kaloethes family did not overlook Hiccup's fair appearance. She smiled at him and waved. If Hiccup hadn't spent his pubescent years underground and in a frozen wasteland, he might've recognized it as a flirtatious wave. He ignored it.

It was about an hour after that when the head of the Kaloethes family approached the slavemaster with an exasperated look on his face and a smiling daughter around sixteen years old at his elbow. Two other women, one with greying hair and one with long, dark hair, waited behind with disapproving looks.

Hiccup tried his best to hear what they were saying. He'd learned some Latin from Carius, but could still only make out some of what was said.

"…How…. Price…. Norseman slave." Oh. Was this man interested in buying him? Hiccup felt an old bolt of anger rage through him at the thought of being owned, but then, there was the newer, more familiar need for safety. Security. Survival. This man looked safe.

The slavemaster spoke: "Sixty…. Only one leg." Hiccup sighed, wishing he'd still had his knee, his old prosthetic. How far he'd fallen, wishing for his leg back just so he could be sold to the most appealing buyer.

Kaloethes looked back at his daughter, a halfhearted question in his eyes. She said something to him, and he back to her, and she made a pitiful face. He sighed with longsuffering resignation and turned back to the slave master. Arms crossed, he looked at Hiccup and approached.

He inspected Hiccup's short hair, his slavemark. He made a comment about freckles that Hiccup did not understand. He looked at his teeth, his biceps, his hands and callouses. He looked at his leg insofar as he confirmed that there was only one. Finally, he looked at Hiccup's eyes, his own brown gaze digging into Hiccup's very soul, trying to discern the character behind the freckled face.

"Alright," he said in Latin, and Hiccup was proud of himself for understanding. When Kaloethes spoke again, he did not do as well. "This slave…. My daughter….. suitable…. Serve…."

The slavemaster glanced hesitantly, perhaps almost even sympathetically, at Hiccup, but nodded easily at Kaloethes. "Yes. ….we do that…. Talk to my doctor. ….long recovery….will stay…"

Kaloethes interrupted: "I understand…. Place… rest."

The slavemaster shrugged. "Let it be so." He gestured to an employee, and Hiccup was brought down from the platform, crutch under his arm. He expected to be handed straight over to his new master, but instead he was taken past the family and to a ramada some yards beyond. Several men lounged in the shade, waiting for buyers to request their services.

Hiccup knew only vaguely what these 'services' entailed. There were doctors here who inspected slaves with health problems before they were sold. There was a man working a bellows who would brand slaves upon a buyer's request. Hiccup feared for a moment that he was going to be branded, but his escort marched him past the fire without even a glance. He was taken to a curtained-off section with a table, on which he was asked to sit. The head of the Kaloethes family reappeared with a man who held a toolkit of some variety.

"…have two daughters… do not…. Slave… unsuited." Hiccup was picking up a strange pitch in the man's voice, a sort of undertone of a meaning he couldn't place. The man with tools glanced at Hiccup and told his client,

"You know…. Not as strong…. Change his….. different value…"

Kaloethes shrugged. "…serves my daughter…. must be done."

The man shrugged, and approached Hiccup. Hiccup had been frowning deeply in concentration to understand their Latin, but now he frowned even deeper as the tool man opened his kit and revealed a whole army of sharp, pointy, and threatening objects. Hiccup glanced around and confirmed that there was nothing else that the man could be preparing for. Hiccup was the object. But what the hell…?

The tool man picked out something that looked like a clamp and another tool that looked like scissors, but worse. He said something to the men who'd escorted Hiccup to the room. The men came up on their side of Hiccup and grabbed him, pushing him back until he was lying flat on the table. One of them put a damp cloth over his face that smelled foul. Hiccup's vision swirled, and he realized he was being drugged. But what for? The men grabbed at his leg and his stump, and spread them apart.

With a wave of terror, Hiccup realized what was happening. Daughter. Serve. Suitable for service. He was being bought to serve a master's daughter, and they wanted to make sure he posed no threat to her – or her virtue – ever.

Oh, hell no.

Hiccup screamed behind the cloth and wrenched his head around it. "Get off of me!" He snapped in Norse, which did little good. He kicked at one of the men with his good leg, and his stump was too short for the other to hold on to. They grabbed his arms and shoved the cloth back toward his face, but he fought back violently, wiry muscles bunching to kick and hit wherever he could. The surgeon set down his tools and yelled some orders, but the men had to fight for control. "I've killed dragons bigger than you!" Hiccup roared – because it felt like he was back in the arena, and his instincts were taking over. "I'll rip you apart!"

Of course, the Romans couldn't understand him. Hiccup was a bundle of survival instincts ignited, but there were three of them and only one of him. They had swords; he had one leg. They would overcome him eventually. Hiccup caught sight of the Kaloethes family's shadows silhouetted behind the curtain, and he turned his attention there. Desperately, he shouted the only halted Latin phrases he knew:

"Please! Please! I am capable, I forge and build well." He kicked a man in the chest. "Make tools… weapons... I train dragons, I speak with dragons," He paused to bite the hand of the second man, who was attempting to smother him with the drug-laced cloth. "I can work with dragons better than anyone, please!" His head slammed against the table as they pinned him down, but he did manage to kick the surgeon in the chest.

Busy defending his masculinity, Hiccup didn't bother listening to the commotion beyond the curtain. Even if he had, the Latin would've flowed so fast he wouldn't have understood a syllable. Two voices argued, one male, one female. Just as the surgeon got a good hold of Hiccup's ankle and the cloth went firmly over his mouth, two of the Kaloethes family appeared.

The commotion stopped, and Hiccup was released. He sat up immediately, seething and breathing hard. He glared at the men who'd restrained him, and watched anxiously while the surgeon spoke with Kaloethes. His daughter – the elder, dark-haired one – was also present, and she glanced at Hiccup with a mixture of annoyance and pity.

The slavemaster appeared a few moments later, drawn by the commotion. He spoke with Kaloethes and the surgeon in brisk tones; none of them seemed incredibly pleased. After a while, Kaloethes turned to Hiccup. Arms crossed, he said something in Latin. When his attempt was met with blank lack of comprehension he sighed and tried again more slowly, with pointing hand motions.

"You speak Latin?" he asked. Hiccup licked his lips, trying to remember the correct words. Carius had been trying to make him conversational, though they had made little progress before the Tagma sent him away.

"I… understand… small parts," he said deliberately. Kaloethes nodded. With more pointing, he said slowly,

"My daughter-" He indicated the dark-haired woman. "-takes pity on you. I do not." He sighed heavily. "But… I work… dragons. Need help. Is it true you can speak to dragons?"

"I have been training dragons since I was a young boy," Hiccup said, just as he'd rehearsed.

Kaloethes nodded, and said something to his daughter. She left, and returned shortly with another servant, who led a miffed young dragon (some variety of nadder or other sharp class, he was willing to bet) and brought it near Hiccup. Everyone in the room took a step away, because the dragon's sharp quills were bristling and smoke trailed from its mouth. Overall it looked rather irritated.

Kaloethes looked at Hiccup and gestured wordlessly to the dragon.

He should have been nervous, but even just seeing a dragon brought Hiccup into a strange state of confidence. He knew dragons. He didn't know Latin, he didn't know Roman customs, he didn't want to know about surgery, but dragons he knew.

"Hello," Hiccup said to it. Its head darted to look at him in surprise.

"What?" it said in confusion.

"My name is Hiccup, what is yours?"

"You stupid creatures can speak?"

"Of course we speak, just not always in the same language as you. Do you have a name among dragons?"

The dragon shifted from foot to foot, glancing up at all the humans looking at it. "I am called Clawgiver," it said in a suggestive way. Hiccup smiled slightly. Wonder how it'd earned that name. He glanced up at Kaloethes, searching for direction and affirmation. Kaloethes' said nothing. Hiccup looked back down at Clawgiver.

"Is this man your master?"

"He feeds me and makes me do menial things."

"Like what?"

"I carry human paper all over the city."

"What, like messages? Written messages?"

"If that is what you humans call it, then yes."

"That doesn't sound so bad. You can fly around, see the sights. I bet the city is beautiful from above."

Clawgiver shuffled his feet. "Well… I suppose it's… nice."

"I escaped from an underground fighting ring. Your job is a good one."

Clawgiver looked suddenly scared. "You escaped the hellrings?"

"I was taken from there. The evil men were punished."

"But why were you there? You are not a dragon."

"I speak dragonese. I was a freak for the fighting. I earned many scars there."

"That is abominable." Clawgiver hopped up onto the table beside Hiccup. The people around them looked alarmed, but Hiccup remained calm, even as Clawgiver nuzzled his arms and back, licking and sniffing the scars there.

"…Eat him!" the Kaloethes daughter exclaimed, alarmed. Her father shook his head, watching.

"Do they hurt?" Clawgiver asked.

"Not much." With the dragon sounding sympathetic to his plight, Hiccup pressed on, though he did his best to keep the urgency from his tone. "Listen, I am a human slave. Your master is debating whether or not to purchase me. If he does, it will be because I speak with dragons. I would much rather work for him than for other, worse men. I need your help to convince him."

"What can I do?"

"Get in my lap and act as docile and happy as you can."

"That is undignified," Clawgiver tipped his chin, affronted.

"I will scratch behind your neck plates."

"Oh… if you must." So Clawgiver hopped into Hiccup's lap and curled up like a drowsy bird, almost purring as the slave scratched the spot on the back of his skull that the could never reach. After a moment, Hiccup looked up at Kaloethes.

With a sigh and a smile from his daughter, Kaloethes dismissed the surgeon and paid the slavemaster. Clawgiver was led away acting far more docile than before, and Hiccup stood shakily with his crutch.

With all his personal bits intact, Hiccup followed Kaloethes out of the ramada and to the entourage that waited outside. They handed him over to the master of their house and loaded him onto a boat and sailed to somewhere they called Constantinopolis.

And thus, Hiccup became the newest fixture of the Kaloethes household.

The Kaloethes' house was massive: a sprawling villa on the wealthier side of the city, with armies of servants, endless rooms and courtyards. Despite the size of their dwelling, the family was only four members strong. There was the father, Petrus, the mother, Anthusa, the eldest daughter, Anna, and the younger, Cyra.

Cyra had been incredibly upset that her father didn't buy Hiccup to be her personal servant, and was vocal about this at family gatherings. She held a personal vendetta against Anna, who had been the one to convince Petrus that making Hiccup into a eunuch for Cyra's benefit would be an inexcusable cruelty, even for a slave. Cyra still flirted with Hiccup whenever she thought no one was watching. Hiccup still had little to no understanding what flirting looked like. Anna saw them both and snorted with laughter.

Petrus was a begrudging master, and began holding Hiccup to high standards from day one. He was expected to learn Latin as quickly as possible, and began a rigorous schedule of Latin lessons in speaking, reading, and pronunciation. He rose before the sun and went to bed only after everyone else was asleep. He worked all day, either on Latin or on menial jobs around the house. He also took care of the small, soft-scaled pet dragons of the house and made sure they were fed, watered, and out of trouble. However, unlike in years past, Hiccup's hard work was rewarded with generous concessions. He had a small room to himself with a dry roof, a clean bed, and a water basin; he ate well and could take small breaks in the afternoon for fresh air. He was given time to train under the higher-ranking house slaves and given grace when he made mistakes trying new duties. He was even allowed to speak to his master and family when in casual, private settings. It was more than Hiccup could have hoped for.

But Petrus' biggest accommodation to Hiccup was something that would eclipse all others. During his second week in Constantinopolis, Hiccup was called into one of The master's offices, where a female servant waited by the door. She took his measurements – height, waist, hips, paying special attention to his legs. It was odd and embarrassing, but Hiccup said nothing. The purpose of the measurements would not become clear until later, when a craftsman appeared at the Kaloethes' door with a special package.

It was a prosthetic. An extremely high-quality prosthetic, made especially for Hiccup, engineered to the exact measurements of his height and remaining limb. It had padded leather where it met his leg, and strong wood and steel where it held him up. It even had an operational knee. Hiccup put it on in a daze, ignoring the family and servants who'd gathered to watch. He'd already had trouble believing how nice they'd been to him; this was too much. When he took his first steps, he cried. No one said much about it, so he wiped the tears and carried on.

It did not take him much practice to get used to the leg. Navigating a fake knee was new and challenging, but the sensation of walking on a nerveless leg was familiar. Petrus commented on this one day when Hiccup knelt down to pick up a dragon and stood without trouble.

"You adapt quickly, Oska," he said, glancing up from his bookkeeping. Hiccup always felt awkward speaking to Petrus, but managed to explain,

"I've had a prosthetic before. I used to have more of my leg, down to the knee, but I had a peg leg since I was fourteen."

This admission actually seemed to catch Petrus off guard. "What happened to you then?"

Hiccup was still looking at the dragon, putting it in its kennel for the night. "A large sky dragon bit it off."

"Gods," Petrus exclaimed, "I thought you said you trained them since you were a boy?"

Hiccup nodded. "The dragon was my friend. He took my leg, but saved my life."

"That's remarkable. What happened to the dragon?"

Hiccup paused in his movements, realizing suddenly that he had not thought of that particular dragon in a very long time. He felt guilty for admitting: "I… I don't know."

Petrus nodded and let the conversation die, allowing Hiccup to finish his chores and put the last of the house dragons to bed. Released from duty, Hiccup spent the rest of the night staring at the sky, hoping beyond hope to see black wings against the stars.

They never came.

Hiccup had lost the luxury of hope long ago. There had been so many other things to worry about, so many ways his life should have ended. He hadn't had time to think in years. Years. But now he was sleeping well, eating well, talking to dragons and walking on an operable leg. Now he had time to wonder, time to steep in the realization of how entirely lost he was. Four years. Thousands of miles. Impossible odds. A whole world to search.

He would never return home, would he? There was no way they were still looking.

Had Toothless looked? Had he been able to fly? Had he gotten himself stranded somewhere?

Had his father held a funeral? Had there been an empty ship? Was Snotlout the new heir?

Quietly, in the privacy of his room, Hiccup whispered to himself in Norse, saddened to his core to find that he'd already adopted a Latin accent.

"Toothless," he said, and felt the full weight of his loneliness fall on his heart when no one answered. "Toothless," he said louder, and rocked his head into his knee. "Gods, bring him back," he prayed in Norse, "bring Toothless, bring anybody." He heaved a small sob, and felt like a boy. He was a boy. He was a boy who'd woken up one day, a thousand miles away in the body of a man with a slavemark. "I want to go home. I want to go home."

He woke up the next morning when the head manservant shook his shoulder. He glanced at the window, at the darkened blue sky without wings. If he were to say something in Norse, he knew no one would understand him.

As Hiccup rose to meet his daily chores, he wondered in his heart if he was too far away. Even Odin Allfather, wandering god of travellers and outcasts, seemed to ignore him. Perhaps Hiccup was dead, in a way.

"Oska, come give me a hand here," Called another slave.

"Coming," he replied, and made himself look away from the sky. Oska had killed Hiccup years ago.

It was evening on Berk, where within the smithy the parts for Hiccup's prosthetic were all sorted out and placed in groups according to the diagrams. They had all the right measurements and Hiccup had already begun sewing together the leather straps and cup. But the sky was dark, and Gobber suggested that no quality work happened when your eyes started crossing. Hiccup had gone to put his tools away when he found an old book.

It had belonged to Hiccup, years ago. But that was a different Hiccup. That was Hiccup Haddock. Oska flipped through its pages and studied their content like a stranger. He remembered sketching some of them, but he remembered nothing about what he'd felt. He let the journal lie open on one page in particular, staring at it until he saw blue.

"Hiccup, you still here?" Gobber said from the doorway. Hiccup jumped, his eyes wide as he looked at the blacksmith. Gobber chuckled casually. "Hey, now, lad, it's fine, relax. You need some sleep. Why don't you go home and rest?"

"Alright," Hiccup said quickly, scurrying out of the smithy. Even Gobber's laid-back attitude could not shake Hiccup's skittishness, it seemed. Gobber shook his head and complained about this under his breath, but stopped short when he saw that Hiccup's open book on the desk. He craned his neck around to see the pages lying open. They were all sketches of Toothless.

"Oh, no…" he breathed to himself, and rubbed his eyes. "Tha's… not going to be good." He closed the book and put it away, hoping Hiccup would not think too hard on it. Sighing heavily, he climbed the stairs to his sleeping loft, muttering to himself all the while. "Jus' one day at a time, Gobber, just take him one day at a time. He'll be fine." Was it a lie? He shook his head and reassured himself. "He'll learn to be fine."