So, this is a what-if based on a certain scene from the second movie; basically, what if Stoick hadn't come between Hiccup and Toothless in time. If you haven't seen the second movie yet, then this story will make no sense to you.

Shot in the Dark

The moment after he unleashed his flame, he woke up.

It left him quite confused. He . . . what was he doing? What was going on? He had vague memories, distant memories of closing in on prey. Of flaming . . . something? And voices. Two of them. One loud and booming – the Alpha – and another quiet and scared, comforting. Familiar . . .

"Toothless, what did he tell you?"

That voice, it was-

"HICCUP!"

His rider's sire rushed into view, and crouched next to some small mass huddled against the ice. His rider's mother came next, and then his rider's mate.

He blinked. His mind became clearer. The Alpha . . . the Alpha had made him sleep. And where was his rider?

He smelt blood. And smoke. And sweat and tears and terror. But mostly blood. All from in front of him, from that small mass against the ice –

There was another smell. One intertwined with the blood.

Viking.

His Viking.

He crept forward. His rider injured? When? How? Why couldn't he remember? Why hadn't he been there?

But he must have been. Because he had been on this island when he fell asleep, and he had still been here when he had woken again. He couldn't have flown in between that, because he needed his rider for that.

But he had flamed . . . something.

And as the horror sunk in, he looked all around. But there was no signs of his flame, except for on the small form in front of him.

I did this.

He whined deep in his throat. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do it. I won't do it again. I'm sorry.

He leaned forward to sniff –

"Get away from him!" His rider's sire bared his teeth and tried to claw him, only to be held back by the mother. His rider's mate just stared at him.

He backed away. Okay, okay. It was like the fight with the other Alpha. His rider was hurt, but the other Vikings would make him better. And then they would go flying again and his rider would have another shiny new leg!

Behind them, there was a deep rumble of satisfaction.

His rider's mate stood up and roared. He thought she was roaring at him, but then she stomped past him and bellowed at a large Not-Viking. She didn't smell like fear anymore, but she still reeked of salt and sweat.

The Not-Viking purred and pointed at his rider. A wave of protective anger rose up inside him, and he positioned himself between his rider and this enemy. His tail swept the ground, reaching –

It stopped on his rider's chest, right below the chin. But even as his rider's mate and the Not-Viking continued to bark at each other, he became aware that he could not feel his rider's breath –

But Vikings never breathed very deeply when they were sleeping.

His rider's mate charged. The Not-Viking defended himself and pushed her aside. He waited for her to get up, to continue the hunt, but she didn't stand up. She breathed fast and hard, choking as the Not-Viking walked past her and toward his sleeping rider.

He snarled. But his snarl was barely noticeable compared to the one from his rider's sire. The sire had always been growly, but this was the first time he had really growled.

Suddenly, he was hyperaware of how much salt he could smell. Of something like terror, but deeper. Amidst it all, was the lingering stench of blood. His heart pounded, making his chest constrict painfully, and there came a wild, paralysing panic in his core. He didn't even move when the Not-Viking stalked past him and toward his rider.

His rider's mate was on her hands and knees. Water fell from her eyes. Her Nadder had landed next to her, and licked her to make it better, but she turned away from the dragon. He turned his head away, too, to keep an eye on his rider instead, but he could still see her.

Now, he could see his rider, too. His rider was being cradled by his mother: eyes closed, mouth slightly open. Sleeping.

And yet why did the thought fill him with so much dread?

The panic crawled up his belly and into his throat. It felt itchy and scratchy. He sunk low to the ground, almost submissively –

The Not-Viking laughed.

He didn't feel anything at first, not while he made sense of the sounds floating into his mind. Then, his panic took on a sharp, biting edge – like it had been Zippleback gas and a spark had just ignited it. Dirt gave under his tense claws, and he felt the Alpha's suspicious gaze on his back.

He turned. Met the Alpha's gaze.

You did this! he wanted to scream. You hurt him! You made me do this!

There was a flutter in his mind, but that went away as the Alpha redirected his attention to the two circling figures. The Not-Viking and his rider's sire were sizing each other up, both trying to be the tallest.

He growled. Deep and low. The flaming panic churned and coiled, became something new, something solid and strong. Hot and ready.

The Alpha hurt his rider . . . but this Not-Viking was the Alpha's rider. It would only be fair . . .

Purple light illuminated his throat.

. . . A rider for a rider.

He was so fast that not even the Alpha could stop him.

He didn't wait for the Not-Viking to fall, because the Alpha was angry. The other dragons cowered. The Nadder curled around her charge, shielding her with strong wings. He crawled over to his rider – they didn't keep him away now – and snuggled in to his side, waiting for him to wake –

And the blackness tugged at his mind.

It was like claws. Claws digging into his soul and pulling him away. The air grew stale as an invisible wing slapped over his mouth, suffocating him.

You . . . how dare you?

Wings flapped. His rider's mate called after her Nadder.

You will suffer . . . Kill them. Kill the Vikings.

The heat built inside his belly again. His wings flared. His eyes were open, but he could not see.

Do it. Kill them all.

The heat was spreading through his flesh. Something gathered in his chest. It was not flames, but a scream.

Kill them. KILL!

The Vikings were speaking to him. He could not understand the words. But then he heard another voice:

"I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

Do it!

And in the darkness, he finally remembered: cornering his rider by the ice, and fire – his fire scorching his rider's chest. Oh, his rider, so small –

OBEY ME!

He screamed.

It was like another was making him sleep, but it was not the Alpha. Because suddenly he was a whirl of black and fury and all he could picture in his mind was his claws covered with the Alpha's blood. Fire left him in droves, each shot nipping at the roof of his mouth but he couldn't stop.

He didn't notice the blue light flashing over his scales as he unwittingly made his challenge.

The Alpha's eyes flickered; a whisper crept along the back of his mind. But he didn't care. The adrenaline had reached his heart and not even his rider could have stopped him now.

Slow. Too slow. The Alpha was, that is. By the time the Alpha opened its mouth, he fired off a dozen shots. All strong. All ferocious. All looking to kill.

You hurt him. You hurt him! YouyouyouyouyouyouyouYOU!

The Alpha was too slow. Always too slow. He didn't even need to fly. He ran toward the Alpha, leapt onto a tusk and clung. Dragons circled above them. He didn't notice that more and more of them were gravitating away from the Alpha and toward him.

All that he could see was his enemy's hated face. All he could smell was blood.

All he could think about was the kill.

The Alpha opened his mouth. He spat fire in it. But it wasn't enough. He wanted the Alpha dead. Dead!

He found his target.

His claws chipped and screeched as he scrambled up the Alpha's tusk. The Alpha tried to shake, but he was already off the tusk and climbing up his scales.

And he found his target. The fire built up deep within his belly –

And he shot.

Right into the eye.

The Alpha screamed. He fell off as the Alpha shook violently. He hit the ground hard and laid there, stunned by the impact, and by the weight of a thousand minds linking to his as the Alpha submitted to his strength. By the time he recovered, the Alpha had dove into the ocean.

He was furious. His kill – denied! Like a coward, the Alpha had fled, and had left him here with the reason for the fight, with the sleeping rider, his rider.

He turned back to his rider and stalked over, not seeing the fear in the other Vikings' faces. He prodded his rider's chin, but there was no answer.

He howled. His pain trickled through his link with the others and suddenly, there were a thousand dragons mourning the wounding of his little rider.

But it wasn't enough. Behind the pain, there was still rage. He wanted – needed – vengeance. Needed to make them pay . . .

His eyes turned to the Not-Viking's retreating army.

His mind thrummed with one word, echoing in every mind attached to his.

Kill.

And the army's eyes lit up with fear as a thousand, bloodthirsty dragons descended.

He was waiting for his rider. For nearly a day now! But last time, it had been a week before his rider had woken up, so he wasn't worried.

There were lots of Vikings that went in and out of his rider's den. He wondered which of them would make his rider better. But as the day wore on and more and more Vikings walked out smelling like salt and sadness, his optimism waned. Maybe his rider hadn't lost a leg this time; maybe there was a lost foreleg. Was that worse?

Then, his rider's sire emerged from the den. He bounded up to the sire and put on his best Viking smile.

The sire glared at him. He suddenly wanted to hide. But then the sire's mate came out and put her paw on his shoulder, and the sire stopped glaring.

His rider's mate came out, too. He was excited, because that must have meant his rider was better! He jumped from paw to paw and barked and told them he wanted to go inside the den now.

His rider's mate spoke to him. Water was coming out of her eyes. She pushed on his chin and tried to push him away from the den and he warbled. Silly Viking! His rider was all better now and was just sleeping, and that meant he could go in.

But she wouldn't let him in. He was sad and confused. Last time, they let him in when his rider was just sleeping. Then when his rider had woken, his rider had been so happy to see him! Why weren't they letting him in? His rider would be worried about him and be sad if he wasn't there. His rider had already been hurt so badly. Why wouldn't they let him in?

He noticed his rider's sire was missing. But then he came back out, along with the Viking with a hook for a paw. They were holding something between them: a long piece of wood and something covered with –

He knew that smell. It was his rider!

He jumped and tried to get closer, but his rider's mother scratched him in that really nice place and he fell down. Good . . . felt good . . . but no time! It was his rider! He rolled back up to his feet, blinking when he saw his rider's sire and the other Viking carrying his rider away. Where were they going? He was right here!

This time, his rider's mate stopped him. She let him follow, but only slowly.

They went down to the sea. There were lots of Vikings there, all of them, he thought. A lot of them had water rolling down their faces. His rider's sire and the other Viking walked onto a floating tree and left his rider there. Then they piled lots of things around him.

He whined. What were they doing? Was . . . was his rider building a nest? Oh, maybe it was a nest! He had never seen a Viking egg before.

He waited. Watched as the floating tree and his rider was left to drift. His rider's sire grabbed a wood-shooter and shot –

And the floating tree caught on fire.

He shrieked in alarm. But the other Vikings didn't seem to hear him and grabbed wood-shooters of their own. Fires broke out all over the floating tree.

What were they doing? His rider was on there! He would get hurt! He would be hurt again!

A small voice whispered in the back of his mind: It's already too late.

"Toothless!"

He had never been much of a swimmer, but for his rider, he would try. He dove straight into the water, and paddled determinedly toward the burning, floating tree.

You hurt him bad.

He had never been much of a climber, but his claws found purchase anyways. He pulled himself up the side and onto the floating tree's trunk, the water on his scales hissing and bubbling.

Too late. It's too late.

The smoke hurt, so he closed his eyes. Felt around for his rider, and ignored the sharp pains that punctured his skin.

Too late.

He found him at last in the flames. And he purred and curled around him, and waited for his rider to wake.

I leave it up for interpretation whether Toothless survives. Oh, and Toothless does realize somewhere that Hiccup is already dead (that's why he isn't bothering to just carry Hiccup off the ship)- but he's in denial.

I'll be busy this weekend, so don't be offended if I take a long time to respond to reviews/PMs.