My name is Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third.

Great name, I know. Not the worst I've heard, but there are better ones.

But I haven't had to use it in years. Why? Well, dead men don't need names, do they?

I'm not actually, you know, dead. Actually, I'm more alive then I ever was. But I'm not the Hiccup that left Berk. That Hiccup was a Viking wannabe. A child. A boy that wallowed in the misery of a life without a father or friends, who let himself be pushed around and into the mud.

THAT Hiccup had been dead for nearly half a decade.

Five years ago, I left my home. Not by choice though. If it was up to me, I would have stayed with the people who made me miserable most of my life.

I would have kept up my job as Gobber's apprentice, somehow convince my dad to get me into dragon training, and live an existence I could make peace with. I bet your wondering what made that preferable. About, what actually happened, on that island that I would rather be the village idiot than this?

Me and six other heirs were sent on a hunting trip alone to forge good relations with the other tribes, see if we could survive alongside each other. Strengthen the bond between the tribes or something like that.

That was how I ended up aboard the Haddock's Tale, my father's boat, with the other six members of the group that would be known to our tribes as the missing Seven Heirs. Hotshot, the Gloryguts tribe, Tantrum of the Uglithugs, Thuggory, heir to the Meatheads, Dagur, soon to be lord of the Berzerkers, Camicazi the skillful Bog Burgurlar, and Heather, heiress of the Lokitongue Tribe.

We were just supposed to go to an island where hunting was plentiful, take a couple of weeks, do some bonding, stuff like that. Nothing harmful, just... Make allies. That was the plan.

Things didn't go as planned. Thor apparently was feeling pissy during our voyage and decided to take it out on us. The Haddock's Tale went under, and all bets on assurances of survival were off.

I don't know what happened to some of the other heirs, others I know all too well. I don't know what would have happened if I stayed. Maybe, like train a dragon or something ridiculous.

Strangers and allies alike came and went. Dragons, humans, enemies, friends, idiots, teachers, brothers, hated ones. I almost made it off the island a few times, made it to a boat or to a Viking inhabited island.

But each attempt pulled me back in with less hope and less people than before.

Until I was the only one left in the jungle I eventually began to call Helgrind- the gates of Hel. The marks of my escapades in Helgrind remained there, a taunting reminder as I was finally left completely alone, apart from the occasional dragon.

But early on in my stay on Helgrind, I realized something. I could no longer afford for my only strength to be in my head. I could no longer try run away from my problems, or my enemies.

If I ever returned to Berk I would not be the same. Because I couldn't stay the same.

The Hiccup watching Astrid from the window, simmering about killing dragons and disappointing his father, and accepting his place as the lowest, he never would have survived what happened all those years. He wouldn't have lived through all the things I had to do, the things I had to see.

The torture done to my mind and body over the years.

Hiccup the Useless drowned with the Haddock's Tale. What did make it off the ship had to claw its way to shore before I became anything that resembled him.

To live, to thrive, and to make my way back home, I couldn't keep being that lost little boy in the shop. I had to adapt to survive or die in the dust. It was no longer a matter of not being the viking everyone wanted me to be. It was now a matter of survival.

To see Berk, I had to become someone else.

I had to become something else.

I crept through the forest in my usual distrustful manner.

First rule of Helgrind: don't trust anything. Not even the ground. With frequent and inconspicuous quicksand around here, even the solid Midgard under your feet could be a turncoat at any second.

My swords and quiver on my back, I waved through the trees like a wildcat, leaning low in the foliage to avoid being seen by anything incoming. When I woke up this morning, I had seen a viking ship on the shore.

Second rule of Helgrind: never hope the ships are from your home. That hope needed to die, or you would. The first few times had taught me that quick enough. Now, when Insee someone with a working boat, I just see if I can stick enough arrows in the crew to take the boat.

I avoided killing when possible, of course, and honored the dead as much as I could, gave them fair burials. But I was more than ready to get of this eternal torture that called itself an island.

I crept by graves I had made for my comrades, weaves around a tree with a battle scarred masked helmet in it, with one of my arrows sticking though it's eye.

Huh, I could use more ammo. I straightened a bit, looked around for any predators or people, then tugged it out with a yank. The tip was a bit damaged and dull, but it was good as a last resort.

I slipped it into the quiver on my back, between the filthy falcata blades strapped there. Souvenirs of the past. Now my tools to make sure I had a future.

I looked at the helmet on the ground, the one my arrow had been stuck through. It wasn't damaged, the arrow was through the eyehole, and the helm was dinged up a bit. It was all back, with a liftable visor hinge attaching a face piece that would encompass my entire head. It would fit.

I shrugged and dropped it on the ground. The sentamental value had gotten old a long time ago. That battle was back when I first landed on Helgrind.

With a roll of my shoulders to readjust the weight of my weaponry, I pulled up the black hood I had on.

My attire had also changed drastically from when I got to this Helish island. I was wearing as much as I could salvage from my time here. Large green pants, and a black shirt under a layer of chain-mail. I had a small shoulder guard on my right arm and a arm cuff on my right. My falcata swords were strapped parallel to my shoulders so the handles were easily accessible, and my quiver in the middle of my back. I wore a pair of fur boots, replacements from the ones I had upon landing here.

I had grown. I was still thin, but now it was more like a predator. I was built for speed and movement, not deftly mowing down enemies like a battering ram. But I was clever enough to disappear when I needed to, and I could climb and slip through places most Vikings couldn't.

Did I like what I'd become? Honestly, Helgrind had never given me a chance to think about it. I was still alive, so I couldn't really argue with the results, but I certainly never stopped to take a good look in the mirror, that's for sure.

I crept to the final hill where I could get a good look at the shore and readied the bow, hiding just behind a tree so that the arrow I knocked was barely visible. I peered around the side of the trunk so I could take a good look at what I was about to turn into a pincushion.

And when I did, I nearly faltered, but instead, my only response was to widen my eyes in shock. On the ship's sail was Berk's curled up Monstrous Nightmare emblem. That wasn't what convinced me, though. People had tried this trick to draw me out many times. No, what made me nearly drop my bow was the person who swung down from the deck.

She was someone I used to know. Someone I knew five years ago. She had grown, she was taller, more beautiful than ever, but still recognizable. After all, how could I forget my first crush?

I lowered my aim and stared in shock as Astrid Hofferson stood on the beach of Helgrind, looking around like she owned the place, with the entire gang on the ship behind her.