The mountains are known for being impenetrable. As my team and I made our way back from the crash site, a biting snowstorm bore down on us with no mercy. The aircraft had gone down four hours earlier, and despite our efforts, we had found nothing. When we first set out, the weather was calm. But two hours in, everything shifted. The wind howled through the peaks, and the snow began to fall thick and fast. Now, heading back, the cold was relentless. Each gust of wind slapped against my face like shards of ice. The snow stung my skin, blinding and brutal.
I stopped for a moment, just to catch my breath. My chest burned with the cold, and every inhale felt like ice in my lungs. When I looked up, my heart dropped. Everyone was gone. "Guys?" I called out, scanning the swirling white haze. No response. I tried again, louder. "HEY? CAN ANYONE HEAR ME?" I shouted until my throat burned, but the storm swallowed my voice whole. The snow wasn't even at its worst yet. How the hell did I lose them?
Panic surged through me as I picked up my pace. I walked faster, stumbling through the drifts. My breaths came in ragged gasps. The cold was seeping into my bones, and exhaustion was settling in like a heavy weight on my shoulders. I wanted to sit down. To rest. Just for a second. But I knew what that meant. "If I fall asleep, I'll die," I muttered to myself, teeth chattering. My lips felt numb. My fingers barely responded to my will. I clenched my jaw and kept moving. Step after step, even as every part of my body screamed to stop. "I will not die today," I whispered, forcing one foot in front of the other.
The storm intensified. The wind howled like a living thing, and the snow pelted my face like tiny nettles. Each step became heavier than the last. My legs ached. My hands were stiff and red. But I kept going, fueled by the desperate hope that the others had made it out. If they were safe, I'd be okay with dying out here. At least someone would make it home. But I wasn't ready to give up yet. Not while I still had the strength to stand.
It feels like I've been out here for hours, maybe longer. Time has lost all meaning in the endless white. My legs barely respond, trembling beneath me with every forced step. My body is shutting down, heavy and sluggish like it's no longer mine to control. A cold dread settles over me, deeper than the snow beneath my boots. I'm going to die out here. A lump rises in my throat. I want to cry, but even that takes energy I no longer have. My lips are numb, and my voice has long given out. Not even a whisper escapes me. The wind screams around me, tearing through the trees, drowning out all sound except its own merciless howl. Snow whirls like ghosts in the air, thick and blinding, erasing the world around me.
Then, through the haze of white and exhaustion, something shifts above me. A shadow cuts across the sky, swift and enormous, silhouetted against the dim, grey light filtering through the clouds. I blink slowly, unsure if it's real. Then I hear it: a low, rhythmic sound that doesn't belong to the storm. The beat of wings.
My heart stutters. Impossible.
But before I can process what I'm seeing, or even be sure I saw anything at all, my knees buckle. The last thing I feel is the icy kiss of snow as I collapse into it. Everything fades to black.
The wind is still howling outside, but not at me. I hear the gentle crackling of fire, the comforting hiss and pop of flames licking at dry wood. Beneath me is something warm and soft, like fur. A blanket, maybe. My body feels heavy, but not frozen anymore.
Slowly, I open my eyes. A faint orange glow dances across the walls of what I now realize is a cave. Shadows flicker and stretch, cast by the small campfire in the center. Across from me, sitting with his back slightly turned, is a man. And beside him... a creature. Black as midnight, with slitted green eyes and leathery wings curled around its body.
My breath catches in my throat. This can't be real. This is the man those kids whispered about. The one from my father's stories. The same man I saw in my dreams. It feels like my mind is short-circuiting, frozen between awe and disbelief. I must be dead. I have to be. There's no way this is real.
I can't move—just stare. Then, as if sensing me, the man turns. His eyes meet mine. The same bright green as in my dream. "You're awake," he says gently, a flicker of relief in his voice. "I was scared you were going to die on me."
That voice. It's him. Exactly as I remember from the dream. He walks over to the fire, and it's only now that I notice the pot hanging above the flames. He stirs it casually, then lifts a wooden bowl and ladles steaming soup into it.
I watch, stunned, as he approaches. His gait is uneven—he limps. That same missing leg from the stories. My father's stories. The stories I had stopped believing in. And that creature beside the fire... it's not just any dragon. It's the dragon.
The man stops a few feet from me and kneels, carefully offering the bowl of soup. His expression is calm, kind. But I can barely breathe. This is Hiccup. The man my father talked about.
"Hiccup… you're real." The words slip from my mouth before I can stop them, spoken aloud like a fragile truth I've carried for years. He freezes at the sound of his name, surprise flashing across his face, just for a moment, before his expression settles again. "How do you know my name?" he asks, his voice cautious but not unkind. "Before you answer, eat. You've been through hell. That storm was brutal." He crouches beside me and hands me the bowl. The warmth of it seeps into my chilled fingers, and the scent—rich, earthy, and somehow comforting—makes my stomach twist with sudden hunger. I take a careful sip, and the heat spreads through my chest like a small fire being lit inside me.
Hiccup settles beside me in silence, his eyes drifting to the sleeping dragon curled near the fire. Toothless. His glossy black scales catch the firelight, casting soft reflections onto the cave walls. He looks just like the stories.
"Toothless is beautiful," I murmur. Hiccup turns slightly to glance at me, curiosity flickering in his expression. "How do you know my name?" he asks again, slower this time, his voice echoing gently against the stone. "And his?" The firelight dances in his green eyes, making them gleam. I offer a small, hesitant smile. "My father told me stories. About a man who disappeared with a dragon—Toothless. I never believed they were real. You were just some legend he talked about when I was little, and someone I saw in my dreams." I must sound insane. Hiccup stares at me for a moment, and then he starts to laugh. Not mocking, but surprised. "You're a Hofferson," he says between chuckles. "I was friends with your father. That's why you looked so familiar."
I blink. The name stuns me more than it should. My heartbeat spikes, and I start to panic. "No. No, this can't be real. I must be hallucinating. I'm dying in the snow. This… this can't be happening."
He watches me quietly, letting my words hang in the cave air before replying with a dry smirk. "To most people, I don't exist," he says, a hint of sarcasm threading through his tone. "So you could say I'm not real."
"How did you meet my father?" I ask, trying to ignore the lingering sarcasm in his voice. Doesn't he realize how strange this all is? How impossible?
Hiccup shifts beside me, letting out a quiet sigh. "I do leave the cave, you know," he begins, his voice softer now. "I met him in town. Tried to blend in—act normal. Still got weird looks, probably because of… well, the leg. I think it was about forty years ago," he says casually, like he's talking about last week.
I freeze. Forty years ago? But he looks like he's in his twenties. Maybe twenty-five at most. My fingers fidget in my lap as I process that. How is that even possible?
"I was in the market," he goes on, unaware of the shock on my face. "Just trying to buy some pots. I had saved up some coins I found from… well, old wrecks. Your father approached me. Said he liked hiking—camping out overnight in the mountains. He helped me choose a few things, gave some good advice. We got along quicker than I expected."
He pauses, staring into the fire. The shadows shift over his face, making him look older. Wiser. "I started meeting up with him once a week," he continues. "We talked about life, nature, gear, weird mountain weather. I never told him about Toothless. Never even used my real name. I made up stories—lied about where I lived, who I was. I was a little reckless back then, I guess. Didn't think he'd follow me." His lips curve into something bittersweet. "But he got curious. Said he wanted to make sure I was okay. One day, he tracked me… and found Toothless and me out here."
It all makes sense now. How my father knew the stories—the details no one else could've possibly known. He didn't make them up. He lived them. I stare at the fire as it crackles between us, casting dancing shadows on the cave walls. We both sit in that silence, the fire popping and hissing softly.
"I'm surprised your father talked about me at all," Hiccup said, finally breaking the silence. "Just a lonely man and his dragon, living in a cave for decades." His voice was quiet, almost bitter beneath the humor.
"How old are you, anyway?" I asked, tilting my head. "The stories he told made you sound… ancient." He let out an awkward laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "You really don't want to know. I may look twenty, but I'm nowhere near that young."
I narrowed my eyes. "If you won't tell me, I'll just start guessing." He rolled his eyes, but there was a spark of amusement behind them. "Good luck with that." I took a moment to think. "A hundred?"
He snorted. "Nope. Not even close."
He was clearly trying not to laugh again. Nothing's that funny, I thought. Then again, maybe everything is when you've been living in a cave for who-knows-how-long. "Three hundred?" I tried again.
"Nope. Older."
The storm outside howled against the stone, but the cave was surprisingly warm. Somehow, the cold never seemed to reach this place. I huffed in frustration. "How about you just tell me?"
"I thought we were having bonding time," he said with the biggest, most ridiculous grin I'd seen from him yet. "Guessing my age seems like the perfect way to bond."
"This is what you call bonding time?" I gave him a skeptical look.
"Absolutely," he said, chuckling. "You already seem to know half my life story anyway."
He reached over to take my empty bowl. "Do you want more?" he asked, nodding toward the pot simmering over the fire. "No, thank you," I replied, rising to place the bowl carefully in a corner. I turned back to him, crossing my arms. "I'm not letting this go. How old are you?"
Hiccup gave a long, exaggerated sigh. "I really enjoy watching you guess."
I smirked. "Fine. Are you… a thousand?"
While I spoke, he rifled through his worn leather bag and pulled out a sketchpad and a pencil. He tossed a few more pieces of wood onto the fire before settling beside me again. "You're close enough," he said at last, opening the drawing pad in his lap. "I'm 1,394."
I blinked at him, stunned. My gaze lingered on his face. That same youthful appearance. No gray in his hair. No wrinkles. He didn't look a day over twenty-five. "You've stayed here all that time?" I asked quietly. "All those hundreds of years?"
His eyes stayed on the sketchpad. "No. Just since I last saw your father. Before that… well, there aren't many places for someone like me anymore." There was a shadow in his expression, a distant look in his eyes that made my chest ache a little. "Aren't there other riders?" I asked gently.
He paused, his pencil hovering above the page. "I haven't seen any since the dragons left for the Hidden World." He glanced down again, focusing on the half-finished drawing in his lap. It was of a dragon.