Work Text:
He’s been perched in the elm tree for the last fifteen minutes, unable to tear his eyes from the vague, flickering shape of a figure moving inside the tent. The person, a man the boy guesses from the timbre of his voice, is gesticulating wildly as he paces. Despite the agitated nature of his (slightly off balance) movements, every sweep he makes across the tent’s length is punctuated by a pause as he gingerly steps over something.
The boy in the elm cannot parse the entirety of what he says, but the man sounds exasperated. “Love her as I do, why does she always insist on—“ and the words fade to an irritated jumble once more.
He is not alone as he paces. Sometimes, a barely-audible rumble of comfortable, good-natured laughter will rise from the man’s companion; but usually the shadow of the person seated at a table opts to offer a gentle comment, which soothes the pacing man for a moment before he turns on his heel and his shadow resumes skimming the surface of the crimson fabric.
Beyond the tent lies a fair sized camp of men and women gathered around fires, carrying out weapon maintenance, chatting, tending to their dragon companions, and generally winding down from a long day of travel. A few large dragons lay before the tent’s entrance. They began as guards alongside the men and women posted there; but now they snooze peacefully, ears flicking in dreams.
The boy shifts uncomfortably on his feet, adjusting his grip on the elm as he tries to wiggle some feeling into his toes. He wishes the pacing man would give it up already and be still. Maybe then, the two inside would just go to sleep, and then the boy could get what he needed and go home. Then the boys would stop calling him a coward. Then they would see.
“Well go on then,” says a voice from far too close to him. He practically leaps in surprise, his heart turning a somersault in his chest and his hands slipping from the branch he clings to. Someone grabs him by the back of his shirt collar to keep him from plummeting fifteen feet to the ground.
“Oh, sorry, didn’t mean to scare you— Well.” The young woman sniffs and bites off her laugh. “That was a lie, I did. But, you startled a whole lot more than I thought you would.”
The second he is released, the boy spins and flails into a defensive stance. Unfortunately, it looks rather pathetic, as he’s still squatted on a tree branch.
The figure on the branch beside him is in the same stance he just was, crouched with one hand gripping the limb.
She smiles, slightly illuminated by the warm, low light emanating from the camp below. She has dirt on her forehead, shadows beneath her eyes, and her teeth seem a little pointier than the usual person’s.
“Well, what are you waiting for? Go on and rob them then.” She nods at the tent below. The firelight glints off her earrings as she waggles her thick eyebrows, one of which has a deep scar bisecting it.
The boy is speechless, still wondering how she could have possibly gotten so close to him without him noticing.
“You are a burglar of some sort, aren’t you?” the young woman asks, her expression growing a little more serious.
Not wanting to incriminate himself, the boy does not answer. He has just noticed the shape of a golden patch sewn into her otherwise night-dark clothing. What he thought in the dim light was dirt on her forehead is actually a Dragonmark. She is a Warrior of the Wilderwest-- the captain of the King's guard.
His face blanches.
Those rotten boys tricked him. They had insisted these people were merchants. They sent him on an impossible quest to get him apprehended and made a fool of.
“What does it matter?” he asks, pride stinging.
“Well, if you are a burglar, it’ll be wildly entertaining and we can all have a laugh about it. If you’re something else…It’s less fun.” There is an edge on the young woman’s voice as she tilts her head slightly. One of the deep, crescent shaped scars on her chin catches the light strangely at that angle, and she looks altogether very intimidating despite hardly being larger than the boy is. “If you are, say, an assassin. I will kill you now. If you are a spy, I will drag you through the camp and take you in for questioning. But you look awfully young and under-trained-“ her eyes flick to his weak stance, “-to be trying to out espionage on the royal caravan out on a diplomatic mission.”
The boy gulps.
“I’m a burglar,” he admits truthfully.
“Thought as much.” The woman plops down so she is sitting on the branch, and a flash of silver slips back in her sleeve. “So what are you waiting for?”
“Them to go to sleep so I can sneak in.”
“PFAA!” The woman guffaws. “Fat chance of that happening any time soon. I riled our beloved fussy-knickers up pretty good, and the king only goes to sleep when the poet tells him to, or when his head hits the desk with exhaustion. He runs himself ragged on these trips and will probably be up all night.”
“Then— Then I’ll just go home then,” says the boy, throwing one hand up in the air in defeat.
“Oh booo, coward,” the woman jeers. “That’s no fun. If you’re here burgling, you must want something. C’mon what is it? Gold? Jewels? A fancy thing of hair gel for all that?” She eyes the boys disheveled hair pointedly.
His fear has started to drain, turning to annoyance at this woman’s persistent jabs at him. He pats down his hair defensively.
“I want a quill,” the boy admits, raising his chin slightly.
“Like from a dragon? Afraid we don’t have any of the quilly sort in our company.” The woman frowns.
“No,” the boy’s voice cracks. “Like for writing.”
“Ohhhh, but that’s so boring.” The woman looks back to the tent, where the sounds of irritated lute-tuning can now be heard. A toothy, self satisfied smile spreads across her face. “I’ll admit, I was rather hoping you’d be after something fun or actually challenging. The king has a boatload of quills.”
Screwing up his face with frustration, the boy sets to shimmying down the tree, mostly to get away from this irritating young woman and all her chatter.
“That’s the spirit!” the woman whispers obnoxiously loudly, “No fear!” She shoots him a double thumbs up (or rather a double thumbs down, as she is now hanging from the tree upside down, her knees hooked over the branch.)
The boy cannot shake the knowledge that she is still watching him as he sneaks through the underbrush and approaches the tent.
He makes his way around the back of it for a moment, waiting for the lute playing to begin in earnest before getting to his belly in the dirt and peering into the crack of light that escapes the canvas.
He nearly squeaks as he realizes he is face to snout with a medium sized hunting dragon, but it’s asleep, snoring loud, hot puffs of air directly into his face.
The irate man is far younger than the boy had expected judging from the height of his shadow, looking about the same age as the young lady in the tree. Staring blankly at the ceiling, he strums the lute and hums, his long legs stretched out over the slumbering dragon. The king is also startlingly young, looking only about the age of the watching boy’s 19-year-old brother.
He is seated at the edge of a large cot, reviewing the maps that overflow over the field-table’s edges. His hair is disheveled, sticking near straight up, and his tired eyes hold a softness that the boy had not expected of the man who faced the Dragon Furious. Beside him rests his crown alongside inkwell and parchment weight and— a cupful of quills.
“You know,” the king begins thoughtfully, “I think she goaded you so much about it so you would play.”
“Hm?”
“You haven’t played all week, Fishlegs, and she knows that you practice the melodies when she teases you about the lyrics. I think she missed it as much as I did. ”
Fishlegs’ eyebrows lower slightly and he sighs, shutting his eyes. The tension leaves his scarred face.
“Why can’t she just ask me to play, then?” he asks.
“She’s not that kind of person,” says the king simply. “Though I admit, it would be easier if she just let herself say what she wanted instead of feeling like she needed to con her way into letting us help her.”
“True.” Fishlegs stops for a second as his fingers expertly move to play a difficult run. “But at the same time, if she didn’t do it the way she always did, it would be unnerving. I would think she was teasing me.”
“I agree,” says the king. “We love her because of her unique…Camicazi-ness, and it would be alarming if it suddenly disappeared.”
Fishlegs snorts on a laugh, eyes still closed.
“‘Camicazi-ness’ is exactly how to put it.” The two young men are quiet now, and the boy watching their interaction wriggles backwards, convinced that Fishlegs will not look up anytime soon. The king is too preoccupied with work to notice someone coming up behind him, and the spotted hunting dragon on the ground is too dead asleep to be roused.
The boy skirts around to the other side of the tent, and he makes his move during one of the dragon’s louder snores. In one, smooth action, he slips under the canvas and under the cot.
He freezes. There is another hunting dragon there, small enough to be comfortably tucked behind the king’s legs, and wrapped in a fur blanket that looks to be the most expensive thing in the entire tent. The small dragon yawns wide, all pink gums and forked tongue flicking, and stares intently at the intruder.
The boy maintains eye contact for a second but then remembers to break its gaze, digs desperately into his pocket, and practically shoves a handful of jerky under the little dragon’s nose.
A tentative sniff, a moment of very judgemental looking the boy up and down, and the little dragon makes a series of small, hissing clicking noises before gobbling up the offering. The king shifts slightly, hissing on a breath and then settling again.
All is still for a moment, and the boy internally sighs with relief.
Only to realize the lute playing has stopped.
“He just took a bribe!” gasps Fishlegs,“I swear, Hiccup, I don’t understand why you pamper him so much if he’s just going to take bribes from burglars.”
“In his defense, he gave me a heads up before having a snack,” laughs the king, reaching down to give the still-chewing little dragon an affectionate scratch under the chin. “Now, could you come out from under there?” He leans over to look at the boy.
“He told you?” the child asks, slinking obediently into the open and noting that Fishlegs is back on his feet, a knife in one hand and the neck of his lute in the other. “How did he tell you?”
“The usual way,” says the king, sheathing the sword resting on his lap and leaning it on the cot beside him.
“Oh,” the boy blushes. He had heard about the king being able to speak to dragons, but the sounds the tiny green dragon had made didn’t sound anything like language.
“To be precise,” the king says, rather monotone. “He said some scruffy kid was offering him food and that he was going to eat it, but that I should probably stand up before I got stabbed in the bottom.”
The boy holds his tongue before voicing his indignation at being called “scruffy” by a tiny, green dragon with a wart on his nose. Fishlegs is still staring him down, and though he looks more likely to smack the child over the head with his lute than he is to stab him with the knife in his hands, the boy is remains statue-still just in case. He knows it would be unwise to make any move that could be seen as a threat to the king.
“What are you doing here—” Fishlegs begins, a wild and sharp look in his eyes before he is interrupted by an exceptionally loud:
“I cannot believe the amount of terrible burglary that I just witnessed. Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy.” Camicazi tuts disapprovingly.
“And where were you, ever-vigilant Captain of the Guard?” asks Fishlegs, replacing a knife to its spot in his belt now that she has thrown open the tent flaps and entered with great flourish.
“Watching the fun, where else?” she answers breezily. “I wanted to see if any of the posted guards would notice the kid sneaking in.” Her expression sours. “They didn’t— I’ll wring their necks in a minute.”
“Good,” says Fishlegs.
Hiccup raises an eyebrow at him.
“What?” Fishlegs asks as he dusts off his trousers. “If your personal guard can’t notice a boy sneaking into your tent, how will they notice a trained assassin? Cami’s gotta be able to go to sleep sometime without worrying you’ll get skewered while overworking yourself. She can’t be on duty 24/7.”
“Fair,” the king relents.
“I can so,” Camicazi insists. Her expression sobers slightly. “But it would be nice to get some sleep. Honestly, if it wasn’t for knowing you have the dear poet here as a backup alarm, I’d never get any rest.”
“Backup alarm?” Fishlegs echoes indignantly, and Camicazi flashes him a grin.
“Oh, please, Fishlegs. You know I’m just teasing. You’ve really gotten pretty adequate with a sword, you know.”
The boy shifts nervously on his feet.
“Um, I’m sorry— can— can I go?”
“No,” say all three young adults in unison.
“What’s your name?” asks the King.
“Eel,” answers the child honestly.
“And what are you doing here?”
“Burgling.” Camicazi supplies.
“Thank you, Camicazi, but I would like to hear his answers. If you would go handle the guard, it would be appreciated. Once you’ve given them a scolding or whatever you’re hoping to do, please go to sleep.”
Camicazi doesn’t fight the king’s request, just nods once before hurrying into the night. Soon her shouts (and the bright clanging of the broad side of a sword striking the helmets of a few inattentive soldiers) can be heard rousing the sleepy guard.
“Will you please go make sure she doesn’t maim anyone?” the king asks Fishlegs in a low voice. His friend nods and steps over the still-sleeping dragon to exit after the captain.
The remaining two watch him go, and Eel squirms nervously.
“I'm here on a dare,” Eel blurts.
“Hm,” nods the king, back to his maps. “And what was your task?”
“Camic- Camicazi—“ Fishlegs’ voice echoes through the evening, barely audible over the still-shouting warrior who seems to be declaring challenges left and right via something to the effect of: “Fight me, you coward! Show me how awake you are, you lazy limpet! Prove your reflexes!”
“Camicazi— if you concuss them all, who will watch out for Hiccup!?” Fishlegs is shouting, his volume rising with hers.
“Me, idiot!”
“I-“ Eel shakes himself off, trying desperately to stay present in his conversation with the king, who seems unphased by all the noise, still skimming a text and comparing it to a detailed illustration of a trade map. “Was supposed to steal one of your quills— but— but they said you were just merchants. I didn’t know you were the king, honest. I didn’t mean to intrude on you, sir.”
Hiccup laughs, a genuine but clipped laugh. Being called “sir” by a boy when you yourself are still a teenager feels utterly ridiculous. “But the lady— she caught me.”
“Of course she did,” Hiccup says, making a note on his handwriting-filled parchment. “And I assume she encouraged you to continue with your quest anyways?”
“She did.” Eel cannot seem to take his eyes from the young king’s scarred face, from the Dragonmark on his forehead. The spotted dragon on the floor snores on.
“She likes to ‘encourage the youth of burglary,’” says the king fondly, and then after a beat: “Well go on, take a quill.”
“What?”
“These people who dared you, they didn’t say I couldn’t give you a quill, right? Just that you had to get one.”
“Oh. I guess not.”
“You can have one, but please leave the red one. That was a gift.”
Eel hesitates, but steps forward and selects a rather purpley looking one that flickers in the candlelight.
“Go to bed, you madwoman!” Fishlegs bellows outside. Camicazi simply howls a battle cry in response.
“Thank you, sir,” says Eel.
“You’re welcome,” says the king. “Are you very far from home?”
“A few hours.”
“Would you like to stay in the camp for the night? It’s awfully late, and I saw that the Wolf Fangs are out in full force today. I don’t think traveling this particular wood at night is a wise idea, especially without a dragon in your company.”
Eel accepts the offer, and soon a burly (albeit mildly concussed) man is called in to show him to a bedroll and get him supper. Before he knows it, he’s fed and laying on a soft blanket, listening to the dragons chatter in the trees, the soft conversations resuming around the fires.
No one seems sure what the bard says to the captain to calm her down, and perhaps it is the yawn that interrupts one of her shouts that shakes her back to the moment, but soon she is following her fellow warrior back to the king's tent. The guard looks nervous and alert at their various posts around the king’s lodging as Fishlegs holds open the tent flap for the tiny captain. Seeming wary, but satisfied that the guard has adjusted their formation to have all directions in view, Camicazi gives one of them a hard poke in the belly with the hilt of her sword and mutters something about "keeping his wits" before entering the tent. Fishlegs grasps the man's shoulder in thanks for his patience, and the man nods back graciously.
There’s some chatter from the king's tent as Fishlegs urges Hiccup to put away the study materials and get some rest. Camicazi, surprisingly gently, asks Fishlegs to play a song for them. “Only if he lays down,” resolves Fishlegs.
“Lay down, stupid boy,” Camicazi mumbles from her bedroll, throwing a pillow at the king’s head.
The king laughs, hurling the pillow back at her, but evidently relents, because a few minutes later music once again drifts from the tent.
Laughter resumes in the camp as the sound of a lute drifts through the night, the melody rising with the sparks from the fire.