quick note: no one dies. gonna be a lot of sick, bedridden hiccup, but he'll live. what he has is common for us, treatable with antibiotics, but they were out of luck in the viking age. i did as much research as humanly possible but for any inaccuracy, assume fanfic. lots of h/c, some angst, and a healthy dose of family & team bonding. some hiccstrid if you squint, but it takes place in the first season of riders of berk, so. lots of toothless.

i'll have warnings for any sick-stuff for the chapters!

In classic Berkian fashion, it happens rather dramatically:

"He's contagious! Quarantine 'im! Lock 'im up!" Mildew shouts, obnoxiously loud with a swing of his stick to the frozen ground. Stoick considers slapping him with it—either with the gods-forsaken rod, or the ground itself, it doesn't matter.

Snotlout, surprisingly, is the one to cut off the old man in self-righteous anger. "He has a cold, Mildew, he's not… not you!"

Mildew, sputtering with indignity, waves his stick threateningly at the boy with a cry of, "I'll show yo—"

"Enough!" Stoick bellows, effectively gaining the attention of every Viking gathered outside of the Great Hall. Should the weather grow any more tumultuous, they'll all be confined within the walls for the second time this week, and that's a bridge he'll have to cross later. "No one is being quarantined. Yes, Hiccup is ill, and yes, the gods are not merciful in regards to the weather as of right now. Return to your homes, warm your hearths, and prepare for the ice, should it arrive tomorrow."

"So you'll condemn your people!" Mildew, knuckles white where he wraps his disgustingly skeletal fingers around his staff, is rigid and angry where he stands. Stoick wishes to cast him away, if only so he can go check on his son; Mildew will stir up trouble the best of times with the dragons, but when it comes to his boy, Stoick will have none of it. "Your young and weak, your elders—"

"Hiccup's young and weak," Tuffnut not-so-helpfully points out, Astrid slinging him across the arm for the outburst. Stoick will need at least two ice blocks this evening. "What? He is!"

"He's weak, not young," Snotlout supplies, muttering into the growing crescendo of worried Vikings, and Spitelout narrows his eyes so gravely at his son, Stoick feels it down to his own old bones.

Stoick, however, has absolutely had enough of this, and of Mildew making a mockery of his son, so he holds up a commanding hand.

"I will not repeat myself!" That shuts everyone up. Even Mildew looks properly chastised, though the blessing is quickly crushed by the offending sneer he casts at Stoick. "Disperse, now. All of you. I will hear no more of this for the time being."

Leave it to his son to stir up the village.

thirty-six hours earlier

Despite the promise of late spring, Hiccup is pretty sure Idunn is playing them all for fools.

"It's so frickin' cold," Snotlout complains, the fifth time this morning, and Astrid launches her axe over his head, the weapon embedding itself in a nearby tree. He screams, scrabbling for his helmet. "What—why? Why are you like this?"

Astrid shrugs, hands on her hips as she cheerily says, "Got your adrenaline pumping, right? Should warm you right up."

Hiccup chuckles, sinking further against Toothless' side, sprawled out where he is amongst the bushes and trees; they should really be training, or practicing back at the Academy, but his dad had made him promise up and down that they'd steer clear of the village out of fear of the twins causing irreparable damage to the food stock, and Hiccup can't blame him. Spring or not, the ominous clouds hanging low over the horizon promise nothing but a bitter, cold night, and everyone had been content to hangout on Raven's Point for the day.

The twins had called it vacation. Astrid had called it on-the-ground training.

Hiccup doesn't care what they call it, so long as they leave him out of it because his head is pounding harder than Gobber working on a rotted Nadder's tooth.

"We shoulda brought more yak chops," Ruffnutt mutters, burying her head in a log. Hiccup could ask, but he doesn't. "We're not gonna get anything outta the Hall tonight, not with everyone there."

"My dad would've killed you if you stole any more rations," Hiccup points out, sketching a rough outline of their current location. What he should've brought was more charcoal, honestly. "You three are the reason I have to make so many ice runs, you know."

Snotlout snorts, heading towards Ruff's log with devious intent. "Don't lump me in with those two idiots."

"Ruff, watch out," Hiccup warns, cocking an eyebrow at his cousin's attempt at treachery. Snotlout freezes. He'll regret this question, but: "What are you doing in there, anyway?"

"She's looking for Terrible Terrors so we can raid Snotlout's hut," Tuffnut explains, and Hiccup has many, many regrets, but he's starting to think maybe his biggest one was promising his dad that he'd keep his friends occupied for the entire day outside of the village.

He can only sigh when the twins and Snotlout start an all-out war over the poor, abused log.

They can't head out of the island, not with the incoming storm; they're stuck with all this excess energy, dragons indefinitely grounded until further notice, and if Hiccup is honest with himself, he's too tired to go for more than a day's flight anyway. It leaves them with little to do except parade around the Point, harass the poor wildlife, and maybe scope out any unknown dragons they come across. Fishlegs had been the only lucky one: his mom needed help doling out extra batches of yak broth in preparation of the sick.

Gods, he's tired. His head also really, really hurts. An excellent combination, in Hiccup's opinion.

"Hey," Astrid murmurs, taking up the vacated dirt next to him. Toothless chirps happily. "You alright? You've been zoning in and out all morning."

Hiccup shrugs, says, "Me? Yeah, I'm fine. Just worried, I guess. Last time we got a storm around this time, well…"

"I know." Astrid nods, nudging her shoulder against Hiccup's. The camaraderie is nice, a welcome change from the shouts of Ruff and Snotlout attempting to shove Tuffnut's head into the ground. Astrid continues, "We're better prepared this time."

"S'what my dad said, too." Hiccup isn't so sure, but he's also not a healer. "Overheard him talking to Gobber and Gothi last night. Guess Gothi's worried about the newborns."

Astrid nods, stretching out her legs in front of her, a languid expanse of limbs that Hiccup doesn't mind sharing his space with.

"Like I said: better prepared," Astrid tells him, far more confident than he feels. Last time they had a nasty storm so late in the season, sickness had struck fast and quick; Hiccup had been lucky. He'd had a fever, sweat a little, spent a week in bed.

He'd been eleven.

"We should probably help him," Hiccup says, waving a hand at the devolving scene in front of them. The log—already rotting from the rainstorms of the past month—is cracking as Tuffnut lifts it above his head, clearly intent on smacking Snotlout with it.

Astrid hums. "We should," she agrees.

Neither of them make an effort to move.

"Dad!" Hiccup calls, nearly tripping over Sven as the man herds his sheep into the Hall. That's going to make an interesting night. If all goes well, Hiccup won't have to deal with it. "Dad, hey—"

"Hiccup," his dad acknowledges, followed by: "No, no, Mulch, we need the—oh, Odin help us…"

He supposes, in his dad's defense, the storm's approach is catching them all off-guard. What had been a twenty-eight hour prediction has dropped to eight at most, and the teens had made a break for it once the hail had begun; it's a piercing, sharp cold that awaits the outside, and most of the village is already piled into the Hall to bunker down for the night.

It's barely noon.

"Dad—"

"Hiccup." Gobber's hand falls on his shoulder, directing him away from the only saving grace Hiccup has to the blissful silence of his hut. Toothless warbles behind them. "C'mon, lad. Ye can help me with settin' up the servin' station."

"Oh, hi, Gobber," Hiccup manages, stumbling along. "Uh, actually, can it wait, like, thirty seconds? I just—"

"Nope." The grip on his shoulder is oddly firm. Hiccup tries very, very hard not be offended. "No slackin' today. Storm's a'comin', and yer father could use all the help he can get."

No arguing with that, even though Hiccup desperately wants to; defeated, he trails his mentor, a corner of the Hall already dedicated to dispersing food.

"We've got the Ingermans' homemade stock," Gobber explains, dragging over one of the massive tables as Hiccup stands idly by. "The Haggards are cookin' up some mutton and chops for dinner, so got that covered. Soups and broths for now. Rations've been sorted already. Yer job is the usual: get 'em on the table, then start handin' them out. Got a lot of sick, hungry folks today. Once lunch is over, then go find yer father and pester him."

"I wasn't gonna pester him," Hiccup mumbles, narrowly catching the apron Gobber tosses at him. He ties it around his neck, mentally cataloguing what needs to be done: set the table, serve, clean it up. Easy. It's tradition at this point.

Gobber laughs heartily, a one-armed hug in place of departing words as he hobbles off, leaving Hiccup to his own devices.

Well… Hiccup and Toothless.

After years of this, it's easy; he lines up the pots of soup first, heading to the storage room and carefully balancing as many bowls as humanly possibly. When he starts losing balance, Toothless pushes him upright, bearing some of the weight of the supplies as the two of them make their way back into the bulk of the Hall.

"We'll make sure you all have plenty of fish," Hiccup says, removing the lids off the pots and wrinkling his nose. "Ugh, these just smell like sickness and my dad forcing broth down my throat."

Toothless growls sympathetically, sniffing at the pot in solidarity, but he recoils all the same.

"That's bone broth for you, bud," Hiccup says solemnly, doling out the food in the bowls. "Sometimes we have fish broth, but with all you reptiles eating them raw, we don't really need 'em."

Toothless huffs, licking Hiccup's face affectionately, which earns him a cry of, "Oh, gross, bud, I can't even wash that off tonight, you're killing me here!"

A gummy laugh and a scratching from Hiccup later, the villagers—cold and hungry and just a little bit grumpy—start lining up, grateful for warm food; Toothless helps, a low, gentle heat for a bowl every time someone holds it up, and the system is flawless. Hiccup is rather proud of Toothless, coming up with the idea all on his own. A storm like this, and people suffer; the dragons won't allow it, not anymore.

The one exception is Mildew.

"I won't allow that beast to taint my food," he grumbles, yanking a bowl off the table and glaring. Hiccup shrugs.

"That's okay. It should still be warm—we kept it on the fire as long as possible."

Mildew sneers, but says no more as he saunters away.

"Typical Mildew," Astrid mutters, grabbing one of the last bowls and joining Hiccup at the table. He has no idea how long he's been standing now, but nearly everyone's been fed and the Hall is a chatter of pleased, warm Vikings, so. "You'd think we're trying to poison him or something."

"Don't let him hear you," Hiccup teases quietly, Toothless heating up Astrid's bowl. She gives him a thankful grin, scratching the scales of his forehead. "He might think you're serious."

Astrid laughs, leaning against the wall and sipping at the soup; she had gone for the bone broth. Awful.

"Storm's gotten pretty bad," Astrid begins, stirring the contents of her bowl. "Your dad's gone through everyone's hut, made sure no one's been left behind. Looks like we're stuck here until it clears."

Hiccup, still hanging onto the thin shred of hope that he might be able to escape for the night, lets his shoulders droop. "Great."

"You know he'd never let you stay at home," she says gently, kicking his foot. "Especially if you told him you aren't feeling well. He'd just… stick you in one of the beds for the day."

"I was gonna tell him I left something and I'd be two seconds, and then whoops, got snowed in."

Astrid blinks, stares at him, looks ready to punch him in the arm. Maybe walk away. He has that effect on people sometimes.

"You, Hiccup Haddock," she says, shaking her head, "are crazy."

Toothless, warbling in agreement, nuzzles into his side.

"Don't take her side on this," he mutters, the last of the bowls being snatched by a few wayward children. He gives them an encouraging smile, and they giggle, braids twirling behind them as they dart to their parents.

"Seriously, Hiccup." Of course she's relentless on this, and Hiccup joins her against the wall, exhausted now that lunch has officially ended. "You should at least tell him—"

"Nope," he interrupts. Headache? He can handle it. He's had way worse. Astrid only knows because Astrid picks up on everything, and she can fight him, to be perfectly honest. "You know how my dad is. I'm fine, and there's too much to do, anyway. I just wanted to sleep at home. Sven's snoring is literally the worst."

She can't argue with that logic, though she definitely looks like she wants to try.

"Okay," she concedes, finishing off her broth and pushing away from the wall. He already misses her company. "I told my dad I'd teach him some stuff with Stormfly, but if you need anything…"

He smiles, almost genuine, and waves her off.

"I'll find you," he lies, and she's gone before she can call him on his bluff.

With everyone settled, fed, and marginally more happy than they would be out in the freezing cold, Hiccup takes the opportunity to track down his wayward dad.

"I'll be right back, bud," he tells Toothless, leaving him with a fairly massive basket of cod and haddock that Hookfang eyes him hungrily over. Snotlout is too busy chatting excitedly to his dad to notice, so Hiccup adds, "And if Hookfang tries to steal your dinner, I give you full permission to eat Snotlout."

Toothless gurgles a laugh, diving happily into his early meal, and Hiccup heads for the door. It's a blessing from Odin—or perhaps Loki—that no one notices him slipping out, though as soon as he faces the brunt of the wind, he has his doubts about hunting his father down at all. The snow hasn't quite built up yet, a spattering of hail leaving the ground a mess of crystallized rain instead, but the chill is bitter enough to seep through the rather weak protective layer of his tunic.

Thirty seconds in, and his teeth are chattering.

He's already made it this far, however; the village is empty, a customary tradition for a storm this severe, but his dad hasn't returned to the Great Hall yet and Hiccup has a few hours to kill before he has to feed the tribe again. Gobber's going to kill him for being out here, and probably Astrid, too, and his dad—okay, so this was a terrible idea, because it's barely been five minutes and his nails are a rather awful shade of blue and there's ice sticking to the ends of his hair and his freckles are cold.

"Hiccup!" Someone is shouting, very angry, very worried, and very much dad-sounding. "Hiccup, what're you doin' out here? Get—"

"Inside, I know." At least it's not a dragon raid, he figures, watching in misplaced amusement as his dad bounds up through the village square with a soaking wet, half-frozen Ack behind him. Hiccup isn't sure when his feet carried him this far. "I was, uh, looking for you."

His father sighs, looking less like a chief and more like an exhausted, worried father, and Hiccup realizes he hasn't been thinking clearly since dawn broke the horizon.

He doesn't tell his dad that, though.

"Let's go." His father gestures to the hill, up towards the Great Hall, Ack and Hiccup taking the lead. Ack looks nearly as frozen as Hiccup feels.

"What happened to you?" he asks, eyeing the poor Viking.

Ack, miserable and dripping with sea water, explains tiredly, "Ship got caught in the storm. Me whole boat is gone."

"We'll replace it after the storm passes," he assures, patting the poor man's arm reassuringly, and a bit of spring comes back to Ack's step. "Bucket says it should only stick around for a few days."

"Aye," his dad confirms, hand on Hiccup's shoulder. The Great Hall looms over them, the warmth blistering once they step inside; definitely a mistake to leave. Not one of his best ideas.

Ack, back in the embrace of life, heads off, most likely to find spare clothes that aren't damp with ocean and ice; his father turns to him instead, voice leaving no room to argue when he says, "I want you to find Gothi and have her give you some—"

"Oh, gods, no." Hiccup groans, burying his face in his hands. His father takes it in stride. "Dad, I'm not a kid anymore. I'll be fine."

One of his hands is cradled gently, thick fingers around his wrist.

"Your nails are blue," his dad says dryly. "Humour me, son."

They stare at each other, his hand still in his dad's, the heat of the Hall leaving Hiccup's body sort of numb and weak from the stark shift of being in the cold, and it's with a long-suffering sigh that his father finally relents.

"This isn't a request, Hiccup," he mutters, letting go of his hand. He makes an aborted gesture towards Gothi, surrounded by a pack of Terrors near one of the fire pits. "Go, or I'll have Spitelout babysit you for the night."

An empty threat, but still. "Babysi—dad!"

"Go!"

Hiccup, tempted to fuel all teenaged defiance into his admittedly small frame, deflates at the stern glare being sent his way. Huffing, he turns on his heel, muttering under his breath and debating slipping out of the Hall later with Toothless anyway to hide out at his hut; yes, his dad will definitely murder him, and yes, it won't end well—but he'll have a night to himself without being watched by the entire village for signs of impending sickness just because some stupid storm decided to play havoc with his immune system.

He'd like to point out that he hasn't been sick since before the dragons took up residence, that his immunity has probably buffed itself as a result of that small fact, and if he is getting sick, a bit of a cold or common bug isn't enough to keep him down anymore. He'll drink the disgusting broth, sweat out the fever, and be back on Toothless in a matter of hours. His body will adjust.

"Hey, bud," he greets, Toothless bounding up curiously while Hiccup takes his sweet, precious time towards Gothi. He can already taste the bitter, earthly tea of herbs. "I see Snotlout remains uneaten."

Toothless nuzzles his hand, purring in agreement, and that's enough to cheer Hiccup up a bit.

Gothi's expecting him, of course; she's brewed a mug already, a thick, wooden cup filled to the brim with a murky liquid, a heavy texture of ribwort and yarrow. It smells awful. He really, really doesn't want to, but her no-nonsense stare is more foreboding than his father's, so he takes it with a weak grin and says, "Thanks, Gothi."

Maybe he can pawn it off on one of the twins as a prank.

He finds the other teens huddled around the newest baby Gronckle, Fishlegs feeding him a slow assortment of rocks, and even Snotlout looks mildly interested when Hiccup and Toothless join them. The baby had just hatched yesterday, a rarity for this time of year, and Fishlegs had taken it upon himself to look after the small-ish creature with help from Meatlug. The Gronckle has no complaints.

"Hiccup!" Fishlegs cries happily, offering the dragon a piece of pyrite. "You won't believe this—"

"Nerd," Snotlout chimes in. Astrid slaps the back of his head.

"Anyway," Fishlegs continues, snatching up the remainder of the pyrite and giving it to Meatlug. "This baby is one of the biggest Gronckles we've seen for this age! Phlegma really wants him, so do you think we can start training him this week?"

Hiccup grins, petting the overexcited Gronckle as he rolls onto his side; the dragon is just a smaller, grayer, softer Meatlug, and Hiccup says, "Yeah, I don't see why not. We'll wait for the storm to clear."

"We could train him in here," Tuffnut mutters conspiratorially, slamming his helmet against Ruff's, and the thought of the entire Hall bursting into flames has Hiccup's stomach doing violent rolls. "Mildew would make awesome target practice."

"Oh, oh!" Ruffnut, finding this brilliant, slings an arm around her brother's neck and adds, "We could totally redecorate this place! Turn it into a dragon training hall! Like the Academy, except, y'know, a hall."

"No," Hiccup says, throwing his free hand up. Maybe he should drink the herbs after all, regardless of how they knock him out. "No, no one is training any dragons in here. We keep them calm, distracted, and no one gets hurt. Please."

"We got this, Hiccup," Astrid assures him quietly, the twins plotting something Hiccup wants no part of but will inevitably have to clean up. She nods to the mug in his hand. "What is that? Smells like Gothi's weird tea."

Hiccup, having hoped to have accidentally spilled it, pawned it, or some other miraculous… miracle by now, purses his lips. "That's exactly what it is."

"Oh," she says, wrinkling her nose. "I never figured out what was in that stuff."

"Gobber told me once," Hiccup mutters, staring into the unappetizing liquid. Not like his dad would notice if he just so happened to dump it somewhere. "It's just some herbs, boiled water…"

Astrid sniffs it again, shuddering in revulsion, and he can't blame her.

"I can tell," she complains, waving her hand over her nose. Hiccup's so used to it by now that he's forgotten how awful it can be; he's sympathetic, but only slightly. "Are you gonna drink it, or…?"

"I'd rather not," he says, brutally honest. "It's my dad being my dad."

She understands, and—thankfully—doesn't pressure him anymore than that, most likely due to the fact that Snotlout chooses that moment to toss a yak chop at Tuffnut's head.

"Oh, come on," Hiccup cries in frustration, drink forgotten on the table as he and Astrid attempt to wrangle their friends.

It's not that they've never had a food fight.

It's that they've never had a food fight while under siege by a snow storm worthy of the gods.

"You lot will be the death of me," his dad tells them, Hiccup wiping stray mash out of his fringe. Gods, that's disgusting, and he mentally calculates how long it'll take to calibrate something that will toss Snotlout and Tuffnut into the sun. "Alright, you three," he says, gesturing to Snotlout and the twins, "you're to remain with your families for the night. Astrid, you're free to go, but I imagine your mother would like a word."

"Yes, sir," is the collective response. Astrid's not in trouble, that much Hiccup knows, but Stormfly's immediate response to her rider being in food-related peril had been to toss out spines; Gothi's Terrors had narrowly escaped.

"Fishlegs," he continues, the poor boy shivering, "go to your parents, lad. They're cooking up more batches of soup to last the night and could use your help."

"Oh… oh, okay, sir," he mumbles, waving to Hiccup before disappearing into the Hall. Hiccup misses the company already.

"As for you."

"I tried to stop them," Hiccup points out, grimacing at the truly awful sensation of meat in his hair. Toothless helpfully licks him, and Hiccup doesn't bother fighting him off this time. "I swear, I tried. In case you hadn't noticed, I hid behind a table for most of that."

His father chuckles, taking a seat next to Hiccup on the bench; Hiccup merely drops his head onto his arms and lets the tension drain out of him. The harsh whistle of the wind beating at the walls tells them all they need to know about the torrent hailing outside.

"Lucky for you lot, enough food survived to feed everyone," his dad says quietly, absently patting Hiccup's back with a gentleness Hiccup didn't realize he was missing. "I suppose having six teenagers used to flying cooped up here is bound to leave some messes."

"Urgh," is all Hiccup has to say to that. At least the food fight had effectively curbed the twins' need for a makeshift training academy within the Hall, which is a relief, because Hiccup doesn't have the energy to put out any more fires tonight—metaphorical or literal. Even Toothless is exhausted, curled up by one of the fire pits with freshly burnt stone beneath his body to stay warm, and Hiccup seriously considers joining him. It's not weird anymore: the sight of a Viking sleeping on top of a dragon, especially if that Viking just so happens to be Hiccup, and the dragon turns out to be a giant, overprotective Night Fury. It'd be more comfortable than the wooden, worn out bench he's currently made a home out of.

Then there's a hand on the back of his neck, warm and comforting, and his father murmurs, "Hiccup, you're warm."

"It's very warm in here," he argues, rolling his head to the side to peek over at his dad. "A lot of fire. A lot of fire-breathing reptiles."

There's no mirth in his dad's voice when he says, "You're getting sick."

"I'm fine," he tries, because he's not, he refuses; pure willpower will have to be enough to fight it off, and he'll muscle his way through it if he has to. His dad's done it before, during a particularly nasty dragon raid when Hiccup had been nine. "Just tired. You try stopping the twins from shoving an entire yak chop down Snotlout's throat."

"I'm the Chief, son."

That's a fair point.

"Fair," Hiccup admits, and if he's pouting, no one is around except his dad to prove it. "I'll sleep it off, alright?"

His father mulls that over, massive hand still on the swell of his neck, before settling on: "Fine, but if at any point you feel unwell, you're to head straight to Gothi for another dose. Understood?"

He definitely doesn't tell his dad that he completely forgot about the tea, or that he feels pretty awful already and there's an entire forge taking up residence in his skull, a Smokebreath in the hollow of his lungs.

Instead, he says, "Yeah, dad. Got it."

The Great Hall in the dead of night is a sight to behold.

Most are asleep; Stoick and Spitelout pace the cleared walkways, nodding to those up and about or beginning to turn in. The teens have taken up bed with their dragons: Fishlegs is crushed beneath his Gronckle, snoring happily, that strange boy; the twins, finally out of his hair, are flopped haphazardly over their Zippleback's body, snoring louder than even Sven; Snotlout is merely sprawled against his Nightmare's flank, his helmet hiding his eyes, and Spitelout looks rather proud for once; and Astrid, even in sleep, is fierce, Nadder curled around her in a protective cocoon, an axe in the girl's hands.

The important thing, Stoick decides, is that none of them can cause any trouble.

"Surprised your boy hasn't made a run for it," Spitelout mutters, nodding to where Hiccup and Toothless are burrowed into the farthest corner. He'd asked the dragon to keep Hiccup inside. So far, nothing amiss. "By this time, we'd be luggin' him back here from yer house."

Stoick rubs the bridge of his nose, recalling all too well the winter storms spent with the tribe in here, the nights Hiccup had escaped in a vain attempt to be alone with no regard to his own safety.

He's still that same, reckless, amazing child—except now he's fifteen, and Stoick is all too familiar with the perceived invincibility of teenagers.

A hacking, distressed cough distracts their conversation, the two men immediately glancing to the families with the smallest children; the newborns are at highest risk, and he will not lose any more children to the fury of the gods, the hands of Hel.

"That's a promising sign," Spitelout says, eyebrow cocked as he stares at the same corner they had just discussed. "Not much has changed, then."

Of course it's Hiccup. Of course the awful, bone-aching claw of coughing is coming from his boy, face pressed into his dragon's hide, shoulders shaking the closer Stoick approaches. Spitelout doesn't follow, the coughing having roused some of the other villagers; Stoick will have to deal with that after. For now: Hiccup.

"M'fine," Hiccup grates out, clearly lucid, but it's pursued by a dry, deep cough that rattles Hiccup's entire frame. The boy looks even smaller like this, and Stoick spares a moment to curse at the weather. "J—jus—"

"You're sick," Stoick says simply, no longer booking room for argument. It's the middle of the night, the snow is battling the walls, the wind is howling harsher than the wolves during the summer's moon cusp, and Hiccup is struggling to breathe. "Up, come on."

He helps his boy sit, Toothless cooing in concern, and the two of them get Hiccup situated; his skin is warm to the touch, not quite more than earlier, but definitely the stirrings of a fever. He's paler than usual. Shallow breaths. Stoick is no healer, but he knows the symptoms of sickness when he sees them, and he says to Toothless, "Keep him seated. I'll be back."

He spares no moments, finding Gothi's nest of Terrors and praying that he won't have to wake her too roughly; the old woman is never pleasant in the mornings, let alone the dead of night, but he comes upon her wide awake and already making to stand. Gobber, half-asleep, tooth askew and rubbing the back of his head, offers in lieu of explanation, "Says the lad's sick. Saw it the afternoon 'n' knew ye'd be comin' for her."

Stoick nods, the three of them taking the path of least resistance around the mound of sleeping bodies to Hiccup and Toothless; he's sitting up, but barely, swallowing back cough after cough, clearly a losing battle. Gothi wastes no time, preemptively reaching into her pouch and throwing a handful of sand onto the floor; her hands search Hiccup's face, drawing his attention to her, spindly fingers prodding at his neck and the swell of his cheeks. He doesn't put up a fight.

That's Stoick's first warning sign.

"Had a feelin' somethin' was wrong," Gobber whispers to him, biting back a yawn. Stoick folds his arms across the expanse of his chest. "Found an abandoned mug earlier, and I doubt any of the kiddos would get away with snubbin' their medicine."

Stoick sighs. "Leave it to Hiccup," he grumbles.

Minutes pass in silence, Gothi working diligently: a palm to Hiccup's forehead; a hand to his neck, checking the space of his heartbeat; with help from Stoick, they lift off his vest and tunic, and she taps at his ribs. Gothi instructs him to lay down, Hiccup oddly quiet through all this, and Stoick helps him to relax, nestled against Toothless' flank while the dragon purrs in worry. Stoick understands.

"S'a cold," Hiccup slurs, burying his head into Toothless, but the look on Gothi's aged, wise face says otherwise. She places a delicate ear to his chest, listens to the wisps of his breathing, and sighs.

The runes she writes out are archaic and not up for his interpretation, so Gobber steps forward, eyebrow furrowed as he begins the deciphering process; for once, there is no guesswork as he does, eyes roaming over the sand in quick bursts of surety.

"An infection," he says eventually, shaking his head. "Lungs. Same one—"

"From when he was a boy," Stoick finishes, Gothi nodding gravely. The same one that had taken four newborns and the weaker elders that winter, and nearly his own son. "How? It's been almost a decade—"

Gothi scribbles again, Gobber attempting to keep up.

"Says… no way of knowing… Happens. Cold, something picked up from… trading… the waters…"

The news brings with it a whole plethora of issues: his son is sick, something that has no cure, that he has to wait out; the sickness is, unfortunately, contagious, and right now, the entire village is huddled into one massive, giant hall. He can't take Hiccup home, not in this weather, and risk making him worse, but he can't risk exposing the children and the susceptible to the virus.

"She'll make somethin' for the pain," Gobber continues, pulling the blanket over Hiccup's shivering shoulders. No use redressing him; Stoick's going to have to burn the clothes, most likely. Gothi nods, heading back towards her own set-up, and Stoick breathes in heavily, a gentle hand weaving through his boy's soft hair. He's stronger, now; he can swing a sword, hold his own, almost, in battle.

And yet.

"Gobber," Stoick instructs, snapping back into Chief. "I need you to get Hiccup and Toothless to the storage room. Get as many blankets as possible, light the hearth, and keep him warm. No one needs to know yet—last thing we need is an uprising of panic."

"Aye, Chief." Gobber salutes, clapping him on the shoulder with his good hand and moving to scoop his young protege. Gods, he's still so small, due for another growth spurt yet it denying him all the same, and it's in this moment that Stoick is struck with just how trying the next few weeks are going to be for both him and Hiccup.

Gods help them all.

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