Letter for hiccup, liked "a letter without a name" that I kinda like to continue off of it!
"Had a hard day as well huh? Wish the others could you see you the way I do, the amazing inventions you create, your smile, the all of you, I wouldn't change you for the world"
Thanks for the letter! It has been received by one Hiccup Haddock! Also, this request is a mix of this request and another one I received. Hope you both like it!
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
A World Where You’re Real
(Immediately after the first letter)
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
For Part 1, click HERE.
For Part 3, click HERE.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
Hiccup couldn’t sleep that night.
Not from guilt. Not from failure. Not even from the sting on his arm, where a shard of broken pulley gear had snapped loose and scraped a red-hot line down to his elbow. That kind of pain was ordinary. Expected. Familiar.
No—tonight was different.
He couldn’t sleep because of you.
Because of the letter.
It lay just beneath his pillow, tucked carefully into the worn cover of his sketchbook like a secret charm. He couldn’t stop reaching for it. Couldn’t stop reading it. He’d memorized every word, every stroke of ink, even the way the parchment was folded.
Dear Hiccup, Please don’t be too sad. You’re already great the way you are. No need to change all of you.
He whispered the words to himself like a spell, again and again, until his throat tightened.
No one had ever said something like that to him. Not his father. Not the villagers. Not even Gobber, who sometimes gave him a pat on the back when things didn’t explode.
They either ignored him, yelled at him, or treated him like a problem to be solved. He was too small. Too loud. Too clever. Too wrong.
But you?
You’d looked at him—all of him—and told him he didn’t need to change.
The letter wasn’t long. It wasn’t dramatic. But it had slipped between his ribs like light through a crack in the wall, finding the place inside him he didn’t even realize was waiting to be seen.
And now he couldn’t stop thinking about you.
About who you might be.
About why you saw him when no one else did.
And what he would do when he found you.
Because he would. He had to.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
The next morning, he didn’t show up at the forge.
Gobber would scold him for it later—grumble something about responsibility and missed orders—but Hiccup didn’t care. Not right now.
He sat on the low stone wall near the cliff path, notebook open on his knees, pencil in hand, pretending to sketch the sea birds gliding overhead. But his eyes weren’t on the ocean.
They were on the village below.
Watching.
Every figure. Every face.
Who had been near his hut the day before? Who would’ve dared step inside without knocking? Who would think to leave something so kind? So personal?
He scanned the crowd like a tracker looking for movement. He studied the way people walked, the way they carried themselves.
And one name rose to the front of his mind, uninvited but persistent.
Astrid.
It could be her.
She was brave. Intelligent. Respected. Maybe she had seen something in him—something others didn’t. She wasn’t unkind, not really. Maybe she’d been watching from a distance. Maybe the note was her way of reaching out. Quietly.
The thought made his ears burn.
What if she admired his mind? What if this was her way of saying she believed in him—even if she’d never show it in front of the others?
Maybe there was something between them. Something unspoken.
But then…
He looked toward the training field.
Astrid was there, as always—training dummies lined up like enemies waiting to be demolished. Her hair was tied back, her brow furrowed in focus. Every strike of her axe was precise, sharp, final.
Ruffnut tripped over a bench behind her and brought Snotlout down with her. Astrid didn’t even blink. Just snarled under her breath, adjusted her grip, and struck again.
And when Hiccup passed nearby, she didn’t glance at him.
Didn’t nod.
Didn’t smile.
Didn’t see him at all.
Later, he overheard her muttering to Fishlegs in the market. Her voice low, annoyed.
"If Hiccup sets off one more trap near the well, I’m going to throw him in it."
And just like that, the warmth in his chest turned cold.
Of course it wasn’t her.
He knew better. He always had.
Astrid didn’t see him. Not like you did.
She only saw his accidents. His misfires. His explosions. She’d never sit down and write something soft. Not for him.
He crossed her name off the list in his head.
Hard.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
By the third day, the mental list became a real one.
Scratched out on a torn sheet from his sketchbook, folded four times and hidden in his back pocket like a coded message.
He wrote down every person in the village close to his age. Anyone who had ever spoken to him kindly. Anyone who had smiled with him, not at him.
The list was short.
Painfully short.
But he worked with what he had.
He hovered near the market stalls under the excuse of testing “wind resistance for net deployment,” but really, he was examining handwriting. Comparing tags, signage, labels on dried herbs and jars of honey. Anything with ink.
Freya, the baker’s daughter, had nice handwriting. Gentle loops, careful spacing. She once offered him a spare roll when his father missed dinner.
Maybe it was her?
He circled her name twice.
That afternoon, she laughed—loudly—when one of the blacksmith’s sons joked about “Hiccup the Destroyer” and his “self-destructing fishnet cannon.”
She didn’t even glance his way.
He crossed her name off the list.
Angrily.
A week passed.
Then two.
Still nothing.
No new letters.
No follow-up.
He unfolded your note so many times that the corners began to soften and the ink smudged slightly from the oils on his fingers. He told himself to stop. To preserve it. But he needed to read it.
He needed you.
He began speaking to you, quietly. Late at night. Only when the village was asleep and the wind howled just loud enough to cover his voice.
“Are you out there?” he whispered once, sitting cross-legged on his bed, staring at the parchment. “Were you watching today? Did you see what happened at the docks?”
Silence.
But still… he smiled.
You were real.
You had to be.
By the third week, the ache of not knowing began to burn.
He dreamed of you now.
Of your hands folding the parchment.
Of your voice, soft and warm and just for him.
He started drawing you. Sketching strangers. Inventing smiles that didn’t belong to anyone real—yet.
At the end of each day, he stood by his desk for just a moment longer. Watching. Hoping.
Just in case you came again.
But nothing came.
And the silence grew heavier.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
Until today.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
It was after yet another spectacular failure.
His new prototype—a side-latched spring trap with dual arms and a smoke signal pouch—had snapped mid-demo and launched its entire mechanism into a cart of pickled herring. The resulting stench coated him like oil. He hit the ground hard. Villagers shouted. One of them called him a menace.
A boy—no older than ten—threw a turnip at his back.
Stoick hadn’t even said anything this time. He just looked away.
Hiccup left without a word.
His limbs ached. His shoulders burned. His chest felt hollow.
He pushed open the door to his hut and stepped inside—
And stopped.
There it was.
Another letter.
Sitting exactly where the first one had been.
Same parchment.
Same fold.
Same warmth.
His breath caught like a net in his lungs.
He dropped his soaked tunic without thinking and crossed the room in four shaking steps, his hands trembling as he unfolded the page.
Had a hard day as well, huh? Wish the others could see you the way I do. The amazing inventions you create. Your smile. The all of you. I wouldn’t change you for the world.
His knees gave out as he dropped into his chair.
A sharp, quiet laugh escaped him. Not joyful—relieved. Overwhelmed.
You hadn’t forgotten him.
You were still watching.
You remembered his smile.
You loved the “all of him.”
Even now.
Even like this.
Even when no one else did.
He pressed the letter to his chest and sat there, eyes squeezed shut, lungs tight. He couldn’t breathe from how much he wanted to believe this.
And then he noticed it.
Another piece of parchment, folded inside.
He opened it with both hands.
It was a drawing.
And it stole the breath from his lungs.
Him.
Older. Stronger. Standing tall in armor with elegant, dragon-scale patterns. His eyes were fierce. Focused. Proud.
And beside him—no—
With him—
A dragon.
Sleek. Midnight black. Vast wings tucked at its sides. A creature he’d never seen before. Nothing like the bulky Gronckles or screeching Zipplebacks. This one was regal. Mysterious. Beautiful.
He didn't know what kind of dragon this was but... he was standing beside it side by side.
Like a warrior.
Like a leader.
Like someone chosen.
And you had drawn it.
You had seen this in him.
You hadn’t just written him kindness.
You believed in a version of him he couldn’t even picture on his own. One with strength. With presence. With purpose.
He stared at the drawing until his vision blurred.
He didn’t know who you were.
But you saw all of him.
Even the pieces he didn’t believe could exist.
And now… now that he had this—
Now that you’d come back—
He would find you.
He had to.
Because you were the only one who’d loved him before he became that version of himself.
And when he found you?
You would never leave his side again.
