touch the sky | hiccup haddock

⊗ only alive sheep count

two years earlier

"Incoming!"

The shout slices through the morning air like a dragon's tail whip. I glance down from the top of the pavilion, where Mock and I are trying—unsuccessfully—to hang the celebratory banners for the upcoming Regatta.

"What is it?" I call out, squinting into the chaos below.

My hands instinctively snap to my sides, fingertips brushing the hilts of my knives. Old habit. Berk isn't usually under siege before breakfast, but hey—never hurts to be prepared.

"They're coming!" someone else yells, their voice a pitch too high to be taken seriously.

Mock shifts beneath me, wings tucking tightly against his body as he stalks across the beam toward the center of the platform. He's not exactly the sneakiest dragon on the island, but he gives it his best shot, trying not to tip off whoever—or whatever—is approaching. I tense, ready to leap off and engage, adrenaline pulsing through me like dragonfire.

"AHHHHHHH!"

The scream makes me jump. I twist midair as I drop the rest of the banners, jumping behind a roof for cover with Mock right beside me. "Cook 'em," I command, popping out from behind the house like a viking jack-in-the-box—blades ready for battle.

Instead, we come face-to-face with... sheep.

A dozen of them. Maybe more. Just... milling about like fluffy little idiots. One's chewing on a broom handle. Another's climbing onto someone's porch like it's auditioning for a play called Shear Madness.

Mock opens his mouth, smoke curling from his throat—but he immediately chokes and lets out a hacking cough instead of a flame. I lower my arms, sighing.

"Stand down, soldier," I mutter, watching the sheep shuffle and bleat as if they've just conquered the village.

"What happened to Bo Peep?" I mutter sarcastically, gesturing at the woolen chaos. The joke earns me an eye-roll from Mock, who grumbles in disapproval.

"Fine, fine," I say, chuckling at my own joke. "Tough crowd." Mock makes a huffing noise and abruptly flings his tail around like a whip. The move sends me flying off his back with a yelp. I crash-land on my butt in the dirt—again.

"Traitor!" I groan, brushing dust off my shirt. A particularly bold sheep trots up and starts nibbling at my sleeve. "Eat me, and I'll make lamb chops," I growl, holding up one of my knives in a not-so-veiled threat. The sheep backs off, its eyes wide as if it actually understood me. Or maybe it just understood "shiny, sharp thing = bad."

"OOOOOOHHHHHH! You ungrateful sack of fur!"

That shrill voice—like someone trying to yodel through a seashell—makes me wince. Thank Thor, it's heading away from us. Mock nudges me back onto my feet, and we move toward the center of the village, weaving around a few startled chickens and what appears to be an overturned fruit cart. I sprint ahead to avoid getting tail-swiped again, still nursing my wounded pride.

We round a corner just in time to see Gobber crash headlong into someone's shed with a spectacular crack, leaving a Viking-shaped hole in the side of it.

"Hey, Gobber," I greet nonchalantly, walking past the wreckage toward Hiccup, who looks like he's seriously reconsidering his life choices. Toothless pads over to me and bows his head, purring softly. I scratch behind his ear spikes, carefully avoiding his notoriously drooly tongue and my knives.

"Hey, Dad?" Hiccup calls out, and I turn as Stoick the Vast stomps toward us, an enormous sheep under each arm and a scowl that could curdle yak's milk. "Shouldn't you be getting ready for the Regatta?" Hiccup asks.