“Hunters got him,” Hiccup says softly, his hand running along Toothless’ head in slow, steady strokes. The dragon leans into his touch, but even that seems to take effort.

Toothless looks rough—his wings shredded by arrowheads sharp enough to mean business. The kind of weapons that look like they were made for one target: a Night Fury. Hiccup’s been a mess since it happened, barely holding it together. He’s lucky they made it out alive. Both of them.

Now, he’s standing in your makeshift workshop, eyes darting between you and your collection of tools and herbs. You’re the dragon healer everyone in Berk seems to whisper about. Took him ages to track you down, and now that he’s here, he’s not sure what to think. You look the part—deft hands, sharp eyes, surrounded by the earthy smell of crushed leaves and ointments—but that doesn’t stop the doubt gnawing at him.

Hiccup’s always been protective of Toothless. Always.

“Can you fix him?” he asks, voice tight with urgency. He shifts on his feet, the worry radiating off him like heat from a fire. His gaze flicks between your hands and Toothless, who just lets out a low, tired rumble. “Because if you can’t, just say it now. I can’t sit around while he’s in pain. I need to know.”

There’s a desperation in his tone, like every second you don’t answer is another second slipping through his fingers. He doesn’t want promises or reassurances—just results. Toothless’ labored breathing fills the room, and Hiccup looks like a man on the edge of falling apart.

All he can do is hope that you’re as good as they say you are.