He'd dreamed of flying, of the wind sweeping through his hair, and the sky spread out before him, orange and cotton-candy pink, spread wide open like a new book with an ending he hadn't read yet.
The part he liked most was that he was never alone in these dreams. Someone was with him, a friend, flying with him, but he never saw them. He just knew they had to be there for him to be flying at all. Other times, there was a third person, sitting behind him, their strong, slender arms wrapped around his chest. It never mattered where he was going, it never mattered where he'd been, all that mattered was he was up in the sky and he was free, and at the same time, never alone, and somehow he knew there was someplace to go back to when he was done, someplace that felt like home.
It was a nice dream, but the problem with dreams was that he always had to wake up, and that's what he did, started awake in his bed. What had woken him up was the loud pounding on his bedroom door.
"Harold! Wake up." His father's curt voice was on the other side. "Harold! Only lazy asses sleep like this in the middle of the day! Wake up!"
"I'm awake! I'm awake," Hiccup--no, Harold Stenson muttered, pushing himself up in his bed, and kicking the blanket off with his foot. Reaching down, his hand scrambled around on the floor for one of his stump socks, until he found one.
The pounding continued. "Harold!"
"I said I'm up, dad." He didn't raise his voice. It was never a good idea to raise his voice at his father. "Don't have my leg on. You know it takes a minute."
That got him a reprieve, at least.
"Well, hurry it up and come downstairs. We're going to the Barber. You need to cut your damn hair--it's gotten too long."
He heard his father leave, and put his hand up to his hair, which was slightly mussy, and not really that long. It was at that perfect length where it was long, but didn't look like an emo haircut or anything.
It didn't matter, though. It never mattered what he liked or what he wanted.
Sighing quietly, Hiccup strapped his prosthetic on.
Home - At each character's home
The part he liked most was that he was never alone in these dreams. Someone was with him, a friend, flying with him, but he never saw them. He just knew they had to be there for him to be flying at all. Other times, there was a third person, sitting behind him, their strong, slender arms wrapped around his chest. It never mattered where he was going, it never mattered where he'd been, all that mattered was he was up in the sky and he was free, and at the same time, never alone, and somehow he knew there was someplace to go back to when he was done, someplace that felt like home.
It was a nice dream, but the problem with dreams was that he always had to wake up, and that's what he did, started awake in his bed. What had woken him up was the loud pounding on his bedroom door.
"Harold! Wake up." His father's curt voice was on the other side. "Harold! Only lazy asses sleep like this in the middle of the day! Wake up!"
"I'm awake! I'm awake," Hiccup--no, Harold Stenson muttered, pushing himself up in his bed, and kicking the blanket off with his foot. Reaching down, his hand scrambled around on the floor for one of his stump socks, until he found one.
The pounding continued. "Harold!"
"I said I'm up, dad." He didn't raise his voice. It was never a good idea to raise his voice at his father. "Don't have my leg on. You know it takes a minute."
That got him a reprieve, at least.
"Well, hurry it up and come downstairs. We're going to the Barber. You need to cut your damn hair--it's gotten too long."
He heard his father leave, and put his hand up to his hair, which was slightly mussy, and not really that long. It was at that perfect length where it was long, but didn't look like an emo haircut or anything.
It didn't matter, though. It never mattered what he liked or what he wanted.
Sighing quietly, Hiccup strapped his prosthetic on.