“Come back… please…”
Those cursed words reverberate through Hiccup’s mind. He had understood them, but he didn’t know how. They came not in any language the Viking had heard in his short life, and they came from the grumbling throat of the Nightfury.
Is it possible he’s finally heard evidence that the dragon, or maybe just the Nightfury himself, can communicate with humans?
Or is something happening to Hiccup. And if so, what?
There's no time for speculation as the chill wraps around his body. He stumbles over to the fireplace and sets some logs in, his muscles weak and stinging, as if he had just gone through the most strenuous exercise, but it was a simple task.
Perhaps he is just getting sick, and all of this is some delirium that will soon pass? He plops himself down on the ground before the glow of the fire, letting himself rest, allowing the coziness to warm him up, safe from the mysteries of the world beyond his home.
Sleep may do him good in easing his aching body and reeling mind.
A sudden shock courses through him, burning up through his body. He clenches his chest, his shirt feeling so tight and clingy. Is it the heaviness of the rain? Is it something else? Whatever it is, he is compelled to rip it off, peeling the thing off of him and revealing to the fire his hairless toothpick of a body. He looks at himself on a nearby reflective shield and shakes his head. “Look at me,” he grumbles, messing with his pants. “I’m so weak and pathetic. Who am I kidding? I think I could do something good for everyone.”
He mulls over some more things as he works off his boots. “I should have just stuck to what I was good at, which is nothing,” he grumbles, pulling his boot off with odd ease. He blinks and looks over it and then wiggles his toes. “Weird…”
He kicks his opposite heel against the ground, and his boot slips off, free and dainty.
He lifts a boot in one hand and strokes at his chin with the other. The fledgling hint at a beard is often itchy, but not usually like this. “I wonder why the rain seems to have made my boot so loose? This could have interesting applications.”
He mulls this over as the smooth chin no longer itches but lowers down on his chest. The itch continues. Absently, he moves downward over his body, so smooth, almost silky.
“Just another mystery, I guess, having to figure out this whole talking dragon thing. Maybe in the book, there’s something abou-aah!”
He drops the boot and holds his hands over his chest, his voice coming out higher pitched than before. He coughs and rubs his throat. “Aaah…. Aaah… aaaoooh.” He deepens his voice, but it flicks back up to that gently higher register for some reason. “Oh, by Odin’s eye, I might be sick,” he says, sniffling, but he looks down over his chest.
He had always been out-of-shape, and sometimes the fat rested in his chest, but now the lumps over his thin form are heavier than ever.
He traces one side with a finger and cups the other with his other hand. His breath quickens, getting higher and lighter, catching in his throat. He must really be going mad, or else it seems that he actually has tits!
Contemplating this, he runs his hand through his hair, his fingers weaving through straight and long locks, slowly combing, combing, and combing, moving down along the long streaks that go down to his shoulders.
He yelps, an arm crossed over his chest and the other gripping the long locks. He turns toward the shield and stares at its reflection.
The person looking back at him is at once familiar and completely alien. It is an awkward-looking creature, to be sure, but much less a gangly man, but a woman not quite made entirely herself.
She shakes her head, letting go of her hair and shaking her head, slapping herself on the face. When she opens her eyes, they are covered by bangs, and she pulls them away to see the bright, wide orbs looking back at her, lashes fluttering and long.
“Yeaaaah!” He hops back, gasping, his voice now even higher than Astrids. She stumbles back.
With a sneeze, she rolls to her stomach, wiping her nose. But when she pokes at it, she finds it much smaller than before. She grasps her neck, crying out for help for anyone to come in and help her, but the only response she gets is Adam’s apple shrinking in her grasp.
“Nonononono!” she yelps, crawling along the floor. Her chest, no, her breasts, swell, dangling from her chest, scraping over the ground.
She falls on her elbows, cupping her chest, gasping as she feels those full things so sensitive in her grasp.
“W… what’s happening… to me?” She huffs, rolling onto her back. “Why does this feel so… so…. Ah…! Oh, gods!”
She can’t finish her thought as she gasps, feeling the strange pangs between her legs. Still, in her pants, she scrambles, working to undo the things as dainty fingers and long, sharp nails fail to work on the button that holds it up.
“Not that!” she screeches. “Anything but that!”
It was never impressive, at least by the standards the other Vikings had championed their manhoods as if they could cleave a beast in two. His would hardly satisfy a woman, he was sure. But now, it was getting smaller and smaller. As it shrinks down, she can’t help but grab hold of it, desperately wanting it to return to its modest glory, her hips up high, her heels digging into the floor, her hair splayed across the wood.
But it is to no avail. As soon as it retracts, it disappears into the folds of her pelvis, leaving behind a glistening moistness that makes her fingers tremble.