Fury

by 72_ato

Summary:

Hiccup left Berk over five years ago, never expecting to return.

Gustav is a struggling blacksmith apprentice who just wants to fit in.

Somehow, these two are destined to cross paths.

Chapter 1

Gustav knows he is absolutely useless.

 

So does everyone in his village.

 

They all dismiss him- turn away when he comes close or blatantly ignore his presence. They don’t speak to him, or try to interact with him. More often than not they walk past him as if he didn’t exist at all. When he was younger, Gustav wondered more than a few times if they genuinely just didn’t see him. He had always been tiny. He was nearly 16 now, yet was barely a foot taller than his father’s waist.

 

He was born two months early, in the dead of winter. He was told that he was a small, weak baby that cried nonstop upuntil he learned to speak. Even then, his mom always groaned about how he could never keep his mouth shut- how he was always going on and on about nothing. His parents would joke that if he didn’t spend so much energy running his mouth, that he may sprout a few extra inches.

 

Gustav knew that wasn’t the issue. This was just the way he was born. The way he was destined to be. Small, and weak, and utterly useless .

 

His nonstop chattering was his only way to garner a semblance of attention on Berk. He was loud and obnoxious and often threw jabs at people just to get something that wasn’t pure dismissal. It sometimes worked, but the attention was definitely never positive. He had received many glares and shoves and a few black eyes yet he didn’t stop. The backlash was fine with him, as long as someone saw him. As long as he knew he wasn’t invisible. 

 

Regardless, even if he did stop, he seriously doubted it would help him catch up to the other teens. He was about a head shorter than the other kids his age, and half as wide. He was scrawny, with nearly no muscle mass. Gobber would say he was all skin and bone- that a he just needed a few more hearty meals and get long sleeps, that the others would notice him soon enough.

 

Gustav appreciated the thought but knew better than to blindly believe the blacksmith. He just wasn't like the other teens on Berk.

 

He didn’t have Brynjar's brute strength. That boy was twice his size and ten times as polite. He didn’t talk unless directly addressed, and even then, it was always short and curt. He was the strong, silent type- the picture perfect viking. 

 

Ylva- air-headed as she was- could scramble up a tree before you even blinked. She had won the Thorfest games three years in a row on speed alone.

 

Nor was Gustav as clever as Thora, who could easily tell the difference between a poisonous herb and one you would use to brew tea. Gothi had taken her on as an apprentice ages ago.

 

Solveig was better at everything that had to do with battle, or weapons, or killing. Everyone in the tribe agreed she was born to be a Valkyrie- that she was the Astrid Hofferson of his generation.

 

Even Rurik was more capable than Gustav, despite the fact that he was shorter than Brynjar and infinitely dumber. Gustav actually thought that he and Rurik were kind of similar- both of them boisterous and borderline obnoxious. Unlike Gustav, though, he still had an element of raw Vikingness that allowed him to be accepted by the others. 

 

They all had their weaknesses, of course, but they also had at least one strength. One thing that they could contribute to Berk in some way. One thing that allowed them to stand out and made them unique.

 

Gustav had absolutely nothing.

 

Oh, he was excellent at picking fights and getting himself into trouble. He could brag about nothing and everything at the same time. He could face rejection over and over and still never learn from his mistakes. People knew there was nothing good about Gustav- not one trait that made him redeemable or marked him as an asset.

 

He was a hiccup. And the worst kind, at that.

 

That’s probably why the chief practically threw him at Gobber (after a small incident that had led to the collapse of the entire yak enclosure that may or may not have been entirely Gustav's fault) and ordered the blacksmith to keep the boy busy at any cost.

 

And- okay- it wasn’t that Gustav minded working. It definitely wasn’t the best thing ever, yeah, but it was manageable. It was nice to have something to do for once that wasn’t ‘fuck with Bjorn until he punches me’ or ‘flirt with Astrid until she also punches me’ and Chief Stoick was right- he needed to keep his hands (and more probably, his mouth) busy.

 

The real problem arose when Gustav realized just how bad he was at… everything. On his first day, he nearly burnt the forge down three times, and Gobber wasn’t even teaching him how to use the smelter. He couldn’t beat heated metal out straight- his swords were jagged crescents. He couldn’t string a bola properly, the knots always got him too confused. He wasn’t even trusted to properly mark leather for cutting. In summary, he was a terrible blacksmith apprentice.

 

After about his tenth attempt at punching sheath metal and effectively obliterating it, Gustav was sure Gobber was going to dump him on someone else. The blacksmith had been doing his best to teach him for over a month and had nothing to show for his efforts. At some point, having Gustav as an apprentice would have to be worse than disobeying one of the chiefs' commands. It was only a matter of time.

 

Yet, when Gustav showed Gobber the wonky pieces of metal, the man merely shook his head and handed him a fresh piece of scrap- clearly disappointed, but not enough so to give up on the boy.

 

Gustav was surprised at first, expecting the usual reaction of anger and frustration and shouting. It was what he was used to, and what he usually relished. After all, negative attention was at least attention, right?

 

Gobber gave him none of that, though. In fact, outside of teaching him the basics of smithing, the man did his best to keep quiet around Gustav. He didn’t react at all to the boy's taunts or sarcasm (and boy, was Gustav awful in the beginning). A few of Gustav’s comments had even gotten a laugh out of the man, to his pleasant surprise.

 

So, Gobber let him keep trying while Gustav kept making mistakes and acting like the bratty teenager he was. It wasn’t perfect, but it worked for them.

 

 

 

—∙∘ 𓍼ོ ∘∙—

 

 

 

Gustav leaned his cheek against his hand, staring blankly at his half-empty plate. His fork pawed absently at a pile of dry meat, pushing it around with no real intention. A pile of untouched greens sat next to it looking wilted and sad, like most things on Berk as winter approached. Holding his utensil was painful- his fingers stinging in protest. They were wound tightly in white bandages, hiding light burn marks underneath. Gobber patched him up after a mishap in the forge earlier (Apparently you weren’t supposed to use your entire bodyweight to weigh down the bellow. Gustav didn’t realize that fires could have too much air).

 

The great hall was dim this time of night. Only about half the torches were lit- all of which were concentrated towards the entry or center of the large cavern. It left Gustav partially in the dark. He was at one of the outer tables, opposite the large wooden doors and a good distance away from the few other people present. He liked this spot- mostly because he could duck behind the wooden support beams to hide. He could slink into the stone and curl up to make himself smaller. It made him unnoticeable at first glance. He was nearly impossible to find. To point out. To ridicule.

 

Shouts of laughter sounded across the way, echoes bouncing off the lime walls. Gustav stared far off to the left side of the room, peering around the pillar blocking himself from view.

 

The other teens all sat at the same table, looking to one end. Snotlout was with them, standing in front and flexing his muscles- clearly regaling the group with tales of his ‘heroic’ deeds. Rurik was the one laughing- his broad shoulders shaking. Ylva looked at him blankly. Solveig was rolling her eyes and prodding Brynjar, who looked entirely unamused. Thora, like Brynjar, was ignoring the scene, her face shoved into a thick book.

 

A twang of jealousy nestled in Gustav’s chest as he watched them. Snotlout would never approach him on his own. Never. He was heir to Berk and spent plenty of time trying to impress the other teens, but always disregarded Gustav. Gustav had tried to talk to Snotlout before- only to be cut off, shoved away, or underhandedly insulted.

 

Gustav would be lying if he said that Snotlout's words didn't get under his skin. if anything, they affected him more than others. Snotlout was just.. so cool. He was athletic and muscular and came from a long bloodline of greatness. He was what Gustav imagined when he pictured a viking- someone sure, and brave, and strong. Gustav admired him, but could only wish for half the same traits as Berk's heir.

 

His gaze lingered on the group. They were all his age, if not a year or two older. Astrid had already started training them, teaching them how to wield spears, and swords, and bows. All the fun stuff that Gustav was never allowed to actually use. Even Thora was being taught the basics of combat, and she had been shadowing Gothi for years. Everyone knew she was going to be the village's next healer, so why did she get to learn how to fight, but not Gustav?

 

It didn’t help that the five of them were practically inseparable. They ate together, trained together, joked together. Gustav had tried to weasel his way into their clique before. It seemed like the obvious thing to do, after all. He was part of their generation. Yet, for whatever reason, they seemed to want nothing to do with him.

 

(Deep down, Gustav knew why. He just wasn’t likable. He was annoying and a little bitter at the world. He cursed the gods for giving him no talent or special skill. He hated being so small and weak and made sure that everyone and their mother knew. He hated being so painfully below average and he made sure his problems were everybody else’s problems, too.)

 

So, Gustav sat alone, tucked into his sad little corner. The only being keeping him company the dead yak on his plate.

 

The boy tried not to jump when the heavy doors to the Great Hall were thrown open, a flurry of men marching in. Chief Stoick was at the head, his intimidating form lumbering towards the center of the hall with urgent speed.

 

That was until his eyes landed on Snotlout. They narrowed considerably, glancing between the teens at the table The chief huffed a low noise of frustration.

 

“Really Snotlout? I sent you to clear the hall a half hour ago.” The chief gritted, hands rising to set on his hips. His displeasure with his heir was clear. Snotlout bowed his head sheepishly and lowered his flexed arms, not eager to be chewed out in front of the Council. He gave the chief a shaky, apologetic smile and suddenly took great interest in his shoes.

 

Gustav huffed himself. Who did Stoick think he was to talk down on Snot like that? Snotlout was his heir, at least a little more respect than that was warranted.

 

Gobber quickly hobbled forward from Stoick's side. The blacksmith started waving his prosthetic around, shooing the other teens from their table. Gustav watched as most of the group hastily collected their plates, easily reading the tension in the room. The only one who didn’t seem to realize what was happening was Thora- too enamored by her book to put it down. Gustav watched as Brynjar snatched Thora’s book and flicked it shut, shoving it into his bag as he grabbed the distracted girl up from her seat. The others were already shuffling out though Rurik took the time to stuff an extra bread roll in his mouth before scurrying for the exit. The boys shoved at one another as they entangled themselves in their hasty escape.

 

The large wooden doors slammed shut behind the group, a few of the men taking stances by the door to make sure it stayed that way.

 

It was only then that Gustav realized, oh, I probably should have left too.

 

Looking around now, though, he saw little chance of escape. The Council was already settling in, circling around the chief and his heir for whatever announcement or decision was about to take place. (An announcement or decision Gustav was definitely not supposed to be present for).

 

So, Gustav tried to do what he did worst- shut up and sit still. He carefully curled in on himself, straying even further behind the pillar blocking him from view. He tucked his legs in and leaned his head back against the cold stone, ready to be stuck in this position for the better part of the night. He could already feel his aching butt and inwardly groaned.

 

It took a few minutes for the adults to wade towards the chief. They were idly chatting, arms crossed with serious expressions. Nobody looked especially pleased to be there. Stoick rounded to the front of the room, taking place at the head of the old fireplace centered in the hall.

 

The chief cleared his throat, his deep voice commanding immediate attention. Snotlout settled in uneasily at his side, the other adults quickly circling. Lingering chatter died as the chief began. “I’m sure you are all wondering why I called upon this meeting.” The man started. The crowd nodded heads, murmuring affirmations.

 

The chief scanned the group for several moments before continuing. He let out a heavy sigh. “I recently received news from trader Johan about disruptions in the southeast. Raiders have been pillaging and burning villages out past Outcast Island.” The words hung heavy in the air. The council members exchanged glances, their faces grim and confused. “Their last attack was two days past,” the chief stated, laying an open letter on the slab of stone in front of him. Adults pushed each other aside to get a look at the damaged parchment. “They are a small fleet, but well-armed and according to Johan- well-trained” A silence swept the crowd. Gustav leaned forward to catch more of Stoick’s speech, the council members whispered to one another, exchanging tense glances.

 

“I’ve already sent word to our allies,” Stoick continued, leaning over the stone table. “We’ll call a Thing within the fortnight. This is bigger than Berk—it threatens all the islands of the archipelago. We cannot stand idly as these thieves creep farther north. We must protect our own.”

 

A murmur of agreement rippled through the council, but Gustav pursed his lips, willing himself to zone out. This wasn’t exactly a small matter that he had accidentally eavesdropped on. The last thing he needed was to get in trouble for spying on a full-blown war plan.

 

Stoick continued his speech and Gustav covered his ears, knowing that the more he knew, the more that would slip out later. Gustav was too chatty to keep this kind of thing to himself, but he had a feeling the chief wouldn’t appreciate him spreading the message about incoming danger.

 

He stayed like that for what felt like an hour- past all the outraged chatter and yelled questions. Stoick’s voice rang in his ears, no matter how hard he tried to ignore it. The chief's words simply commanded too much power to dismiss. Gustav could hear the muffled debates being thrown across the hall about weapons, money, and the other tribes. 

 

When Gustav’s legs felt like they were ready to give out- cramped and throbbing- he heard the hall's large doors being thrown open. Footsteps echoed as the Council slowly filed out, their words drowning together and becoming increasingly distant.

 

The boy waited several minutes after all the sounds were gone to relax.

 

Gustav shifted in his seat, inching towards his possible escape route. Even if someone was still in the hall, he could slip behind one of the support beams and sneak out—

A heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder.

 

Gustav barely suppressed a yelp, his whole body tensing like a startled rabbit. He turned his head slowly, already knowing who he’d find. The wooden fingers were a dead giveaway.

 

Gobber loomed over him, one brow raised, expression both amused and exasperated. “And what exactly are you doin’, skulkin’ in the shadows, eh?”

 

Gustav cringed and opened his mouth “I—uh—was just—” he fumbled, his mind scrambling for an excuse.

 

Gobber snorted. “Aye, I know what you were doin’. Being a nosy little nuisance. Now c’mon, lad.” He gave Gustav’s shoulder a firm pat before hauling him up by the scruff of his tunic like a misbehaving pup. “Ye’re comin’ with me.”

 

Gustav groaned. “Can’t I just—”

 

“Nope.” Gobber steered him toward the exit, his grip unrelenting. “I need someone with real fingers- even if they’re a little crispy.”

 

Gustav scowled, cradling his bandaged hands. “You’re just gonna make me do more work.”

 

“Aye, but this time, try not to set yerself on fire, eh?” Gobber grinned as he pushed open the hall doors.

 

Gustav frowned and let himself be dragged back to the forge.

 

 

 

—∙∘ 𓍼ོ ∘∙—

 

 

 

Gobber set him to work reweighing a few axes, letting him practice adjusting the balances and such. Gustav grumbled at his grindstone, fumbling with a particularly heavy axe head that somehow managed to carry all its weight right at the butt. His arms shook as he slammed it onto the still grindstone.

 

Gobber lumbered around the forge, digging around the bucket of his extra hands. The old smith seemed more distracted than usual, wandering around and mentally tallying all the tasks that needed to be completed.

 

Gustav stared at the grindstone under his fingers, wanting to do anything but sharpen the weapon in his hands.

 

“Sooo,” Gustav started, trying to start a conversation to avoid real work. If he kept Gobber talking and neither of them were being productive then it was fine. If Gustav just stayed sitting there, he would have been called lazy and given even more tasks. “What’s, uh, what’s going to happen with the raiders?”

 

Gobber piled a few bent swords from the scrap metal pile and through the blades into the smelter. “Not much for now,” Gobber shrugged. “Stoick’s seems to have it under control. All we need to worry about is keeping the forge moving. This old girl will need to be pumping out weapons like she was still seeing dragon raids.” Gobber chuckled a bit to himself, but the noise trailed off in a sad sort of way. He cleared his throat and turned to Gustav. “Ya’ don’t need to worry about any old-”

 

“I bet Snotlout will handle the raiders!” Gustav interrupted, excitement dripping in his voice. “I mean- he’s the future chief, so he has to be the best warrior! Those thieves won’t even know what hit ‘em.” He said surely, nodding his head.

 

Gobber stared at the boy blankly for a moment. Then he laughed. A booming, sarcastic laugh. There was a humorous edge to his voice when he spoke next. “I wouldn’t trust Snotlout to clean my undies, much less lead a battalion!” He shook his head solemnly. “The heirship may be his by blood but,” Gobber looked to the side, “he’s nowhere near ready.”

 

Gustav followed his gaze. He frowned when he saw where it landed.

 

The small wooden door in the back of the forge had always been strictly off-limits to Gustav. He wasn’t allowed to go in- he wasn’t even allowed near it. Nobody was. It was as if Gobber assumed it would burst into flames and disappear if anyone so much as looked at it wrong.

 

Gustav partially knew why. It used to be Hiccup’s room. An area for the chief's son to craft and invent and practice his blacksmithing.

 

Gustav also knew that it hadn’t been used since Hiccup's dishonor. 

 

“Stoick’s been trying to whip the lad into shape, but he’s In over his head,” Gobber stated. His tone was neutral, but Gustav saw the furrow of his eyebrow and the slight curl of his fleshed fist.

 

There was a long moment of awkward silence. Gustav looked up at the ceiling and pressed his lips together.

 

As if on cue, there was a loud squawk accompanied by the beating of wings. Gustav ducked as a black blur zoomed by his ears, knocking his horned helmet to the ground.

 

Gustav rubbed his head and scrambled as the axe slipped between slick fingers and fell out of his hands. He groaned, annoyed by the bird's disruption, but thankful for the interruption.

 

The smith and his apprentice's attention were immediately drawn to the large raven. It was setting itself neatly on a homemade perch by Gobber’s drafting table. The bird was large and graceful. It had glossy obsidian wings and was dressed in a brown harness. A smudged, green insignia sealed the rolled-up piece of parchment that was strapped to its ankle.

 

Gustav stared at the bird for a moment. He had seen it around the forge several times before, but all it usually did was sit and stare at him with its beady eyes. It would rumble sometimes and peck at Gobbers fake hand when it was hungry, but that was the most action he had ever seen it do. He knew that it was a messenger bird- they were fairly common on Berk these days- but hadn’t thought about it much beyond that.

 

Gustav squinted, trying to make out the blurred wax insignia. He opened his mouth to ask a question before he was cut off.

 

“I think you’ve done enough destruction for the day, aye?” Gobber laughed, rounding the boy to clap him on the back. The man bent to pick up Gustav’s helmet, shoving it back into his arms. “Why don’t ya’ go get some rest.” The man's voice was easy, but Gustav could sense the silent command.

 

Gustav looked at Gobber, then at the messenger bird and to the helmet in his hands. He frowned but got up anyway. 

 

He didn’t turn back as he shoved his hands in his pockets and stalked out of the forge.

 

 

 

—∙∘ 𓍼ོ ∘∙—

 

 

 

Stoick sat on his old wooden throne, spoking the fire in front of him.

 

An array of parchment surrounded him. Charcoal stained the tips of his fingers. Discarded drafts of letters were stacking up on the arms of his chair.

 

He laid his poker on the stone outlining the fireplace and leaned back. He rested his shoulders against wood and ran a large, rough hand through his graying, red hair.

 

He was about to call it a night. He had to be awake at dawn the next morning. Something about weather patterns and the fishing boats being-

 

There was a knock on his door.

 

Stoick slowly looked at his windows. It was well past dark, the sun had set several hours ago. The chief shook his head and groaned, too exasperated with the last day to have patience for another problem.

 

He needed some sleep before he got an even larger headache.

 

He was about to move- to get up and put on his helmet and plaster on his chiefing mask- before his door was swung open.

 

“Well, doesn’t this look like a fun party,” Gobber said as he hobbled through the chief's front door, uninvited.

 

Stoick sighed, relieved that there was no real issue- just Gobber being, well, Gobber. The blacksmith closed the door behind himself.

 

“What am I supposed to do about all this, Gobber?” Stoick asked a hand braced on his forehead, launching into his issues. He gestured to the stacks of paper around him.

 

Gobber limped closer with his signature step clunk and picked up one of the letter drafts, squinting to read it. 

 

“Probably hire a scribe..” The smith started, cringing as he read the rough lettering and choppy sentences.

 

Stoick rolled his eyes. “I meant about the raiders. The Thing. Snotlout .” He said, looking at his best friend with exasperation. He rubbed his face with one hand. “At least tell me things in the forge are going well?”

 

“Uh..,” Gobber said, glancing away, scratching the back of his head. Memories of Gustav’s recent burns surfaced. “Yeah, yeah, it’s, uh, definitely going.”

 

Stoick looked at his friend for a moment. “I’m serious Gobber. This is serious.”

 

“I know, I know,” Gobber agreed, plopping backward onto the chief's couch with a grunt. “Ya’ know how it is, though. I’ve gotten rusty. We haven’t needed many new weapons since the raids ended and Gustav’s training is, well…”

 

“Well?”

 

“Slow,” Gobber stated with a crooked smile. “But he’ll get there.”

 

“We need him there now , Gobber.” The chief snapped, rubbing at his eyes.

 

“It’s not my fault! Ya’ know Gustav!” Gobber defended, waving a wooden hand around. “Just takes a minute to pick things up. Doesn’t help the lads lazy as an ox. Spends more time chatting than getting any work done. Nothing like Hicc-“

 

Stoick flinched and looked away.

 

“Uh.” Gobber backtracked, recognizing his mistake. He swallowed and rubbed the back of his head. “It’s just.. these things don’t come as easily to Gustav.”

 

There was a moment of silence between them.

 

“Has-“ Stoick began to ask, before biting his lip and looking into the fireplace. Gobber remained silent.

 

“Has he written recently?” The chief asked, voice low.

 

They weren’t talking about Gustav anymore.

 

Gobber blinked at Stoick for a minute before nodding. “Yeah. Yeah, wrote not too long ago.” Gobber’s eyes darted to the side, he crossed his arms.

 

“How is he?”

 

Gobber shifted, uncomfortable. He thought on his answer for a long second, still not looking at the chief.

 

“Good. He’s, uh, doing well. Real well.” The blacksmith said simply.

 

Stoick nodded awkwardly. The two sat in complete silence for a painfully long minute.

 

Stoick opened his mouth, turning to his friend to ask another question.

 

He stopped when he saw Gobber’s defensive posture. The man's jaw was set, he wasn’t even looking at Stoick.

 

This was a rather reoccurring conversation between the two of them. Things had been tense since the dishonor- for the better part of half a decade, now. Stoick knew Gobber didn’t understand- that he would never understand- the sacrifice Stoick had to make for the sake of the village.

 

It was for the future of Berk. It’s what was best for their people, but no matter how often he tried to explain that to Gobber, he knew the man just didn’t get it. That he would never get it.

 

Stoick stared at his friend- at the tension in his posture and his averted gaze. Stoick looked and he knew-

 

He knew he wasn’t going to get any more than that.

 

He’s good.

 

That’s all Gobber ever told him. Five years later, and that was still all he knew about his son.

 

The chief's words died on his tongue. He looked away and nodded again.

 

“Good, that’s good. I’m glad.” 

 

Gobber didn’t respond.

 

“Welp,” Stoick said, standing up and clapping his hands together. He stood in front of Gobber. “It’s getting late.”

 

“Right,” Gobber responded, snapped out of his stupor. “Right.” He repeated, standing up. The smith rubbed his hands on his pants. “I’ll be, uh, heading out, then.”

 

“Was there-“ Stoick started, squaring his shoulders, “Was there anything you needed?”

 

Gobber looked at him, mouth slightly open. The smith's eyes darted to the Stoick’s ink-stained hands and ruined rolls of parchment.

 

His mouth set in a frown, and he rubbed the back of his head. “No, no. Just, uh, wanted to check in. Make sure things were okay.” 

 

Make sure you were okay. Went unspoken.

 

Gobber had looked out for Stoick since they were lads and, as much as they disagreed, they were still best friends. Brothers. Stoick was afraid nothing could ever change that.

 

They had had many nights like this. Sitting together with drinks and a warm fire. Talking about anything and everything. They were each other's closest confidants- even if things had been… 

strained the past few years.

 

Gobber was probably worried about the raiders and about Berk. Just as he should be.

 

Stoick put on his best calm and collected expression.

 

“Everything is fine.” Stoick nodded, leading the smith to the door. He gave his friend the closest thing to a smile he could muster. “Have a good night, Gobber.”

 

The smith stared at him for a few more seconds. He nodded stiffly. “‘Night, Stoick.”

 

 

 

—∙∘ 𓍼ོ ∘∙—

 

 

 

Snotlout shivered as the bitter morning wind cut through his furs. The docks were a mess—loud, crowded, and way too cold for his liking. His breath came out in thick clouds- his boots were caked in muddy sand.

 

He should have still been in bed. Or at the very least, not doing grunt work. But no- Stoick had hauled him out of his hall before sunrise, barking something about ‘responsibility’ and ‘leadership’.

 

Snotlout had just groaned and imagined he was still curled up in soft, plush furs.

 

He had spent the morning exactly how anyone would expect—grumbling, sulking, and trying to find any way out of actual work. Unfortunately, with the chief watching over his shoulder and his Dad not far behind, any attempt to slip away had been swiftly shut down.

 

Now, the docks were busier than they’d been in years. Warriors flooded the shores, their ships filling every available docking post. The air smelled of seawater and sweat, and the mingling voices of different tribes clashed against each other. 

 

Snotlout wiped his nose on his sleeve and tried to look important, standing with his arms crossed. He mimicked Stoick’s posture as he stood by the chief's side- back straight, shoulders squared. 

 

The Bog Burglars were the first to arrive. Their Chieftess- Big Boobied Bertha-  was as boisterous as ever, barking orders and commands. She greeted Stoick with a slap to the back hard enough to knock the wind out of any other man. The chief stood firm and unflinching, trying to remain as formal as possible as the chieftess unabashedly showed off her assets .

 

Her daughter, Camicazi, debarked their ship right after. The young lady had grown since Snotlout last saw her, and was most definitely living up to her mother’s namesake. She carried herself with the same confident stride—fierce, untamed, and frustratingly unimpressed with Snotlout, as always.

 

Snotlout tried to catch the young woman’s eye as she approached. He stood straighter and gave her an exaggerated wink with a matching smirk.

 

She didn’t bat an eye at him.

 

Next came the Meatheads. They had no sense of showmanship, just planked their ships and trudged onto the docks with crates of food and supplies. Thuggory led them now—big, quiet, and not particularly interesting. Snotlout never understood how someone so boring already got to lead an entire tribe. He was only a few years older than Snotlout himself, yet had already taken over his father’s position as chief.

 

Their interaction was brief. Thuggory greeted Stoick first, of course, before turning and giving Snotlout a polite nod.

 

Snotlout had to keep himself from scowling. He could tell by the man's stony face that his respect was artificial. It was an acceptable gesture towards the heir of another island- but Snotlout knew that if it was Useless here instead of him, Thuggory would smile and shake hands and maybe even offer a hug.

 

The Meatheads passed Snotlout by and he did his best to give each one of them a hardened glare.

 

Then, of course, there was Dagur the Deranged.

 

Snotlout tensed as the Berserkers arrived in their usual deranged fashion—way too much steel, way too many weapons, and way too much screaming. Their fleet was impressive, he’d give them that. Brand-new armor gleamed under the winter sun, every warrior equipped for a battle that hadn’t even started yet.

 

Dagur himself looked as unhinged as ever, grinning wildly as he strode onto the docks, hands twitching at his sides like he was ready to start swinging at anyone who so much as looked at him funny. He had been waiting for a fight ever since the dragon raids ended, stockpiling weapons and training his people like war was just around the corner.

 

Dagur had thrown his arms around Stoick in child-like excitement- the chief hardly returned the gesture, giving the young man a pat on his shoulder.

 

He had moved on to Snotlout next. Snotlout almost flinched when Dagur’s hands landed on his shoulders. The Berserker shook him back and forth a few times, rambling something about the encroaching battle that Snotlout didn’t process. Berk's heir just nodded his head and smiled nervously.

 

The gathering of the tribes was an event Berk hadn’t seen in years. Nearly half a decade had passed since the last Thing, which had been hosted by Thuggory’s father on Meathead Island. It was a long time, considering they typically convened once every two to three years. Snotlout supposed that since the dragon raids ended, there had been very little to talk about.

 

Now, Vikings of all kinds were meandering around Berk’s docks, making small talk and greeting old friends. Camicazi and Thuggery were already talking. The Bog Burglar heir was laughing, probably at some dumb joke that Snotlout could have made if she actually paid attention to him.

 

Dagur pranced over to the duo right away, gripping them both by the shoulders and hauling them together.

 

Snotlout cringed as he watched the three leaders fall into easy conversation. They all smiled and greeted each other warmly- not just as allies- but as actual friends.

 

The three of them were a clique- a group that had formed a long time ago. 

 

A group they made clear Snotlout wasn’t a part of.

 

Snotlout’s gut curled. His chest tightened as irritation stung his body. He hadn’t grown up with those three. He had never been the one taken to other Things or let into political meanings. He had never been an heir before.

 

He had watched his cousin from the sidelines for years. Watched him fumble and trip over his words. Watched him lag behind every other child he met, always a head shorter and twice as thin.

 

He had watched Hiccup fail in every way possible.

 

Yet, somehow, his runty, weak cousin never struggled to weasel his way in with those three. Snotlout remembered the days when the four of them would sit alongside their parents at the head table. The four of them were a quad- a team all destined to lead some of the greatest tribes of the archipelago.

 

How was it that Hiccup had so easily deceived them into thinking he was one of them? Into thinking that he was important? That he was anything other than useless?

 

Snotlout was better in every way- he was bigger, stronger and a better leader. He was the pinnacle of vikinghood. 

 

So, why ?

 

Snotlout clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms. He was important. He was meant to be here. Hiccup was gone. That meant he was the heir now. He was the one they should be talking to. He was the one they should be respecting.

 

But even now that Hiccup wasn’t around- they weren’t rushing to Snotlout. They weren’t including him in their little group, even though he was the natural replacement. They barely even acknowledged him.

 

His stomach twisted uncomfortably.

 

“Snotlout.”

 

His father’s gruff voice snapped him out of his thoughts. Spitelout had stepped up beside him, his face stern, eyes sharp. “Straighten up,” he muttered under his breath. He glanced towards the trio. “Go talk to them.”

 

Snotlout immediately rolled his shoulders back and set his jaw. He remained still and silent.

 

Spitelout gave him a sidelong glance. “These people are your allies now. You need to act like it. Play nice with them.”

 

Snotlout sucked in a sharp breath through his nose, forcing a smirk onto his face. Fine. This was fine. If they weren’t going to welcome him, he’d just have to force his way in.

 

He strode towards the trio, slipping into his usual cocky stride.

 

“So,” he said, grinning as he crossed his arms. “What are you all whispering about? War plans? Trading deals?  Maybe a new secret club?”

 

Camicazi raised a brow, unimpressed. “Just catching up.”

 

Dagur grinned wildly. “And discussing battle tactics ! Hypothetically, of course. Unless someone does start a war, in which case, we’d be more than ready.”

 

Thuggory simply nodded. “No war, just talk.”

 

Snotlout snorted. “If we’re talking about leadership and alliances, maybe I should be included, seeing as I’m, y’know, heir to Berk now.”

 

The words came out sharper than he intended.

 

Camicazi’s expression didn’t change. “Right. Sure.” She didn’t look convinced, just glanced away, out to the sea.

 

Snotlout hated the way his gut twisted again.

 

Dagur, at least, clapped a hand on his back. “Of course, Snotlout! We were just talking about how exciting this gathering will be! So many important decisions to make! And as heir to Berk, you’ll have so much to prove!” His grin stretched wider. He tilted his head. 

 

“We’ll be watching closely.”

 

Snotlouts eye twitched.

 

He could feel it, the weight of expectation, the subtle way they still saw him as the second choice.

 

Fine. Let them watch.

 

He was going to prove them all wrong.

 

 

 

—∙∘ 𓍼ོ ∘∙—

 

 

 

 

“You’re sure they’ll come this far North? Even with winter approaching?” Stoick asked, a hand massaging his forehead.

 

Camicazi nodded. “Our scouts have been looping the Southern islands. They are coming.”

 

The small council was gathered in the Great Hall, seated at one of the long tables. Mead and food had already been distributed. The chiefs and their heirs had started eating their fills as discussions began. Stoick had gathered a few key people to join him- Snotlout, Astrid, and Gobber were all present.

 

Snotlout, as his heir was seated to his right. Astrid was to his left. Gobber was a little further down the table, seated next to Thuggory’s second.

 

“Good! Let them come,” Dagur interrupted from his seat. He was wildly waving a chicken leg around as he spoke. “I’ve been waiting for a real fight since the dragon raids ended. The Berserkers are ready.”

 

Thuggory rolled his eyes. “Not all of us have been hoarding weapons and spoiling for a battle, Dagur. Some of us have actual villages to run.”

 

The Berserker chief furrowed his eyebrow and opened his mouth to speak before being cut off.

 

“Enough.” Stoick halted the bickering, raising a hand. “This isn’t what we’re here for. This issue is bigger than any one village- we are here to create a plan of standing together. It matters not if one of us is ready if the rest are vulnerable.”

 

There was a beat of silence.

 

“Do we have numbers?” Thuggory asked the Bog Burglars lowly.

 

“At least a dozen ships have been reported.” Chieftess Bertha interrupted, swirling the mug in her hadn’t before taking a long swig. “Those may just be frontrunners, though.”

 

Thuggory hummed to himself.

 

Stoick sighed and turned toward his right side where Gobber was sitting. The old smith had a pinched brow and stiff jaw.

 

“We need more defenses. More weapons, more armor. Can you handle that?” Stoick asked the blacksmith.

 

Gobber let out a low, disgruntled sound and shook his head. “Ain’t as easy as hammerin’ out a few swords, Stoick.” He dismissed.

 

The Chief frowned at his old friend. Gobber caught his eye. 

 

“Maybe,” Gobber admitted. “But one smith, one forge, and one half-trained apprentice isn’t gonna cut it. I need time.”

 

“Then take on more apprentices,” Stoick said, his voice brooking no argument.

 

Gobber side-eyed the man. “Gustav is already more than I can handle.”

 

There was an edge of bitterness in the man's tone. Stoick clenched his jaw, sensing the underlying argument.

 

The Chief was not in the mood for this today. Gobber was not going to shut this argument down, no matter how sensitive the subject. Stoick wouldn’t let him. 

 

“Hiccup is gone, Gobber. You’ve had years to sit with it. Time to move forward.” He stated.

 

There was a long, awkward silence.

 

Dagger’s smile plastered a bit. Bertha looked away. Thuggory rubbed his eyes. Cami stared down Stoick with enough ferocity to take down a nightmare.

 

Gobber just stared. Face blank.

 

Stoick ignored all their reactions and turned to Astrid. “I need you to rally the warriors. Reinstate training drills and double the training for the younger ones in the arena. Understood?” 

 

The blonde Valkyrie nodded, her face stony and determined. “I won’t let you down, chief.”

 

Stoick nodded. Astrid had been a godsend since she came of age. The young woman was dutiful- almost to a fault. She turned away suitors at the same pace Snotlout seemed to scare them off.

 

In an ideal world, she would marry into the Jorgensen family and become the chieftess. The title would suit her and Stoick knew she could handle the responsibility.

 

Alas, Stoick knew the girl. She had been dead set on remaining unmarried since she was a teen. It was always her dream to be a Valkyrie and protect her village- she had the skills and mind for it, so why should Stoick deny her?

 

Low murmurs sounded in the room as the chiefs whispered in the ears of their seconds and advisors. Stoick could feel the tension in the air- the unsurity of their words and hanging questions.

 

“We survived the dragon raids for hundreds of years,” Stoick said, attempting to smother the building anxiety. “So long as we work together, we will survive this, too.

 

“We are Vikings, this is an occupational hazard.”

 

 

 

—∙∘ 𓍼ོ ∘∙—

 

 

 

Gobber grunted as he collapsed onto the wooden stool right by his workbench. He braced his forearms on his knees and let out a long breath.

 

It was late at night- the moon was nearly at full peak in the sky. He had sent Gustav away hours ago but continued to work on his own.

 

The warriors were going to need weapons, and armor and god knows what else if that fleet was as large as rumored.

 

It was just Gobber working well into the night, trying to craft axes and bolas and arrows as fast as he could manage.

 

The other chiefs had brought blacksmiths with them, but mainly to sharpen swords or ensure their ships were in working order. Not to mention that Berk's forge wasn’t large enough to hold more than a few people at a time. That number went down whenever fire or active smelting was involved.

 

It irritated the smith that Stoick was slightly right- he did need more help than he had. One half-limbed blacksmith and a struggling apprentice weren’t enough to fuel Berk anymore. He should have taken on at least one or two more students years ago.

 

But, Gobber couldn’t help it. Whenever he stepped into the forge his eyes would wander to Hiccup’s old door and he felt the pang of grief that would go through his chest. It crushed him- weighed him down every day. A mixture of guilt and sadness.

 

This place wasn’t the same without his boy, and Gobber couldn’t even fathom attempting to replace him.

 

That was until Stoick finally had enough and shoved Gustav on him. After a few years of sitting alone in the forge, doing meaningless tasks due to the lack of enemies and overall twiddling his thumbs, Gobber was half-thankful for the new duty.

 

And Gustav was- well- he was Gustav. The boy was loud and obnoxious and far too noisy for his own good. He made bad jokes and talked so rapidly that Gobber only caught half of what he said.

 

He was a lazy teenage boy who didn’t have any affinity toward blacksmithing. Gustav would learn, eventually, but Gobber knew he would never be an entirely fluent smith. It just wasn’t who he was. Gobber should have tossed the boy out on that alone- should have told Stoick that training the boy was an impossible task.

 

He was so, so different from brilliant, quiet Hiccup.

 

Yet, when Gobber looked at Gustav- he couldn’t help but see the same person.

 

He saw Gustav’s short, weedy frame- his sarcastic comments and eye-rolls- his desperate need to prove himself- to be accepted- and all Gobber saw was Hiccup .

 

And the gods would damn him before he let his boy down again.

 

Gobber was snapped out of his stupor by a nipping sensation on his shoulder.

 

He turned to the raven trying to get his attention. The bird was gnawing at his tunic, pecking at his skin through the thick cloth.

 

Gobber shrugged gently, forcing the bird to flap backward and stand flat-footed on his desk.

 

The bird didn’t have its harness on. Gobber had taken it off the other night when he arrived. The raven tended to stick around for a few weeks at a time before disappearing again. No reason for the bird to be strapped in longer than need be.

 

Gobber raised his human hand, reaching one finger forward to try and scratch the bird's head.

 

The raven squawked in outrage, beating its wings and taking off. Gobber ducked as it flew over his head, landing on the scrappy perch it belonged to.

 

It screeched at him again.

 

Gobber huffed. “Yeah, yeah,” he rose from his chair, stretching his back with an audible crack, “I hear ya’.”

 

He grabbed a leather bag, hung on a rusted nail that was posted to one of the forge's wooden support beams. He dug through the satchel before pulling out a dusty green pouch.

 

He tugged at the strings holding the pouch closed and watched as it unraveled, revealing a small pile of dried meats.

 

Gobber crossed the room, laying the food on a stand near where the raven was perched.

 

The bird chirped happily, immediately hopping over to eat its snack.

 

Gobber crossed his arms and braced himself against the wall, watching the bird's satisfaction with a small smile.

 

The raven seemingly noticed the old smith's attention and lifted its neck, tilting its head and looking at Gobber questioningly.

 

The blacksmith stared at the bird blankly. The raven's head bobbed as it hopped down to the desk again, abandoning its scraps of hardened flesh.

 

It stepped across Gobber’s workbench, only stopping when it reached a small stack of charcoals.

 

Gobber watched in fascination as the raven picked one of the drawing tools up in its beak- holding the crayon in its mouth as it went back to staring at Gobber.

 

When the blacksmith didn’t move the bird glared- if a bird could do such a thing- and dropped the charcoal, letting it roll off the desk. It landed on the stone floor with a clack . The raven flew back to its perch.

 

“Bratty beast..” Gobber mumbled as he bent down to pick up the charcoal.

 

Gobber straightened with a groan, rubbing at his lower back before turning his attention to the scrap parchment beside him. He sat back down on his stool, rolling the charcoal between his fingers. The raven watched him expectantly, clicking its beak at Gobber, as if urging him to get on with it.

 

“Aye, pushy little thing, aren’t ya?” he muttered.

 

Still, he sighed and opened one of the desk drawers, pulling out a long roll of parchment. 

 

His hand hovered above the paper as he stared at the pale white sheet. He frowned and swiveled his neck.

 

He stared at the unopened door towards the back of the forge. The one that had remained closed and collecting dust for more than half a decade. The one that hadn’t truly belonged to him in years. 

 

He began to write.

 

Gobber exhaled through his nose as he finished, staring at the runes. He wasn’t sure what he expected to feel, but all that settled over him was the familiar ache in his chest—the one that always came when he thought too long about the boy who wasn’t here anymore.

 

The raven let out a low croak, fluttering down to the desk again. It pecked at the parchment, then at Gobber’s hand, insistent.

 

“Aye, I know, I know,” Gobber grumbled, carefully rolling the letter and reaching for a strip of twine to secure it.

 

He tied it off and set it down on the desk. He would have to go rummaging for the harness and probably give the thing a proper meal before- 

 

The bird bobbed its head, snatching the letter up in its beak before launching off the table.

 

Gobber watched with wide eyes as it disappeared through the forges’ open doors, vanishing into the night sky.

 

For a long moment, he just sat there, hands resting on the edge of the desk.

 

Then, with a deep breath, he stood and turned back toward the forge.

 

There was still work to do.

 

 

 

—∙∘ 𓍼ོ ∘∙—

 

 

 

 

Hiccup flitted around the forge, grabbing everything he could and shoving it into a brown knapsack. His hands were shaky and unsure, his legs felt weak underneath himself .

 

He snatched his sketches off the walls, shoving them in between the books that he had already decided to bring. He tossed his extra charcoals on top.

 

He wasn’t taking much, he didn’t need to- didn’t want to. The bedroom back in his father’s hall was practically untouched. Most of his belongings held bad memories and would gladly be left behind. 

 

These, though? His ideas and drawings? They were a part of who he was. Hiccup didn’t think he could abandon them if he tried.

 

So, he gathered them quickly, tucking them away with as much care as he could manage.

 

He would have to leave some behind, of course . As much as he wanted to he could take every sketchbook he owned. He needed room for food and clothes and the few coins he had to his name.

 

He drew his bag closed and threw it over his shoulder, satisfied with his haul. Maybe if he hurried he could-

 

“Hiccup?” 

 

The boy froze, squeezing his eyes shut. He already knew who was standing behind him.

 

He slowly turned around, expression meek as he stared at the floor. “Hey, Gobber.” 

 

Hiccup swallowed hard, wrapping his hands tightly around his bag as he stared down at his shoes.

 

Regardless, he could feel the old smith looking directly through him.

 

“What are you doin’, lad?” Gobber asked quietly. There was no anger or true curiosity in his voice. Just scary neutrality.

 

Hiccups breathing hitched. His mind raced with possible explanations.

 

Hiccup debated lying. He could tell Gobber that he was reorganizing- or cleaning the workshop out . It was believable enough. The smith had been badgering him about throwing things out for years. Hiccup had never actually gotten around to it, though.

 

Hiccup opened his mouth and raised his head, about to talk his way out of this conversation. To smother his words in half-truths and plain fibs.

 

He stopped short when he saw the look on Gobber’s face.

 

The man's eyebrows were pinched. His lips were set in a frown. His eyes were downturned and sad. Resigned.

 

Hiccup bit his lip. He wasn’t going to get past Gobber. The man would see right through him- had already seen right through him before Hiccup even opened his mouth.

 

Hiccup breathed in and out. He knew his tone was shaky and unsure as he spoke. “Leaving.” He winced at how his voice cracked. 

 

He couldn’t look Gobber in the eyes. 

 

The Viking man just stared and stared and stared at him. They stood in that stark silence for what felt like hours. The quiet was agonizing.

 

Hiccup could feel the heat rise in his cheeks. The embarrassment of being caught was sinking in. Maybe he was being stupid and ridiculous- maybe he was overreacting and his life here wasn’t actually over.

 

Then he remembered Spitelout’s smug grin- Snotlout's boasting. His father’s averted gaze.

 

Hiccup couldn’t stand it here, anymore. He couldn’t take the whispers or the pitying looks. He couldn’t take the quiet that took over rooms when he walked in- the attempts at consolation or apology.

 

It didn’t even make him sad anymore- just angry.

 

Hiccup clenched his fists, feeling the sweat drip down his neck.

 

“Where exactly do ya’ plan on going?” Gobber asked, still scarily soft.

 

“Anywhere.” Hiccup gasped out. “Anywhere that’s not here .”

 

There was more silence that followed. Hiccup could feel the wetness building in his eyes. He didn’t blink. Fearing that if he did tears may start to fall.

 

Gobber studied him for a long moment. Then, he reached out, gently plucking the bag off Hiccup’s shoulder. The boy stiffened, letting the bag go.

 

This was it. He was caught. Hiccup would never live this down now. Being basically disowned was one thing but then- failing to run away? Only he could fail to run away from people who don’t even notice him. Don’t even care about him.

 

“Gobber—”

 

“You got food in here?” The blacksmith ignored his apprentice, tugging the bag open. He shifted through its contents with his real hand, clicking his tongue. “Not enough.” He turned, and grabbed a cloth-wrapped bundle from the worktable “You’ll want this.” He said, waving it around before shoving it in his bag. “It’s preserved fish. Should last you a few days.”

 

Hiccup stared, confused. “You’re... letting me go?”

 

Gobber met his gaze, expression soft but firm. “Lad, if I tell you to stay, will you listen?”

 

Hiccup hesitated. Then, he shook his head.

 

Gobber sighed, placing a heavy hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I figured as much.” He squeezed gently. “I won’t stop you. But I won’t send you off like a fool, either.”

 

Hiccup’s breath hitched. He dropped his gaze, blinking hard. “I—I don’t belong here, Gobber.”

 

“I know,” the blacksmith said quietly. “But that doesn’t mean I want you to go.”

 

Hiccup swallowed, nodding once. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

 

Gobber huffed, stepping back. “Well, what are you waiting for? You’d best get moving before someone else catches you. And make sure to grab those tools of yours. I don’t have any use for ‘em.”

 

Hiccup nodded again, scurrying back to a chest in his workshop, opening it and pocketing various hammers, and tongs. They had all been specially commissioned by Gobber specifically for Hiccup when his talent in the forge became obvious. 

 

They were small and made for left hands. Those tools were the most thoughtful gift Hiccup had ever received. He was glad to bring them.

 

After he had grabbed the last of his belongings he threw his bag back over his shoulder. He hesitated just long enough to meet Gobber’s eyes. Perhaps for the last time.

 

“Thank you,” he whispered.

 

The blacksmith simply nodded, fingers twitching at his side. “Stay safe, Hiccup.” The man said, shockingly soft.

 

Hiccup nodded, about to slip out. But when he turned his back arms wrapped around his shoulders, hauling him forward.

 

Gobber enveloped him in a hug. A large, smothering hug. He was grasping onto Hiccup as if he would never touch him again, as if he let go this would be the last time he would exist.

 

His voice was cracking. Hiccup was half tempted to assume he was crying. “Write me when you get to wherever it is yer goin’.” He held Hiccup a little tighter. “I'm proud of ya’, lad. Even if nobody else sees you, I know you’re gonna do great things.”

 

He shoved his shoulders out, making sure the boy could see his face. “You’ll always have a place here, understand? With me. You’re welcome back anytime. That offer never expires. Not until I die. Even then- I hope you’ll find me- come feast with me in Valhalla.”

 

Hiccup couldn’t help it this time. Tears started to fall. He crumbled in Gobber’s arms and cherished the slight smell of smoke and ash.

 

“I’ll see you again- before then. I promise.”

 

That was the last thing Hiccup said before releasing his mentor and giving him a short, shaky smile.

 

Then, Hiccup Haddock slipped into the night, never to be seen on Berk again.

 

 

 

—∙∘ 𓍼ོ ∘∙—

 

 

 

One dim candle illuminated the desk he was working at, setting his work in a warm glow.

 

His scribbles barely drowned out the low, grumbling snores in the background. The occasion chuff rang through.

 

His window was open- letting a cool night breeze blow through the room. 

 

The man sighed and placed down his charcoal, reaching back to stretch out his shoulders. He cracked his knuckles and rubbed at his aching hand.

 

The sky was dark, but the man could see light starting to emerge on the horizon. It was already almost dawn. 

 

The man hadn’t made it to bed last night.

 

He sighed, staring down at the half-finished paragraph he had been working on. He yawned, already dreading the exhaustion that would chase him the following day.

 

He was going to stand up and meander to bed. Perhaps catch at least an hour or two of sleep before the morning truly sets in. 

 

If he went to sleep now then perhaps he could stay up later tomorrow and finish-

 

A familiar whoosh sounded in his ear. A squawking noise reverberated as the air by his head was pushed around.

 

He watched the raven as it landed gracefully on his desk.

 

He huffed and smiled softly. 

 

“Hello, Gná,” He said, carefully scratching her head with one finger. Her harness was gone- unusual but not entirely unexpected.

 

Entwined in her talons was a wrap of parchment.

 

The man raised an eyebrow and gently untangled the wiring that held the letter together.

 

He unfurled the paper, recognizing the familiar, blocky writing and old address.

 

Dear Hiccup…

 

The man sighed and ran a hand through his long auburn hair. He skimmed the letter, frowning. 

 

He wasn’t getting back to bed tonight.

Chapter 2

 

So, they used to have this tradition.

 

It wasn’t official by any means, and not many people knew about it. It was just something between the four heirs- something that Hiccup had suggested over a decade ago that had stuck around.

 

The Thing was always boring- at least for a group of hyperactive children. None of them particularly desired to sit next to their parents and listen to ramblings on politics and trade. It didn’t mean anything to them back then- it was a jumble of nonsense.

 

This caused problems, of course. Dagur was borderline dangerous when he was bored- nothing good came out of the boy when his hands weren’t busy. Thuggory tried to listen and learn, but would eventually doze off or zone out. Camicazi and Hiccup would discreetly pass notes to one another until they were inevitably caught and reprimanded.

 

The meetings were a waste of time to them, especially when they could have been exploring, or running around or just being kids instead. Not to mention the adults didn’t discuss anything beyond their own agendas. There was painful smalltalk made on the first night of the Thing- when the partying and drinking typically raged- where they expressed the required formalities.

 

It was all shallow, though. No genuine words of concern or interest, just fake smiles put on to create a facade of friendship. The chiefs weren’t friends. They were allies, and each wouldn’t hesitate to put their own ideals and people first.

 

Hiccup- as emotionally intelligent as he was at the time- saw through the chiefs’ gazes like glass. He saw the underlying tension of their forced smiles and how each chief silently pushed for their own agenda.

 

He could decode the battle of words, reading in-between the lines in a way that Camicazi never understood. He understood when sly remarks were thrown under the table and courteous insults were slung around.

 

It was then, at six years old, that Hiccup took one look at his father and the rest of the tribes- saw the hidden distrust and unease- and decided: Yeah, no thanks.

 

So, for every Thing, no matter who was hosting, the four heirs would all meet at sunrise the first day official meetings began. Before their parents, who were almost always hungover from the night before, convened for discussions.

 

They were children then, and all children wanted friends- real friends. Not the show of companionship their parents displayed- based on malformed reliance or legally signed treaties. They wanted something authentic. Something true.

 

And so they met. At first dawn every Thing, without fail, the four of them would convene as far away from their villages as they could get.

 

It was awkard- odd at first, but the tension quickly eased. They talked and laughed and shared their secrets. They learned about each other- their habits, their dreams, their aspirations. They even discussed the embarrassing things- like how Thuggory had a knack for baking, or how Dagur wasn’t all sharp edges. The four of them became close- or as close as they could be considering how much distance typically separated them.

 

Their future wasn’t going to be like their parents- no. They were all destined for something greater. Their communities would be intertwined unlike they had been in the past- not bound by oaths or treaties, but something real.

 

As they got older, they began to plan their lives around each other. Hiccup had started these discussions- suggesting plans for their futures. Plans that didn’t just put Berk first. He created trade routes and dealings that would benefit all of them. He discussed other villages and alliances that may help the archipelago as a whole. He debated and swayed the other heirs to his side, pointing out how they could aid all their people at once.

 

The four of them were going to be a force to reckon with, that was for damn sure.

 

It all fell apart when Hiccup left.

 

Camicazi can’t describe the feeling that whipped through her when her mother called her to her quarters, sat her down and told her that Hiccup was gone. She was fifteen and had grown up seeing the capabilities of dragons to tear apart homes and families. She had assumed the worse- that Hiccup had been carried off or eaten or killed in some other horrific manner.

 

Then, her mother continued, and Cami’s confusion and grief quickly turned to hot rage.

 

Hiccup wasn’t dead, to anyones best knowledge, but he wasn’t on Berk. Hiccup Horrendous Haddock was dishonored by his father, replaced as heir by Berk’s High Council. It had been a unanimous decision, apparently.

 

Hiccup hadn’t died, no, he had instead lost his title and status. His own father had decided he wasn’t good enough- viking enough- to be a chief and Hiccup had decided that he didn’t want to be haunted by that decision.

 

So he packed his things and walked away.

 

Camicazi had forced her mother to dock the Bog Burglars’ ships at the closest island that evening. She then proceeded to march inland and chop down every goddamn tree she could find. She channeled her anger and by morning had downed a sizable chunk of the forest. It didn’t help, though. Blood still roared through her veins and tensed her muscles.

 

It was a long time before her wrath waned. Even now, though, it sometimes rose in her chest, threatening to burst out. 

 

Hiccup didn’t deserve that. He was Hiccup. Kind, sweet, patient Hiccup who could talk a grown man in circles if given the right opportunity. He was whip smart and hard working and Camicazi can’t fathom how anyone could justify replacing him with someone as boar-headed as Snotlout.

 

Even so, it happened, and here they were.

 

Camicazi clutched a knee to her chest as she looked out over the ocean. She sat on one of Berk’s Cliff edges- watching dawn break on the horizon. Warm oranges and pinks illuminated the world below, the light reflecting off the water as the sun slowly rose.

 

That’s one thing she liked about being on land. The views of the ocean. The Bog Burglars lived their life on the seas. Their ships were their homes. They had a small land base where they spent the harshest months of the year, when the seas were to vicious to sail, but Cami wouldn’t really call it their village.

 

The woman took a deep breath, savoring the crisp fall air as it filled her lungs. The wind ruffled her hair, causing loose, red strands to escape her braid. 

 

“You’re up early.” A gruff voice sounded behind her.

 

Camicazi rested her chin on her knee, closing her eyes as she responded. “Did you expect anything less?” She stated simply, not really looking for an answer.

 

Thuggory grunted and lumbered to her side, taking his own seat in the grass. He was at least a head taller than she was and his legs extended well past hers.

 

They sat In silence for several moments, overlooking the water. A sense of familiarity washed over them.

 

“Do you think Dagur will show?” The Meathead-man asked neutrally.

 

“No.” Cami responded. “There’s no reason to- not anymore. I’m surprised you’re even here.”

 

“I always showed when we were kids.” He shrugged.

 

It was true. Thuggory had always made it to their little rendezvous when they were younger, even though he was the eldest and had by far the most responsibility. 

 

His father, the previous Meathead chief, had been sick for many years. Thuggory learned to picked up his father’s slack early on and was chief all but in name by the time he was seventeen. The second he came of age the official title was handed over to him and his father retired.

 

“We’re not kids anymore,” Camicazi said plainly. “We’re adults- real heirs. Not just children running around with blood titles.”

 

Thuggory shrugged. He had no response to that. 

 

Camicazi rolled her eyes at his bland reaction before propping her cheek in her hand. “Most of us, anyways.” She mumbled under her breath.

 

Thuggory let out a long sigh, already sensing where the conversation was headed.

 

“Snotlout is… trying.”

 

“Trying,” Camicazi stated with a click of her tongue. “Hardly. He has no leadership quality. He doesn’t understand that people aren’t going to follow him just because of his patrimony.”

 

Thuggory nodded solemnly. “He is behind.”

 

“Stoick can’t seriously be considering making him chief,” Cami turned toward Thuggory, bitterness lacing her tone. “He’s nowhere near ready- I don’t know if he will ever be ready. He’s pompous and immature and- Berk should have someone deserving, who will lead them with grace and strength. Someone like Astrid or-”

 

“Someone like Hiccup.” Thuggory cut her off, correcting her.

 

Camicazi paused and frowned. She stared at her friend in silence for several moments.

 

Thuggory’s face remained blank, unmoving.

 

Camicazi clutched her leg tighter and glanced back toward the sea.

 

“Where do you think he is?” She asked, eyes suddenly dry.

 

Thuggory shrugged again. “I’m not sure. He still writes to Gobber, sometimes.”

 

Cami’s lip curled. “Sure,” she laughed sadly, “Because those letters are always so informative.”

 

The lack of information surround Hiccup’s dishonor had always rubbed Camicazi the wrong way. There was nothing on what happened to Hiccup after he left Berk- no word from merchants or traders. Not even a whisper of the boy from surrounding islands. It was as if he had vanished into thin air- disappeared completely overnight.

 

If it wasn’t for Gobber showing them the short letters in Hiccup’s messily scrawled runes, Cami may have assumed he really had died.

 

Thuggory pressed his lips together and tilted his head down. “We know he’s alive and safe, that’s enough.”

 

“Is it?” Camicazi huffed. “We don’t know where he is or what he’s doing- he never gives any real information just- just half truths.”

 

“Maybe that’s what he needs. Time. Space,” Thuggory stood up with effort. “Hiccup wasn’t… treated well, here. Berk wasn’t good to him. I don’t blame him for wanting to leave it behind.”

 

“I know that but-“ Camicazi looked at him, eyebrows furrowed. “For over five years? He couldn’t at least send one of us a letter? We were his only friends for- for pretty much his whole life and he won’t even bother-“ She groaned in frustration, covering her eyes with her hands. “I’m tired of pulling whatever I can out of Gobber.” She grumbled.

 

Thuggory stared out at the sea and rubbed his fingers together, thinking. After a long moment he responded. 

 

“He doesn’t want us to know.” Thuggory said simply, because that was the crux of it, really. “He wants his privacy. He doesn’t know how much he can trust us. Gobber was his mentor… a father figure. It makes sense that Hiccup would write to him, not us.”

 

Camicazi threw herself backwards to lay in the grass. She let out an exaggerated huff. “Doesn’t know how much he can trust us,” She huffed. “As if we would ever turn our backs on him.” Her voice trailed off.

 

Thuggory hummed. “Perhaps he doesn’t know that. Maybe we should have made it more clear, back then.”

 

“He was our fourth, how much more clear could it get?” Camicazi snapped in retort.

 

She closed her eyes, soaking the warmth of the sun. Hiccups’ face flashed in her mind, his signature lopsided grin smattered with freckles- his emerald eyes glowing with that Hiccupy intelligence. 

 

She remembered being on this hill with him before- many years ago. They had been messing around, kicking rocks off the edge and watching the sunrise. Hiccup had admired the axe Cami’s mother had given her for her birthday and rambled on and on about the metalwork, showing Camicazi sketches of his own creations in the forge. He had smiled so wide then- he had made Cami smile, too.

 

She took a breath and softened, “I just- I hope he’s happy, wherever he is.”

 

 

 

—∙∘ 𓍼ོ ∘∙—

 

 

 

Men were fluttering around the harbor, weaving in-between each other with rucksacks and barrels. Breads and ales were rolled onto ships. Metal clashed as extra weapons and iron were hauled below deck. Soldiers tucked their personal belongings deep in the barracks.

 

Dragons flapped in the sky above, helping load the ships below them. Several Nadders were dressed in ropes as they lowered large pallets to the top decks. Gronkles buzzed around, many carrying an assortment of boulders and rocks in their mouths. The occasional Monstrous Nightmare hung off the side of ships, helping haul in large fishing catches.

 

“Tie those crates down! Careful with that mead, boys! We’ve only got so much!” A dark haired man shouted orders as he hopped over the railing of the ship he was on. He landed hard on the main deck of the Wingless-  the largest ship in their fleet. 

 

It was quite the sight. The ships sleek wood was stained a dark brown, almost black in appearance. A Monstrous Nightmare was carved into its helm. The flagship was as beautiful as it was fast and durable.

 

Across the way, the man saw a group of others struggling to knot a set of crates together and jogged over to help- he knelt and wrapped the rope with practiced ease, not even looking at his hands. He waved the men towards their next chore when he finished.

 

He peered over the edge of the ship and scanned the port as bodies blurred past him. People were practically swarming the docks. He frowned when he didn’t find what he was looking for. Dragons scales and colorful cloaks smeared his vision.

 

A brush of silver blocked his view.

 

“Eret.”

 

The man jumped, startled as he whipped his head around. A familiar woman stood behind him, black hair spilling across her shoulder, green eyes staring him down. 

 

“Er- Heather,” He nodded, acknowledging her presence. 

 

The woman stood with her arms crossed, eyebrows pinched in displeasure. “Is he here yet?” She asked, voice hardened, agitated.

 

Eret stood up, shaking his head and brushing off his hands. “No, no. I haven’t seen him.”

 

The woman sighed, looking around. By the way she shuffled on her feet, she was clearly tense. “He rouses everyone at dawn, starts dishing orders, then disappears. Go figure.” She said, her lip curling.

 

Eret let out a nervous laugh, clapping his hands together. “Hah, you know our chief, always a- er-”

 

He cuts himself off when Heather pinned him with a nasty glare. Eret quickly backtracked, putting on a shaky smile, not eager to piss this woman off further by saying something stupid.

 

Heather scoffed at his meekness, rubbing at her eyes. “This whole thing is ridiculous. He can’t be serious about this.”

 

“I am very serious about this.”

 

It was Heathers turn to jump as a deep, nasally voice sounded from behind her. Eret and her quickly turned to face the newcomer.

 

The chief stood as he usually did- dressed in his dark leathers, a scaled cape falling across his shoulders. He was about a foot taller than Heather and packed with lean muscle that his clothes hugged nicely. He had a sack thrown over his right shoulder, compressing parts of his wild, auburn hair. His jaw was square, clenched as he addressed the pair before him.

 

Eret gave him a respectful nod, reaching a hand out to take his bag. The other man handed it over gladly.

 

Heather, far less respectfully, tilted her head. “Finally decided to join us, your highness?” She mocked. “What exactly have you been up to while the rest of us have been busting our asses?”

 

Hiccup huffed . “Pissing off the Council and wreaking havoc, what else?”

 

Heather narrowed her eyes. Eret spoke up first.

 

“You were scouting this morning?” He questioned, his brow pinched in concern.

 

Hiccup nodded, placing a hand on his hip. “Yes. I-“

 

“Alone?” Heather interrupted, flexing her fingers.

 

Hiccup looked away. “Technically, no.”

 

Heather crossed her arms tighter. “Technically?“

 

As if on cue, there was a low growl from the deck above them. There was a streak of black as Toothless landed by Hiccups side, his tail curling possessively around the man.

 

The chief raised a hand to scratch behind the dragons ear, as if he was harmless as an alley cat.

 

Eret let out an amused sound. Heather gave Hiccup an unimpressed glare.

 

“I thought it was voted that no man was to scout by themselves- on dragon back or not.” She spoke sharply.

 

Hiccup shrugged. “Hence why the Council is pissed.”

 

Heather barely smirked. “And what did you learn on your little solo adventure, oh mighty one?” 

 

Eret clutched the bag in his grasp and stepped back from the two, starting to feel like he was very much intruding.

 

Hiccups eyes became sharper, more serious. “I needed to see the fleet for myself,” He waved off her sarcasm, starting to pace down the deck. Heather was in step immediately, following close behind the man. Eret was a few more paces away but also scrambled after the two. “They’ve changed course.”

 

Hiccup waved at the few men and women who nodded when they passed by. The sailors parted to give him and his seconds room to cross the ship.

 

“Changed course?” Heather asked, eyebrows rising. Eret leaned in, interested.

 

Hiccup nodded with a clenched jaw. “They’re heading North.”

 

Heather paused, stopping in her tracks. Eret too halted, frowning.

 

Hiccup came to a standstill at the edge of the Wingless, grasping the railing with white knuckles as he stared out to sea. He breathed out lowly.

 

“So, what’s the plan?” Heather asked after a long moment.

 

The chief sighed. “We rally our men, gather supplies and prepare the ships.”

 

“That much was obvious,” Eret replied, gesturing to the wild flurry of men throughout the harbor.

 

“Why the ships?” Heather started, “We can cut them off sooner with our dragons. They’ll be faster and more reliable-“

 

Hiccup held up a hand, effectively silencing her. “The Raider fleet is over a hundred strong, all traveling in a close pack. We could pick the edge ships off, but going after the mains would be too finicky. I don’t want anyone getting shot down over the sea. We have a better chance fighting on land.”

 

Heather pressed her lips together. Eret had a pinched look on his face. “We are still bringing dragons, though?” He asked. 

 

“We will hold them below deck, I want all our Changewing riders on board,” Hiccup said with a nod. “The Raiders will reach the Northern villages before we do. Our best approach is a… peaceful one. The Vikings there won’t take too kindly to our dragons.” Toothless crooned from the chiefs side.

 

Heather and Eret exchanged a knowing glance.

 

“Hiccup,” Heather said lowly, stepping forward and placing a hand on the mans shoulder. The two exchanged a serious look. “I don’t- you know I support you. Fully. I always do.” A beat of silence as the woman licked his lips. “But, you shouldn’t make a decision like this based on certain… biases.”

 

Hiccups nose pinched, he tilted his chin up. “This isn’t about me, Heather. It’s about these Raiders. They’ve been a problem for months, slowly encroaching on territory that doesn’t belong to them. We’ve spent too long watching and not enough time doing.”

 

Heather looked at him sad, knowing. “You have never been one to stand aside.” She sighed, and took a step back.

 

Hiccup gave her a small, comforting smile. He pivoted on his heel to look over the bustling dockyard. Eret and Heather stood at his side as he observed the hastened pace of men and women all scurrying to fulfill their chiefs commands.

 

He looked up, where he could see the Wingless’ red banner being whipped around as dragons whizzed past. It was decorated with a black crest- the image of a Nightfury curled around itself.

 

Hiccup closed his eyes. His hand reached into his pocket. His fingers clutched a piece of crumpled parchment.

 

Soon. I’ll be there, soon.

 

 

—∙∘ 𓍼ོ ∘∙—

 

 

 

“Gustav! Ive woken you up three times! You’re going to be late!” A shrill female voice rang in his ear. The furs covering him were abruptly ripped off, leaving Gustav exposed to the chill morning air.

 

He nearly lost his balance as his sheets were torn away from underneath him. His body instinctively rolled to the side, which was not a good thing considering he slept on the top of a triple bunk bed with no railing.

 

He blinked open his eyes to see his mother staring up at him, balling up his blankets in her fists. Her teeth were bared and bushy eyebrows pinched.

 

There was a high pitch scream accompanying her. Gustav’s baby brother, Ivar, was strapped to his mother’s back, wailing like he always did. Gothi said that it was a colic cry, which now made it four out of the six Larson children that had had colic at some point in their lives.

 

It was rampant, and awful. The babe cried constantly for no reason- giving Gustav headaches and easily swaying him away from returning home during the day. Hell, he hardly wanted to return at night. Ivar whined and fussed so loudly that Gustav could hear him through the walls of their hall. The baby’s ear piercing squeals meant he spent most nights internally raging at his inability to fall asleep.

 

Gustav covered his ears, using his pillow to block out the onslaught of noise as his mother chewed him out. Her high-pitched snarls added to the cacophony of sound assaulting his ear drums.

 

“Gustav! Get up!”

 

He was a bit disoriented, sleep still clutching at the edges of his mind. He groaned, peeking out from under his pillow.

 

He quickly snapped out of his stupor as he saw natural light flooding the room. His eyes darted toward the ajar window. The sun had risen well past the horizon.

 

 Gustav jolted, slamming his head into the ceiling. He winced, grasping the back of his skull with his hands.

 

“That’s what you get for staying in so late!” His mother snapped at him. Gustav bared his teeth, giving her a frown.

 

His mother huffed, throwing his blankets onto the ground. “You can wash those once you get back. Go.” Her tone left no room for argument.

 

Gustav scrambled to the bottom of his bed as panic began to set in. He dashed for his chest- a small, wonky looking thing shoved into the corner, alongside several others- and quickly scoured its contents for anything viable to wear. He found a tunic with a ripped hole and a pair of too long pants that he quickly threw on. He rolled up the cuffs of his slacks so he wouldn’t trip over himself.

 

He ran down the stairs of there hall, falling over the last step and hitting the wall hard with his foot. He let out a small noise of pain, grabbing at his ankle with a hiss.

 

“Gustav!” This time the voice yelling at him was much louder, booming, almost.

 

Gustav instinctively ducked his head as his father’s ire was directed at him. “Morning, Dad.” He said quietly, sheepish.

 

Gustav’s father was a stalky man with dark, straight hair, done up in several traditional Viking braids. He grabbed his son by the scruff of his tunic, shoving the boy down the hallway.

 

Gustav nearly gasped as he landed on his, now bad, ankle. He straightened, doing his best not to limp.

 

“Your siblings have already gone out. You missed breakfast and cleanup. You can eat tonight in the Great Hall.” The older man said roughly, voice dripping with a gruff disappointment.

 

Gustav pulled his lips back, about to let out some form of protest. He quickly snapped his mouth shut when he saw his father’s expression. His brows were furrowed, arms crossed, and lip curled.

 

Gustav looked away, knowing that no argument of his was going to be heard. He didn’t feel like being manhandled out of the house for disobedience, today.

 

“What are you waiting for? Don’t you have training?” His father scoffed at his own words- as if even he knew Gustav was hopeless when it came to anything combat based.

 

Regardless, though, Chief Stoick had ordered all abled bodies to be up and running with the incoming threat to the island. That means all the teenagers were being intensely trained with weapons, including Gustav.

 

Astrid had given everyone a lecture last night, telling all the teens that they needed to show up at the arena not later than an hour past dawn. She had made it very clear that they were not to be late and if they were, then they were wasting her time.

 

Be there, or there will be consequences. 

 

The woman’s voice rang in her head. Gustav liked Astrid a lot. She beautiful and athletic and intelligent. She was also absolutely, breathtakingly terrifying (Not that that ever stopped Gustav from flirting with her before. He knew he didn’t really stand a chance, but neither did Snotlout and he always chased after her).

 

Astrid hated Gustav though- he knew she did. She was always either dismissive or immediately violent whenever he entered her vicinity, and that was on a normal day.

 

On a day like this? When he had already explicitly disobeyed her orders?

 

He gulped. She was going to be so, so mad at him. The thought had him out the door and sprinting across the village, internally panicking, repeating the same phrase in his head over and over. He ignored the sting of his ankle as he raced across Berk.

 

Astrid is going to kill me. 

 

 

—∙∘ 𓍼ོ ∘∙—

 

 

 

Gustav limped into the forge that afternoon.

 

“Ohhh, would you look who finally decided to show?” A familiar, jovial voice greeted him.

 

He scowled, rubbing his aching shoulders. He took off his helmet almost immediately, too overheated to keep it on his head. “Not today, Gobber.” He growled, plopping down on an empty stool. His face immediately flopped into his hands. Everything hurt.

 

“Ah, I take it training didn’t go so well?” Gobber laughed, clinking over to the boy. Gustav felt a massive wooden hand clap him on the shoulder.

 

Gustav groaned and shook his head. He rested his elbows on his knees as he looked up at the blacksmith. Gustav remained quiet, letting his exhausted features do the talking.

 

“Now, now, it can’t have been all bad.” Gobber said in that thick accent of his.

 

Gustav shook his head, disagreeing. “It was awful, Gobber.” He blinked hard, doing his best to keep the glassiness out of his eyes.

 

The smith, upon seeing the look on his apprentices face, immediately dropped his joking demeanor. His smile fell into something more serious. He moved to drag another stool over to Gustav, sitting down in front of him.

 

“Oh, well,” Gobber started, in a reassuring voice. He scooted his stool awkwardly forward. “It’s only yer first day! You still have the next couple weeks and I’m sure if you-“

 

“I don’t wanna go back!” Gustav wined, feeling bit like a petulant toddler. He almost even stomped his foot, before catching himself. “It was terrible! I’m terrible. I couldn’t even arrive on time, and when I did get there I got chewed out for being late and had to run like- like a trillion laps!” His voice was high pitched and squeaky as he complained.

 

Gobber frowned. Nodding as Gustav explained how his day had gone. He had something of a knowing glint in his eye.

 

“-and my ankle hurt and Astrid wouldn’t even look at me. I was there, floundering, everyone was laughing and she just- just-“ Gustav shoved his palms into his eye sockets. “I’ve never been so humiliated in my life.” The boy sniffed.

 

Gobber’s gut twisted in an uncomfortable way. His image of Astrid suddenly becoming a little less respectable. He straightened in his seat, looking down at Gustav.

 

He had never had to deal with this sort of thing with Hiccup, not really. He was sure Hiccup had felt all these emotions before- the embarrassment and shame and sadness, but the boy never expressed them as openly. He was more closed off- more reserved than Gustav. He had come to Gobber with disappointments or wishes, but never much more. He certainly never cried in front of the smith.

 

Gobber was finding he didn’t mind it, though.

 

He placed a real hand on Gustav’s bowed head, ruffling the boys messy black hair. It wasn’t as soft as Hiccups had been, it chunked together more and looked to be slightly tangled towards the back. Gobber would have to sort that out too, then. Make sure the boy had a comb and actually knew how to use it because Thor forbid that boys mother took care of him.

 

Gobber didn’t have anything against the Larsons- Gustav’s parents. They were a busy bunch with six kids and counting. It was no wonder Gustav so often got pushed to the side or blatantly ignored. He was the oldest and thus, theoretically, should require the least supervision. That didn’t excuse just how often Gustav was left to his own devices, though.

 

Just like it shouldn’t have been an excuse for Hiccup.

 

“It’s alright lad,” he heard the boy sniffle again and felt heat rising in his chest. “It’s alright.” He repeated, solemnly. 

 

They stayed like that for a few minutes. Gustav hiccuped and wiped his face, all while keeping his eyes pinned on the ground. The boy did his best to hide his face and pretend he wasn’t crying. Gobber sat there, a knowing, comforting presence. 

 

He knew that any other viking would have smacked the boy upside the head and told him to get over it- that there was work to be done for the both of them and he shouldn’t waste time on something as trivial as tears.

 

Gobber had done that before. Many times. He had told Hiccup when he was being dramatic or doing too much. He did his best to reign the boy in and keep him focused, keep him aligned with Stoick’s wishes. Back then, Gobber thought he was doing the right thing by smothering the boys sadness. He thought that if his hands and mind were busy he wouldn’t even notice how, well, different he was from the others.

 

He thought he could distract Hiccup from reality- teach him to ignore the whispers and gossip and insults that always seemed to be thrusted his way. He thought the boy would be better off for it.

 

It didn’t matter, in the end. Hiccup couldn’t ignore the Council’s desire to replace him. The same way he couldn’t ignore the disappointment that always lined his father’s face.

 

Gobber regrets it. He should have never tried to alienate the boy from his emotions. Hiccup was a sweet, sensitive child and Gobber was just trying to help him fit in. 

 

Now, when Gobber reads the short, uninspired letters that arrive sporadically, he feels the guilt weigh heavy.

 

Gobber didn’t know is that was him, though. The detachment of the letters could have been his fault, possibly. Maybe he had tried to hard to push everything that made Hiccup, Hiccup, under. Maybe it was buried too deep for the boy to find now.

 

Then he remembers their last moments together- how Hiccup had almost burst with emotion. He remembered how the boy’s eyes highlighted the agony and frustration and betrayal he must have felt.

 

Gobber prayed he felt none of that now. He hoped the boy had found his own path and his own joys. He hoped he hadn’t forgone feelings completely. He really, really hoped the letters were just a mask- an attempt to hide something authentic from Gobber.

 

Gobber sat patiently. He let Gustav get it all out. He was an expressive boy, in a way Hiccup never had been, but Gobber couldn’t help but think that was a good thing.

 

He would take the dejection and sorrow and resentment over nothing any day. Even if it was pointless pain.

 

 

 

—∙∘ 𓍼ོ ∘∙—

 

 

 

“That should hold well enough,” Gobber said, gently sliding Gustav’s ankle back to the ground.

 

It was red and swollen and stung every time Gustav put weight on it, but Gobber said it was just a sprain. He bet the blacksmith felt more like a medic right about now- with all the times he’s had to patch Gustav up these past few months.

 

“Now, I’m no Gothi, but it should right itself in the next few weeks,” the old blacksmith said, lumbering to his feet. “I’ll let Astrid know you need to be takin’ it easy.” The man said it resolutely, leaving no room for argument.

 

Gustav frowned. He was already behind the others, this would only push him further back. Not to mention that it was slightly embarrassing that Gobber was taking it upon himself to inform Astrid of his injury (not that Gustav would want to, but still).

 

“Hurry up, now,” Gobber said, arching his back as he stretched after such a long period of sitting. “We already have work overdue, no need to prolong it.” The blacksmith chirped, meandering across the forge to collect whatever project he needed to finish.

 

Gustav rolled his eyes and did his best to stand. He hobbled across the forge to a side bench where ‘his’ tools and belongings were usually kept. He scanned the area, face pinching when he didn’t find what he was looking for.

 

“Gobber,” he started, swiveling his head. 

 

“Eh?” The old smith responded, not taking his eyes off his own work.

 

“Do you know where my apron is?”

 

“It should be, uh,” Gobber turned his head towards Gustav, looking the bench over himself. “Er, well, would you look at that.” He commented to himself.

 

Gustav bulged his eyes at the man, silently asking him what to do. 

 

Gobber turned away. “Go ahead and get one from the back room.”

 

Gustav paused and blinked a few times. He glanced towards the back room- to the door that he had never been allowed to touch before.

 

“…the back room?” Gustav repeated, a bit dumbfounded.

 

Gobber huffed, waving the boy off, his back still turned. “I ain’t senile yet, boy. You heard me.” He said jokingly. “Go on, I do need those extra hands today.”

 

Gustav stared at the back of the mans head. He had never- not once- been allowed in the back room. It was Hiccup’s room- not that he was ever explicitly told that, but it was implied. Everyone knew it. Gustav wasn’t that stupid.

 

Gustav shuffled slowly, quietly. He tried to keep his footsteps as hushed as possible. He kept glancing back at Gobber, expecting the man to change his mind at any moment and whip around to scare Gustav away from his sacred corner.

 

He didn’t.

 

Gustav reached the door to the back workshop and carefully turned the handle. The old wood creaked open.

 

Now, Gustav had no idea what to expect. He had never so much as glimpsed behind this door before. Gobber protected it with his life- acted like it was a century old secret that he had been tasked to guard.

 

Gustav had always imagined there would be something especially impressive or important inside. Maybe some crazy halfway built invention or an ancient book that Ylva would die to get her hands on.

 

Disappointingly, there was nothing of the sort.

 

It was dark in the little room. There wasn’t much space to move around in. The most defining feature in the small workshop was the large desk pushed against one of the walls. There was a stool floating around, and various knick backs lined the shelves of a dusty bookcase.

 

The tension flooded out of Gustav’s shoulders.

 

There wasn’t anything remarkable about this room. Nothing for him to worry about.

 

Gustav spotted the extra apron Gobber had been referring to. It was hung across the room and looked to be covered in a sheen of soot, just like everything else in the forge.

 

He stepped into the room, careful to leave the door cracked open behind him. He walked through, swiveling his head around to take in all the details of the sacred space.

 

It was brown and dirty and dull. Still, Gustav had enough of a brain to understand that Gobber cared about this room because of someone, not something. It wasn’t supposed to be anything miraculous, but it was important regardless.

 

Gustav stopped short in front of the worn desk. He tilted his head as he stared at the space above- it was absolutely plastered in parchment.

 

Sketches on sketches of everything you could think of- animals, people, weapons. Gustav couldn’t even wrap his head around some of the things he was looking at. The rough sketches and scribbled runes didn’t paint a very clear picture. Some looked to be strange contraptions. All were seemingly designed for combat.

 

Gustav leaned in. Squinting his eyes to get a better look at the papers. They were all aged, worn and curling in at the edges.

 

Gustav, admittedly, didn’t know much about Hiccup. He was the chiefs son, he had apprenticed under Gobber before him, and he used to get into trouble a lot. That was kind of it, though.

 

He didn’t know the boy had such an active mind. Just how much time did he spend back here? Did he just spend all his time in the forge? How much time did he spend with Gobber?

 

Gustav frowned, perhaps starting to feel a bit sorry for his mentor. Hiccup had clearly had passion- and at least some talent- for this kind of thing. It must have been a rough switch for Gobber, going from an apprentice with such enthusiasm and skill to, well, Gustsav.

 

The boy pressed his lips together and shook his head, realizing he was probably getting a little too distracted. He tore his eyes away from the sketches and pressed forward, crossing the room so he could grab the apron off of its hook.

 

Only- he never made it to the apron. His bad foot caught across a loose floor plank, sending him stumbling directly into the old bookcase.

 

Gustav grasped at the edge of the bookcase, trying to hold himself up from collapsing completely. His ankle sung with pain, the sudden pressure shooting fire up his leg.

 

The bookcase shook roughly under his grip, wobbling back and forth a bit. The force of the rocking sent several objects clattering off the shelves and to the ground with audible thuds.

 

Gustav flinched when something heavy landed on his head. The book, after smacking the top of his skull, fell with little grace to the floor 

 

“Ow..” The boy mumbled to himself, once eye pinching as he rubbed the back of his head. He pushed off the bookshelf he was previously holding onto, doing his best to right himself.

 

He pinched his eyebrows as he glanced at the floor around. Him, panic silently rising in his chest. He expected Gobber to come running at the loud noise, but after listening for a moment could hear the hammer of metal from outside. Gobber was busy, then. He didn’t hear Gustav’s blunder over the sounds of the smithy.

 

Gustav bent down, quickly doing his best to gather the fallen objects.  He didn’t know where anything actually went, but he could make a guess based on where rings of dust were missing on the top of shelves. 

 

He threw everything back as fast as he could, doing his best to move quickly and not raise suspicion. He was only supposed to be grabbing an apron, after all.

 

Gustav got almost everything back on the shelf. He crouched, grabbing for the last object on the ground- the book that had assaulted him. It had fallen open in the clamor, showing off its yellowed pages. It was half trapped under the bookcase.

 

Gustav grasped at the edge, pulling it out from where it had fallen. He was just going to close the book and put it back, but stopped himself, his eyes staring at the page.

 

It wasn’t an actual book- it was a sketchbook. The page he was staring at was the drawing of a large, dark dragon. This wouldn’t be unusual except that it wasn’t any species Gustav recognized.

 

Gustav squinted his eyes, raising the book closer to his face.

 

The dragon was drawn lying across a large rock, basking in the sun. Its scales were shaded in and it had a crown of tendrils that made it look sleek and dangerous.

 

Gustav turned the page back, searching for some kind of runes to explain what exactly he was looking at.

 

There was no writing on that page. Just another sketch of the mysterious dragon.

 

 He turned a few more pages back to much of the same. He stopped when he found something new.

 

Deadly Nadder.

 

The name was accompanied by bullet points upon bullet points of notes, along with a small drawing of the dragon. Gustav skimmed the sentences. His eyes widened.

 

-when scratched will be rendered docile.

 

-favorite food is chicken.

 

-also seems to be afraid of eels (?)

 

Gustav leaned in closer, as if he was reading the runes wrong and just needed a better look. He didn’t- what he was reading couldn’t be correct. It was all small facts and approach tactics. None of this was in the Book of Dragons. He glanced to the side, looking at the sketches pinned to the wall.

 

He analyzed the pieces of parchment for a second and finally noticed- there were gaps missing. Wooden boards were visible in odd places. It looked like some papers had been removed randomly, leaving blank spaces in their absence. There were empty puncture holes in some of the papers- giving away how others had previously been stacked on top, but were gone now.

 

He swiveled his attention back to his book. He flipped to the inside cover of the book, staring at the initials he saw there.

 

HHH

 

Gustav snapped the book shut and stared at the wall, blankly. His mind was reeling.

 

Was this what you spent your days learning about? Dragons? Did Gobber know?

 

Gustav held the book in one hand and grabbed Hiccup’s apron with the other. He rubbed the fabric between his fingers. He glanced behind his shoulder and strained his ears.

 

He heard the faint sound of whistling as Gobber worked away.

 

Gustav pressed his lips together, unsure. He clutched the book in his hand and ever so slowly tucked it into his tunic.

 

He would have time to unpack all this, later. 

 

Gustav turned out of the dusty old room, closing the workshop door behind him. He straightened his back and pretended that nothing was amiss. Nevertheless, his mind still swarmed with thoughts.

 

Hiccup, who were you, really?

 

 

 

—∙∘ 𓍼ོ ∘∙—

 

 

 

Stoick stared down at the maps beneath his palms, eyebrows pinching together. Mini, wooden figurines were spread across the paper- showing the placements of ships and people. He sighed, knowing that war planning was going no better now than it was three hours ago. Standing here staring at it certainly wasn’t helping. 

 

He had met with the other chieftains just this morning and little to no progress was made. Dagur, for whatever insane reason, refused to reveal exactly how many ships were in his fleet. Thuggory was respectful, but had very little to offer in the way of warfare and the Bog Burglars were downright unhappy to be there, making sure their displeasure was known.

 

It was a very unproductive day. If Stoick knew how poorly the meeting would have gone, he would have been out and about, preparing his people. Instead he had wasted away, surrounded by hostility. His allies were barely that.

 

Stoick rubbed his eyes and huffed, deciding to give the maps one last look over before calling it a night and moving on to the next important task. He started in the south and began moving his way up. Perhaps if they could-

 

The door to his hall swung open, rather ungently. It slammed against the wall and created a reverberating rattle that made the Chief snarl.

 

He curled his lip and whipped around, galling down the intruder.

 

Snotlout stood, sheepishly in the doorway. His eyes were a bit wide, with surprise, shocked as if the door had slammed open on its own.

 

“Can I help you, Snotlout?” Stoick asked, straightening his posture. He couldn’t keep the irritation out of his voice. He was already in a bad enough mood.

 

Snotlout withered almost immediately, seemingly ready to run. He cleared his voice anyway, trying to sound authoritative. “I need to talk to you,” he said, a tad shakily. Stoick glared. “Uh, sir.”

 

Stoick grumbled and let out a breath from deep in his throat. “Get on with it, then.” He said, turning his attention back to his maps.

 

Snotlout was silent for several moments. Stoick silently wondered if the boy had to work up the courage to speak.

 

“It’s, uhm, about the other chieftains… sir.” Snotlout began.

 

“What about them?” Stoick asked plainly, ready to dismiss Snotlout the moment something uninformative came out of his mouth.

 

There was another beat of silence. Stoick could hear Snotlouts feet shifting. He rolled his eyes. “What do you need, Snotlout?”

 

Snotlout opened chewed the inside of his cheek as he spoke. “The other heirs, they- they don’t respect me.” His hands were folded behind his back.

 

Stoick turned his head, face blank. He stared at the young man, dumbfounded. The chief shook his head and ran a hand down his face, exasperated.

 

“Well, you haven’t done much to earn their respect, have you?” The chief retorted unhappily. This wasn’t his problem and he didn’t have the energy to deal with it. The boy needs to solve his own issues. 

 

Snotlout narrowed his eyes. “I-“

 

“Is this all you’re here to do, Snotlout? Complain?” The chief turned around, crossing his arms to address the young man. Snotlout’s face was contorted into an embarrassed frown. “I have better things to do than listen to you whine. The only thing you have ever done to deserve your title was be my brother’s son. You know it, and so do the other heirs.”

 

The young man opened his mouth to speak, but Stoick didn’t let him, taking a step forward. His words spilled out before he could think.

 

“Perhaps if you were anywhere near their level of maturity or intelligence, they would treat you as more of an equal, but instead of stepping up to you’re role, all you want to do is show off.” The chief was growling now, the weight and stress of the past few days billowing out, almost like a ship finally sinking after taking on to much water.

 

“Grow up, Snotlout. I’m tired of you coming to me crying about all your problems. I never had this issue with Hiccup.”

 

Snotlout blinked up at him, his face turning red. The boy made eye contact and broke it almost immediately, looking down at his feet instead. Stoick could feel the disappointment rise in his chest.

 

He knew how humiliating this moment must be for the lad. He had never gotten along particularly well with Hiccup. Stoick knew that, much like the rest of village, he looked down on the chief’s son. To be compared with someone he thought inferior was probably a slap in the face (not that he ever should have thought about Hiccup as inferior in the first place- the boy had his accidents sure, but he was still Stoicks son).

 

Stoick knew Snotlout needed this- a little humbling. The boy had been running wild, doing whatever he pleased, for too long. He wasn’t taking his duties as seriously as he needed to, and now he was beginning to reap the consequences of doing so. 

 

Snotlout floundered in front of him, moving his hands at his sides as if searching for something to say.

 

“I think it’s time for you to leave, Snotlout.” The chief commanded, leaving no room for argument.

 

Snotlout, filling to come up with a dignified response, simply nodded, dashing out the door like a dog with his tail between its legs.

 

Stoick closed the door behind him, letting out a frustrated groan as he slammed his forehead onto the wall.

 

Why couldn’t Snotout be mature for once? Why did he always have to act like a child? Stoick shouldn’t have to be ordering the boy around constantly like he was. He was a young man, and should act like. He didn’t understand why- why- 

 

I never had this issue with Hiccup.

 

Stoicks eyes darted up the staircase and lingered there. He stared at the door to his son’s bedroom. It had been a while since he had been up there.

 

Stoick turned, about to go back to his maps and charts and the massive headache that was this entire damn situation.

 

He glanced back up at the stairs.

 

…maybe just a few minutes.

 

He lumbered up the flight of steps and paused outside the room before letting himself in.

 

It was bright- the windows allowed plenty of light to filter in. The bed was neatly made. The desk was clear, the drawers empty- Stoick knew that personally. He had come up here, searching for answers years ago. Hiccup had left nothing for him to find, though.

 

Stoick breathed out as he looked over the empty room. A weight settled in his chest, the same one that always appeared whenever Hiccup came to mind.

 

The chief slowly walked to the side of the bed, sitting down with a grunt. The wood creaked beneath him.

 

He glanced around, taking his surroundings. It hadn’t changed a bit. Not in the years since Hiccups leaving. 

 

Being in here always brought back memories of the boy. At times, when SToick was feeling particularly lonely or frustrated, hw would sit in here just to reminisce. He thought about when Hiccup was a boy and they would go fishing together. Or how he taught his son to play Maces and Talons. Or how he used to sit on Stoicks leg- the wee thing he was- and Stoick would recite stories from long ago, much to his sons amazement.

 

But all that was, well, it was over a decade ago. Whenever he thought about Hiccup right before he left, he couldn’t seem to find anything… good to think about.

 

He remembered Hiccups mistakes and accidents. He remembered his small stature and inability to do anything but get into trouble. He remembered the dismay that would seep in whenever he saw the boy curled up in the corner of the Great Hall, eating alone. Not sorrow for his son’s situation, but disappointment at his lack of charisma and social skills. The hoping that the boy would fit in a bit better.

 

Stoick never meant to harm the boy. Hiccup was different from the others and Stoick was very busy as chief and that combination just made it… hard. 

 

When Stoick looked back, he could see that their relationship was strained at best, especially towards the end. Stoick tried to be there for the boy, but Hiccup was always wandering off to cause even more fires for his father to put out.

 

It was exhausting. Stoick was exhausted. The Council would ring in his ear, day in and day out, pointing out every flaw in his son. It was always that Hiccup was too weak, or too small, too antisocial and hazardous, that putting him on Berks throne was too much of a risk.

 

Stoick tried to fight it, at first. Hiccup was his only son, the chiefdom was his by birthright. He held off the Council for as long as possible until he just couldn’t anymore.

 

He was doing what he thought was best for his people, just like he always did. And Hiccup was not what was best. Berk would need a strong, capable leader in the future.

 

He closed his eyes.

 

I didn’t want you to leave.

 

He repeated the thought to himself, over and over. 

 

 I was just doing what I thought was right.

 

 

—∙∘ 𓍼ོ ∘∙—

 

 

 

Stoick was sitting on his wooden chair, spoking the large fire in front of him. It had turned dark a few hours ago, and was well past the appropriate time to sleep. He couldn’t bring himself to go to bed, though. He was still up- waiting.

 

His eyes were getting droopy. He yawned and rested his jaw on his fist. The fire was beginning to die out as he dozed off.

 

The door creaked open, near silently. Soft feet padded in.

 

Stoick would have missed the boy entering if the stairs weren’t as obnoxiously creaky as they were. He jolted up as there was a loud squeak, followed by complete silence.

 

The man stumbled out of his chair, rising to his feet in fatigue.

 

“Hiccup,” he said quietly, turning to face the boy who was halfway up the staircase. Stoick rubbed the tiredness out of his expression. Hiccups eyes were locked onto the floor below him as his father said his name.

 

“Sorry,” the boy mumbled. “I thought you would be in bed by now.”

 

Stoick opened his mouth and closed it. “I was waiting for you,” he let out a low chuckle, nervous. “Started to get a little worried you weren’t coming back.” He joked.

 

Hiccup shrugged, saying nothing. He still wouldn’t look at the chief.

 

Stoick’s chest twisted. “Hiccup,” he started, taking a hesitant step forward. His mouth was open a long time before he spoke. “Today, with the Council-“ Oh, gods. How was Stoick supposed to start this? “It wasn’t personal. Some of the older folk just think that- Berk needs someone more, well, viking-like to take over the chiefdom- not that you’re not a viking, of course. You’re just a tad small for your age and your accidents, ah,” the chief floundered for words. He had spent the better part of the afternoon rehearsing this moment in his head, yet he was still saying the wrong damn thing. “You’re just, well, not the best fighter, and a bit clumsy- which is fine- it’s just, ah- you’re just… you, Hiccup.”

 

That’s not what he meant to say.

 

The boys shoulders sagged a bit more, if they could even get lower. His eyes remained averted.

 

Why did he say that? He didn’t mean it to come out that way. He just meant that-

 

“I get it, Dad. You don’t need to explain”

 

Gods, how did Stoick not hear the pain in that voice before?

 

“Oh, well, good. I’m glad.” The chief nodded to himself in false bravado. There was a long gap of silence that Stoick desperately tried to fill. “You’re still Gobber’s apprentice. He’ll probably take you on in the forge more often now. You’ll get to train to be a master blacksmith. You always, uhm, liked that better anyway, right? With all that tinkering and sketching you do?”

 

There was a pause.

 

“Sure, Dad.” His boy responded quietly. His voice raw and cracked.

 

Oh, Hiccup. How could he have not seen this before?

 

Stoick inclined his head a few more times, rubbing his hands together. He glanced away. “Good, then- good talk. Well, good night, get some rest. You’re gonna need it, uh, big day- in the forge- tomorrow.” His sentences came out choppy, false confidence underlying every syllable.

 

Hiccup agreed mutely. “Night.” He whispered, before scampering up the rest of the stairs, not bothering to look back at his father. He vanished into his bedroom with a small click as the door shut.

 

Stoick watched his son disappear and rolled his shoulders back, running a hand through his hair.

 

Stoick went to bed that night, feeling satisfied with the outcome of his decision. He slept soundly in his room, confident in the future of Berk.

 

What was he thinking? How could he have been such a fool? 

 

He laid in his furs, staring at the ceiling, pressing his hands together.

 

He pretended the muffled wailing from upstairs was just the wind.

 

 

 

—∙∘ 𓍼ོ ∘∙—

 

 

 

The chief bolted upwards as a loud banging woke him from his sleep.

 

There were shouts from outside- someone was slamming their fists rampantly against his door. 

 

Stoick spared a glance out the window as he stumbled out of bed. The sky was a dark blue, but lightening to a brighter azure. It was just before sunrise, then.

 

The chief shrugged on his coat and belt, all the while staggering to the front of his hall. He grabbed the axe lying by the entryway as he swung open the front door, ready to meet whatever intruder was waking him up during the night.

 

He gripped the hilt of his weapon tightly to prevent it from swinging as he stared down the man in front of him.

 

“Mulch!” He berated, eyebrows furrowing. He lowered his axe. “What in Thors’ name are you doing?”

 

The stout Viking man gave his chief a sheepish look, eyeing the axe in his grip. “Er- morning, chief.” He put his hook on Stoick’s blade, slowly lowering it out of his face.

 

Stoick glowered at the man, opening his mouth to speak, but was abruptly cut off.

 

“Ships! Ships on the horizon!” A higher, panicked voice chirped in. Bucket shoved his shorter companion out of the way, Mulch stumbling to the side.

 

Stoick’s eyes widened as Bucket gripped his shoulders, shaking the chieftain. The blonde vikings eyes were bursting with stress, the metal bucket on his head rattling with every movement.

 

“Ships?” Stoick asked Mulch seriously. He gently pushed Bucket away, gripping a hadn’t on the mans shoulder to keep him steady. He knew that Bucket wasn’t a reliable source on information- not since the accident that left him with more metal in his head than skull. The man had a tendency for theatrics, now.

 

“Ship.” Mulch replied, correcting. “We spotted it a few miles offshore about an hour ago, Bucket and I were bringing in a fresh catch of salmon and-“

 

“Scouts?” The chief asked, eyes narrowing dangerously.

 

Mulch shook his head. “No. It was a merchant vessel. Trader Johann is here.”

 

Notes:

So, it's here! I don't know if I love the way this chapter turned out, but I wanted to power through it so I could move on to more interesting parts in the story.

There's more on Gustav's home life and Hiccup.

I had originally plotted this story to be five chapters, however, when I looked back at my plan I got bored and decided to make it longer. So, hooray? It will still not be full novel length. Hopefully. Maybe.

We'll see :)

Chapter 3

 

“Johann!” Stoick shouted merrily as he marched down the dock. He couldn’t help the grin tugging at the edge of his lips, pulling his red mustache upwards. Finally, something good was happening. There was relief in the chiefs shoulders as he galloped toward the docked merchant chip.

 

“Stoick!” Johan greeted, just as happily. The limber man rubbed his hands together as the chief approached. He was huddled over a bit, trying to shield himself from the early morning cold. “If it isn’t my favorite chieftain! Come to ogle the old merchandise before the rest of town?” The man asked slyly, gesturing to the gangplank of his ship.

 

Stoick shook his head and raised an eyebrow. “You aren’t supposed to be here for another two months. What brings you to Berk so soon? Pushed off track again?” He asked with a hearty laugh.

 

Johann had a bad history of ending up exactly where he wasn’t supposed to. The man attracted trouble like a magnet. Just last summer he had wound up stranded after his boat was sucked up in Breakneck Bog. And the spring before that he had gotten stuck on Outcast island after his ship came away with too many barnacles to sail properly. That was only after earlier in the fall when he had been attacked by a squad of Scauldrons and steered so far west that he nearly sailed off the edge of the world (or so he claimed).

 

Johann blinked at the man for a moment before laughing. “Why yes! Those Thor bleeding Scauldrons know how to keep my ship at bay. It really is quite a fascinating story, you see, I was traveling down the coast of-“

 

“Yes, yes, Johann. You can tell me all about it in the Great Hall later,” the chief cut the merchant off, raising his hand. Johann could go on and on for hours once he got started. “If we could do business first, please. Your ship will be swarming soon as the sun rises overhead. I won’t lie, you’ve come at a desperate time, Johann.” The chief started.

 

“Ah, well, it’s as my father always used to say ‘desperation is a merchants favorite barter’.” Johann rubbed his hands together. “I was expecting to be busy. I was further east and heard about the Thing- all of my best trading partners in one place- how could I pass such an opportunity up? Not to mention those nasty raiders pillaging up the coast… I was almost caught by them down south you know! It’s been harder avoiding them since, well- they’re very unpleasant people, I tell you. Soon as I saw they were on their way north, I knew I had to support my most valued customers.”

 

The chief nodded. “We’re glad to have you.” He said before peering around Johann, trying to get a look at the goods on the ship deck. There were many sealed barrels and crates, nothing particularly useful jumped out, though. “Tell me you have steel onboard? Preferably the sharp, well-lasting kind.”

 

Johann nodded eagerly. “Of course, of course! Anything for you, chief” Johann took a double glance around and leaned toward the man. “But, I actually have something that may peak your interest a little more, Stoick.”

 

The chief raised one eyebrow. “Oh? Well don’t be keeping secrets now, Johann. Feel free to share.”

 

“It’s best if I show you.” The trader nodded to himself. “Come. It’s been sitting in the brig for weeks and I’m quite eager to be rid of it.”

 

The chief rolled his shoulders back. “Lead the way then, Johann.”

 

The merchant scrambled onto the deck of his ship, glancing ever so often to ensure that Stoick was following him. The chief lumbered after the trader, scanning the ship deck for anything that he may purchase before word got out that Johann was here. There was one good thing about being chief, then: first dibs on trader wares.

 

Johann lead him towards the wooden hatch that led below deck, using a ring of clamoring skeleton keys to unlock the metal latch. The skinny man clamored down the dark steps, easily navigating the way on his own ship. There was faint light coming from farther down the hold, signaling that there were already lanterns lit somewhere downstairs.

 

The chief ducked his head as he stomped down the stairs, using a hand to ensure he didn’t bump his head on low ceilings. 

 

Johann’s ship was full of junk. The merchant led him through a pathway, carved out of the piles upon piles of the stuff that filled his hold. It appeared to be mostly useless nicknacks to Stoick, with a few jewels and other valuables thrown in. All natural light was blocked off, the portholes covered with various cargo.

 

They walked the length of the ship, Stoick following behind Johann. He carefully walked the narrowed pathways Johann had  carved through his wares. He had to turn sideways at some points to squeeze through without knocking anything over. It was all very precarious, and Stoick was sure he heard at least a few objects clattering to the ground.

 

The pathway widened at one point. The second it did, Johann side stepped out of the chiefs way, stopping in place.

 

Stoick also stopped, staring at the scene.

 

In front of him there was a large metal cage, tinted with an odd green color. It looked worn and old and completely out of place on Johann’s ship. It barely fit in the stuffed cargo hold, nearly scraping the ceiling.

 

What was more remarkable, however, was the being in the cage- a small Monstrous Nightmare. Judging by its size, it was clearly an adolescent of some sort. It was far too big to be a hatchling, but also too small to be considered full grown. 

 

The dragon was a dull purple in color, with splashings of orange and yellow across its body. The beast was curled up in the corner, a muzzle on its face- made of the same strange, green metal as the rest of the cage. It peered at Stoick with reptilian eyes.

 

The chief was speechless for a moment. “I didn’t know you traded in dragons, Johann.”

 

“Traditionally, I don’t.” The trader started, hands folded behind his back. “But I know you’ve been struggling with the lack of raids these past few years. Regardless, the children of Berk need to know how to defend against the beasts, so I figured I would bring one to you.”

 

Stoick nodded absentmindedly, taking a few steps closer to the cage, trying to get a better look. He stopped when the beast started growling. The chief narrowed his eyes, glaring at the monster.

 

“Where did you get it? Nobody in the archipelago has seen dragon raids in nearly half a decade.”

 

“South,” The trader stated simply. “Far south. Dangerous people live there, but it is plentiful in the beasts. They fly around without a care. I had some friends help me wrangle it, for a price, of course.”

 

“How much?” The chiefs questioned, picking up on Johann’s insinuation.

 

“Well now, Stoick, it was quite a hassle to get the thing here. Not to mention I had to feed it, and it wasn’t exactly the most obedient of-“

 

“How much?” Stoick asked again, voice cold.

 

The trader pondered for a moment, rubbing his chin. “A good merchant never reveals his pelf.” He smiled.

 

Stoick side-eyed the man, standing up straighter. “I’ll take it. Whatever the price. Berk needs it.” 

 

“Sold, then.” Johann grinned at him, he held out a hand for the chieftain to take.

 

Stoick looked down at the mans thin, wiry fingers and interlaced them with his own.

 

They shook.

 

 

 

—∙∘ 𓍼ོ ∘∙—

 

 

 

“How many time do I have to say it? Keep your hands away from the cage!” Astrid shouted, voice reverberating down the dock.

 

She was supervising the dragon transfer to the training ring- a seemingly simple task made infinitely more difficult when placed in the hands of men. There were far too many people on the docks than necessary. It seemed like every viking within a vei had heard and come to ‘volunteer’ for the task.

 

They were all trying to get an eyeful of one of the only sky dragons seen in the archipelago in over half a decade. Some had even come with their children, pointing out the beasts purple scales and sharp teeth. Men watched from all sides, even lining the decks on neighboring ships, observing and chatting as the beast was hauled from the bottom of Trader Johanns ship.

 

The dragon was secured in its cage. A harbor crane had been attached to the top of it with less care than Astrid would have liked. Some of these men were far too eager and too incompetent to be working this task.

 

Astrid cringed when one of the men reached the better half of his arm into the cage to loop chain around it. He was lucky the damn things was muzzled, but Astrid knew it was still dangerous, nonetheless. She yelled again in warning, but the men seemingly forgot her words. One grasped a corner of the steel cage, fingers dipping close to the dragons hide.

 

She could feel her face turning red, agitation falling in her gut. She was torn between gripping the end of her axe or facepalming. 

 

There was soft laughter from behind her. Flaming hair strutted into view. The Bog Burglar heir stood beside her, head tilted.

 

“Did you know that many of the women in the archipelago envy you?” Camicazi asked, hand on her hip, a smirk on her lips. “Many of my Bogs can’t help but admire your position but, for the life on me, I cannot imagine why.”

 

Astrid narrowed her eyes, nearly growling. “With authority comes quandary, especially in situations like this.” She clicked her tongue.

 

“I suppose,” Camicazi responded. 

 

Astrid ignored her, waving her hand in signal to the men on shore. Both women watched as the men dashed into position and the chains of the harbor crane began to churn, slowly lifting the cage off the ship deck.

 

The dragon spun around, panicked at the sudden movement. It couldn’t shoot fire with its mouth chained shut, but its limbs went wild. It thrashed around, spinning in a raid circle. Its tail whipped out between the slots of the bars.

 

“Watch the tail!” Astrid shouted, stepping forward so the men could hear her better.

 

But as always, hearing and listening were two different things and while viking men heard well enough, their listening was often subpar at best.

 

Astrid watched helplessly as the monstrous nightmares tail swung backwards, hitting one the viking men in the chest and sending him flying off the edge of the ship. She flinched as she heard his body hit the water.

 

Camicazi laughed again. “Delicacy is no mans forte.”

 

“Hence why I will never marry.” Astrid grumbled, eyes glued to the dragons cage as it hovered above the docks.

 

Camicazi raised one eyebrow at the valkyrie. “Hence why Chief Stoick put you in charge.” She corrected.

 

Astrid turned her head, staring at the Bog Burglar for a moment.

 

“You ladies look like you could use some help.”

 

Both of their faces immediately soured. They both withheld their glares as Snotlout approached them, chest puffed out, as if he could intimidate them with his girth alone. The man barely reached past Astrids chin, the horns on his helmet having to make up for his short stature.

 

“Why don’t you let the men handle this one?” He said, as if his words were remotely impressive.

 

The two female warriors exchanged an annoyed glance.

 

Astrid opened her mouth, some sort of clever, insult about to slip off her tongue. Camicazi was faster, though.

 

“Of course, Snotlout.” She said sweetly, an emotionless smile on her face. “I’m sure Chief Stoick will be glad to see you helping. Why don’t you take this one? Us ladies will busy ourselves with something else.”

 

Snotlout passed for a moment, his grin faltering. He clearly wasn’t expecting them to hand over control so easily. Neither was Astrid. Her head whipped toward the Bog. She gave Camicazi the best ‘what the hell are you thinking?’ Look she could manage. The woman ignored her, though, just nodding to Snotlout.

 

Camicazi took Astrids arm in her own and began walking away, dragging the valkyrie with her.

 

Astrid glanced back briefly to stare at Snotlout, who was suddenly shifting on his feet, looking very unsure as he watched the dragon above thrash about. 

 

“I cant leave him in charge! The chief specifically instructed me-“

 

“The chiefs heir had dismissed you.” Camicazi said easily. “Whatever happens after this is no longer your problem.”

 

“It will be my problem when I’m tasked with cleaning up whatever mess Snotlout is about to make.” Astrid retorted, clearly unhappy. 

 

“What are you, his General or his mother?” Camicazi asked the woman, who immediately closed her mouth. “He may not fumble this one. Perhaps what those bone-headed men need is another testosterone filled fool to boss them around.”

 

Astrid snorted, shaking her head. “You are a very poor influence.”

 

“To men? Certainly. To you?” The Bog heirs’ lips curled. “I suppose we will find out.”

 

Astrid rolled her eyes and glanced sideways, spotting the same man from earlier- the one who had been swatted into the ocean. He sat on a barrel, completely soaked head to toe. He had now been hauled from the water and was wrapped in a large fur as he shivered from the cold. 

 

“I told you to watch its damned tail!” The valkyrie shouted over the crowd, grinning wickedly at the man. 

 

He bowed sheepishly as they passed by. Camicazi threw her head back and laughed. Astrid smiled.

 

Still, though. Unease settled in her stomach. She looked back to watch the dragon cage swing through the air. Not a lot of movement had been made, yet.

 

She looked further down, analyzing the men on the deck on Johanns ship. They were all staring upwards, enamored by the dragon above them. 

 

There was a set of movement out of the corner of her eye. The main doorway to the lower deck of Johann’s ship swung open. The merchant himself walked out, two figures close behind him.

 

Astrid paused for a moment, despite Camicazi’s dragging. She narrowed her eyes.

 

“Is there an issue?” Camicazi asked, frowning.

 

Astrid was still for a moment. She had ordered all of Johann’s buyers to be cleared out while they transported the Nightmare. Though, she guessed Johann was a man and thus, had equally poor listening skills. She made a mental note to scold the merchant later. 

 

 “No,” she stated. “No issue.” She turned her head back around. “What was it us ladies were going to busy ourselves with?”

 

 

 

—∙∘ 𓍼ོ ∘∙—

 

 

 

Gustav clumsily brought his hammer down, stone clashing with hot metal as he beat out the sword in his grip. Sweat beaded on his face as he did his best to focus, centering his swings to bend the iron like Gobber had shown him. No matter what angle he seemed to hit at, though, the sword bent awkwardly. Every swing seemingly made the issue worse, causing dents in opposite directions. It definitely wasn’t an even job. The thing hadn’t even cooled down completely and Gustav already knew it was hopeless. The iron near the swords hilt was too thinned, the top too thick.

 

He huffed to himself and wiped his forehead, frustration rising in his chest. The metals orange glow was rapidly fading, meaning he had run out of time to make adjustments. This was as good as it was going to get.

 

He dunked the sword into the bucket of water adjacent to his anvil, watching as bubbles rose and boiled off, causing steam to hit his face. He winced back as the water touched his skin, uncomfortably hot. He would never understand why Gobber liked this so much. The forge was terribly warm, especially once Gustav was wearing his thick leather gloves and long apron. Its was muggy, too, and almost always filled with awful scraping noises.

 

Gustav sighed as he brought his sword out of the water and admired his not so handy work. He frowned, running his finger from blade to hilt. He was right- the differing thickness was an obvious problem, only exacerbated by the hardening of the metal.

 

He groaned and threw the sword into a pile of extra scrap metal. He jammed the heels of his hand into his eyes, scowling to himself.

 

“Wow! Gobber really did get a replacement Hiccup!”

 

Gustav startled in his seat, whipping his head around with wide eyes. He immediately flinched back as the other mans face was only inches from his own. The viking was bent over with his hands on his hips. He smiled as the two made eye contact.

 

“You look just like him too! Even down to the green eyes,” the man said, a twinge of amusement in his voice. “Your hair is a little dark, though.” The man, thankfully, leaned back, putting his fingers on his chin.

 

Gustav blinked a few times, mouth pressed in a thin line as he processed who was standing in front of him. He had flaming red hair and face paint over one eye- resembling the shape of claw marks. A long, straight scar ran down the opposite side of his face. And- ah- there was a familiar crest scrawled onto his belt buckle.

 

Gustav swallowed. “Chief Dagur.” He nodded respectfully, praying this man would disappear as quickly as he came.

 

“Not such a great smith though, I see,” The man mumbled, more to himself than Gustav. The sword Gustav had just discarded was now somehow in the chieftains hands. He was analyzing it with great interest for all of three seconds before tossing it behind himself, obviously uncaring of where it may land.

 

Gustav winced as it crashed into a rack of tools, sending many of them falling to the floor with a loud clash. The chief didn’t even glance to see the damage he had done, just continued staring at Gustav, an uncanny grin on his face.

 

“So, how do you like working with good ol’ Gobber, huh? Hiccup always enjoyed being in here. I can see why…” The man trailed off as he got distracted, bounding over to the far wall to pick up a freshly sharpened mace, giving it a few practice swings.

 

“Uhm, that’s not…” Gustav’s didn’t finish his sentence. That weapon belonged to a Berkian man who had dropped it off for some basic maintenance. Dagur really shouldn’t have been touching it, but Gustav was far too frightened by the chieftains unhinged attitude to really say anything.

 

“Put it down, Dagur. That ain’t yours.”

 

Gustav’s shoulders slumped in relief as the familiar, baritone voice sounded from behind him. Gobber stepped into view, using his one real hand to snatch the weapon away from Dagur and return it to its rightful place.

 

Gustav expected the chieftain to look offended, or angry at the blacksmiths dismissive tone. He carefully stared at the Berkseker, watching his face to see what would happen next. He was waiting for a scowl, or a pinched brown or gritted teeth.

 

To his surprise, Daurs eyes lit up. The man threw his head back and laughed out loud. “Gobber!” He greeted the viking joyfully, lips curling further upward.

 

“I would appreciate it if you stopped harassin’ my apprentice. He’s got important work to do.” The smith said levelly, staring at Dagur with a neutral face.

 

The Berserker chief nodded rapidly in agreement. “Of course, of course,” He said hurriedly, stepping towards Gobber and slinging one arm around the taller man. “It was you I wanted to talk to anyway!”

 

Gobber raised one eyebrow. “Oh?” He asked, more cautious than curious. He leaned away from the mans touch.

 

“Yup!” Dagur said. “I had some questions about our dearly departed counterpart.” The deranged man glanced around, both eyebrows lifting. He craned his neck towards Gobber, speaking a bit quieter. “How is Hiccup? You are still writing him?” The chief asked, lips curling.

 

Gustav watched as Gobber froze up a bit. The blacksmith straightened his back, plucking Daggers arm off of his shoulder. He took a long moment to reply. 

 

“Stop talkin’ like he’s dead.” The smith said, irritated. “Yes. We write occasionally.” Gobber said with a small nod. 

 

Gustav glanced between the two, sensing Gobbers immediate discomfort. The boy curled in on himself, slowly untying his apron so he could escape out the back door, away from whatever interrogation this was about to become.

 

“What is my brother up to lately?” Dagur asked, a light tinge in his voice. “Last I heard-“

 

“Gustav.” Gobbers voice cut him off. Gustavs head snapped to attention. “Why don’t you leave early today? Go on and head out. You can use the extra time to catch up in training.”

 

Gustav nodded, not saying a word. He knew a dismissal when he heard one. It felt like he was being waved off frequently lately, especially by Gobber. The blacksmith didn’t usually keep secrets, but whenever Hiccups name was brought up, he always got tight lipped.

 

It caused a pang of something in Gustav’s chest. Jealousy, maybe. He thought that Gobber was being more open with him, pushing past the memory of his old apprentice. Gustav was transparent with Gobber, usually spurting out all his emotions and feelings in an overbearing, jumbled mess. The blacksmith didn’t return much of his own emotion, though, outside of the comforts he gave Gustav. A small part of Gustav couldn’t help but feel insecure whenever someone brought up Hiccup’s name.

 

 

He had seen Hiccup’s shop. Gustav knew that Hiccup was a far better apprentice than he could ever hope to be. He was just praying that nobody ever say it to his face, especially Gobber. He wasn’t sure how he would react if his mentor pointed out his sub par blacksmithing skills, especially in comparison to someone so obviously brilliant.

 

He knew that he had large shoes to fill and was barely even toeing the line of mediocrity. He didn’t need any one to highlight that fact for him, he knew it well enough on his own. 

 

Then again, Hiccup had secrets of his own. He must have, judging by the brief glimpses Gustav got of his journal. For whatever reason, nobody knew as much about dragons as he did, nor did anyone realize the boy was so well informed. Not even Gobber (A fact that brought Gustav some comfort- knowing that Gobber’s last apprentice was more of an ideal than a real person gave Gustav some feeling of retribution). At least Gustav wasn’t a blatant liar. He exaggerated things, yes, but he never told bold face lies. He wasn’t sure he was brave enough to.

 

Gustav brushed his ashy hands on his apron before removing it. He ignored whatever Dagger began rambling about, collecting his things bitterly as he exited the forge. He thought they were making progress. He though that being allowed in Hiccup’s workshop was a start, but apparently Gobber still didn’t trust him that much. 

 

He shot a bit of a glare over his shoulder, envy still running through him. He regretted it immediately when he saw Gobber staring at the ground with downturn eyes.

 

 

 

—∙∘ 𓍼ོ ∘∙—

 

 

 

Snotlout moped down the edge of town, staring at his feet while he walked. His arms were crossed as he kicked a stray rock down the path, watching it roll helplessly across the dirt. His arms were crossed, face contorted into a snarlish pout.

 

The path before him was empty. Good. It meant he didn’t have to hide his visible deflation.

 

He had tried to step up earlier- at the docks. He did his best to relieve Hofferson of her duties and take control of the dragon transfer himself. The men weren’t really listening to her anyway, obviously in need of direction from a real leader, not a lowborn girl.

 

He had been surprised when Astrid walked away, leaving the task to him. She usually couldn’t stand him. She would wave him off or ignore him or downright refuse to give him an ounce of power over various situations. She always claimed that Stoick put her in charge, as if that gave her leverage to do whatever she wanted.

 

Snotlout was Stoick’s heir. That made him automatically outrank her- regardless of what control the valkyrie thought she had, Snotlout was the one with real faculty. Snotlout’s chiefdom was imminent, meaning Stoick’s orders were temporary. She had no right to lord anything over him. He should have been satisfied that she walked away without a fight.

 

He wasn’t a child- not one of her little trainees- he was the future chief of Berk. He was a fully grown man and deserved to be respected. Astrid, though, never took him seriously. She would always just lash out at him. Aggressive and bold were synonymous with her character, even back when they were kids.

 

She had dismissed him for years- waved him off like he was nothing. Astrid always thought she was better than him just because she could throw an axe or dodge an arrow. She acted like she was above everyone else, when in reality she came from a disgraced family and had to painstakingly crawl her way into command. 

 

When she had refused Snotlout’s marriage proposal around a year back it wasn’t a complete shock, but was still a slap in the face. She should have been grateful to Snotlout for even extending such an offer. It was a ticket to the top for her, but she still refused.

 

It gave Snotlout comfort to know she had now reached the height of her prowess. She was a General and valkyrie, but that was as high as she could climb without a marriage pact.

 

Despite that, though, Astrid Hofferson refused to acknowledge Snotlout in any capacity. His status should have overshadowed her abilities, but it didn’t. The woman constantly gave him trouble, trying to dominate every affair the village faced.

 

He was genuinely surprised when she turned and left the Monstrous Nightmare to him. There was no bickering or sighing. She didn’t put up any sort of a fight, just let him take it.

 

For a moment, there was a flash of gratification. It quickly turned, however, as a heaviness curled in his gut. The yelling of the surrounding vikings caught up to him. The dragons screeching filled his ears. Steel clashed together and Snotlout quickly realized he had not control over the situation and- despite his best efforts- all his commands proved futile.

 

Ultimately, the dragon got to the kill ring. It was locked in one of the stone cells and trapped behind rusted hinges. Three men were injured and their harbor crane would need some new beams, but the task was completed. It got done, and that was all that mattered. 

 

Or at least that’s what Snotlout tried to convince himself as he zoned out, eyes focused on the dirt. His ego was throughly bruised for the time being.

 

And Snotlout did not- did not- jump when he felt an arm wrap around his shoulders and a shrill voice shout into his ear. 

 

“Snotface! I heard you captured a dragon!” Dagger’s words rang loud. Snotlout’s head whipped to the side to make eye contact with the Berserker.

 

“Uhh,” he started, unsure of how to address the chief and still slightly taken back. He cleared his voice. “There is a dragon- But I, uhm, I didn’t exactly capture it. Chief Stoick-“

 

“Bought it from Johann, I know,” Dagur groaned, as if already bored. “But that doesn’t make for a very good story, does it? Exaggerate the truth! Just a little bit! It’s way more fun.”

 

Snotlout passed for a moment. “But isn’t that just, er, lying?” He asked, unsure.

 

Dagur stared at him with a blank face far longer than Snotlout was comfortable with. He then burst into laughter. “Of course not! You were in charge of moving it anyway, which is practically half the battle!” The arm around Snotlout’s neck got a little tighter. It was starting to get hard to breathe. Snotlout’s hand came up to grab at the mans forearm, preparing to pry it off. “Sometimes us heirs just have to stretch our words. People don’t really notice the difference and, who knows, it may garner you some semblance of the attention you crave.”

 

Dagur slapped Snotlouts back, releasing his grip on the Berkian’s throat. Snotlout took a deep, shuddering breath in. Dagur was already walking ahead of him, back turned away. Snotlout glared at the man.

 

“Say, I was about to head into the woods, find something to hunt,” the Berserker chief said. He looked back at Snotlout, a careening grin on his mouth. “Care to join me?”

 

Snotlout pressed his lips together. His fingernails dug into his palms. He wanted to refuse- to walk away. He was internally screaming at himself, knowing that following this psycho anywhere came with a high risk of injury, or even death. He didn’t feel like being gutted, or drowned or mysteriously going missing.

 

But he was an heir, wasn’t he? There was no way Dagur would try something like that- not unless he wanted to risk war with Berk. Their tribes had been at peace with one another for generations, surely he wouldn’t throw all of that away?

 

Besides- he seemed amicable to Snotlout, compared to the other heirs, at least. He was the only one who really addressed him in line with his title. Dagur’s emotions, while admittedly inseam and unpredictable, seemed genuine enough. He was the only one of the heirs to try to create some sort of real bond with Snotlout since the Thing began. The way the chieftain treated Snotlout was similar to how he used to treat Hiccup, as far as Berk’s heir could tell.

 

This most likely wasn’t a scheme to murder Snotlout. It was just an invitation. A chance to build rapport with another important political figure.

 

Snotlout swallowed and slowly nodded his head. Dagur’s eyes lit up with glee. He bounced toward Snotlout and grabbed his arm, hauling the man with him as they raced toward the woods.

 

 

 

—∙∘ 𓍼ོ ∘∙—

 

 

 

Snotlout slouched, his chin resting in his hands as he sat on a large rock next to a stream. He let out a sigh, surprisingly bored.

 

Dagur was waist deep in the water several feel away, sporadically lunging and dunking the rest of his body as he tried to fish with his bare hands. His armor had been discarded to the side- splayed carelessly across the bank. He was only in his pants and a soaked undershirt that clung to his tanned skin and showed off layers of thick muscles.

 

Snotlout flexed his own bicep weakly, a twinge of jealousy shooting through him. He grumbled to himself. Dagur was taller than he was, it was easier for the other man to build muscle.

 

The chieftain had been at it for over an hour and had caught absolutely nothing, yet showed no sign of slowing down. Every time he made a failed grab he would emerge with the same grin and wide eyes, clearly enjoying his repeated failures. It was as if the man never fatigued.

 

“I’m not sure you’re going to catch anything, Dagur,” Snotlout tested, the words coming out uneasy.

 

The chieftain just laughed wildly. “Ah, pessimism. That’s your problem, Snotbrow! Fish can smell that!” Dagur flicked his dripping hair from his eyes. “You’ve gotta believe you’re going to catch something.” He glanced down and dived into the water again.

 

Snotlout groaned and rubbed at his eyes.

 

The chieftain emerged a moment later. This time, his hands emerged holding a squirming silver fish, its tail slapping wildly against his wrist. He held it triumphantly over his head. “See? Faith.” Then, without hesitation, he tossed it to the shore near Snotlout, where it landed with a wet slap and flopped around wildly.

 

Snotlout cringed and reluctantly used one hand to pin it down by the neck, to stop it from moving. He got a grip on the creatures slimy gills and held it up. “Hah. Okay. Got one. Ready to go?”

 

Dagur waded toward the bank and flopped onto the grass beside him, soaking wet but grinning. He ignored Snotlouts question

and laid back on the mossy bank, arms tucked behind his head. “You’ve been looking glum lately, Snot. Trouble in paradise?”

 

Snotlout rolled his eyes, but the weight in his chest stirred again. “Just... Chiefing. Nothing I can’t handle, really.”

 

“Ah.” Dagur shut one eye and squinted up at the canopy above them. “Stoick not showing you the ropes?”

 

Snotlout hesitated. “…Not really. He just doesn’t say much to me. Not much of talker, I guess. I ask him questions, and he’ll dismiss me or tell me off. He only lets me observe- tells me I’m ‘not ready’ for any real responsibility.” His voice twisted at the end, bitter and flat.

 

Dagur scoffed. “Typical. Big men like Stoick, they only know how to lead by doing everything themselves. Never teach the next in line until it’s too late. My old man was the same.”

 

Snotlout turned to look at him. “But you’re chief now.”

 

“Exactly,” Dagur said, teeth flashing. He sat up. “Because I took it. Stepped in. Seized the reins before he drove the tribe into the dirt.”

 

He made eye contact with Snotlout, voice low and coaxing. “Stoick’s stuck in the past- the glory days when he was a great dragon killing chieftain. He was a strong leader when the dragons were here, but the dragons aren’t around anymore, are they? He’s stuck mourning his son and pretening like Berk’s failures aren’t his fault.”

 

Snotlout paused. “You think if Hiccup was here, things would be different?”

 

Dagurs smile careened into something wider. He shrugged. “He coddled him. Only trained him behind closed doors. Probably taught him all the tricks you’re now clawing to learn. And for what? He’s gone. You’re here. You should be leading already.”

 

Snotlout’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. He didn’t know what to say.

 

Dagur leaned closer, voice almost a whisper. “Don’t wait for your moment to be handed to you. Take it. Demand it. That’s what a real chief does. That’s what I did. It’s what Hiccup would’ve done.”

 

He sat back with a satisfied hum, as if he hadn’t just carved something deep into Snotlout’s psyche.

Snotlout stared down at the fish in his hands. It was still twitching, fighting instinctively to live.

 

“Right,” he said quietly, more to himself than Dagur. “That’s what a chief does.”

 

 

 

—∙∘ 𓍼ོ ∘∙—

 

 

 

“-now that we have an actual dragon!”

 

“I want to kill a nightmare!”

 

“Do you think Astrid will actually let us use it in training?”

 

“Why wouldn’t she? That’s why the chief got it from Trader Johann-“

 

Gustav stood a pace back from the rest of the teens. He watched them, his axe dragging across the ground, limp in his grasp. He wanted nothing more than to go home. Or better yet, back to the forge. 

 

The other teens stood a few feet ahead of him, talking to each other with eagerness dripping from their voices. Gustav stood in the back, shoulders drooped as he stared at the ground. 

 

His mouth felt dry. He wanted to say something- to go and talk to them, but he had no idea how to naturally integrate himself into the conversation. Words coming to mind, but he dismissed them- knowing that if he started running his mouth it would just annoy the other teens. There wasn’t any room for him to push his way in, anyway. 

 

Maybe if he just stood back here- pretended he was zoned out, not paying any attention, it will look like he’s purposefully excluding himself. Like he could be part of the group is he wanted to, but just wasn’t feeling it.

 

Someone cleared her throat, effectively silencing the group of teens. Astrid stepped into Gustav’s peripheral vision. They all turned towards her attentively. Many of them shifted on their feet, eager.

 

She skimmed the group, left to right. Her eyes halted on Gustav standing at the end, a bit far from the others, out of place. He squirmed uncomfortably beneath her gaze, glancing at the floor nervously.

 

“I’m glad to see everyone is on time today,” she said sharply. Gustav could feel some of the teens turn their gaze onto him. There was a light round of snickering. He could feel his ears turn pink as he gripped his weapon tighter. He supposed Astrid still wasn’t over his accident earlier in the week, despite him fulfilling his punishment with minimal complaining. “This morning we will be doing basic combat drills. I want you all to-“

 

“Are we not training with the Nightmare?” Rurik interrupted, the large teens hand raised over his head in question. Solveig elbowed him in the gut, shoving him backwards, clearly agitated at his interference.

 

Astrids gaze sharpened. Her eyes narrowed as she crossed her arms, leaning into one hip.

 

Astrid’s voice cut through the air like a blade. “No. You’re not training with the Nightmare.” She paused, letting the disappointment ripple through them. Their grumbles seemed to light a spark of irritation in the valkyrie. “Not today. Not tomorrow. Not anytime soon.”

 

There were groans. Rurik opened his mouth again, but Astrid didn’t give him the chance to speak.

 

“We only have one dragon,” she snapped, stepping forward. “And none of you have proven you’re disciplined nor skilled enough to handle a living, fire-breathing creature. It has its own instincts and movements. There’s only so much the Book of Dragons can teach you. You want to fight a Nightmare? You’re going to die doing it.”

 

She pointed her axe to the center of the ring.

 

“Pairs. Now. Weapons only. No claws, no fire, and no dragons. Yet.”

 

Gustav’s stomach twisted. He frowned, glancing around. The others immediately scrambled to pair up, grabbing each other’s arms and forming their cliques like it was second nature. They automatically teamed up, subtle glances and nods automatically making signaling one another. Gustav took a hesitant step forward, just enough to be noticed—hoping, perhaps, someone would glance back and wave him over. 

 

“Gustav,” Astrid called, already turning back toward the edge of the ring. She had quickly picked up on his social distancing and the lack of attention he was getting from the others. “You’re with Thora.” She declared firmly.

 

Gustav cringed, embarrassed that Astrid had to assign him someone to spar with. Still, he supposed it was better than floundering around and begging anyone who made eye contact with him to be his partner. Besides, Thora wouldn’t be a terrible opponent. The girl was rather meek. She had some skill with a bow, but wasn’t very advanced with any other weapons. Gustav was klutzy and skinny. The two of them were probably a rather equal match.

 

He dragged his feet forward, feeling the weight of every footstep as he dragged his weapon with him. He swung his axe up, letting it rest on his shoulder as he got into something resembling a combat stance. Still, though, he felt weak on his feet- awkward and unnatural.

 

Thora walked across from him, a sword the length of her forearm clutched in her right hand. Her stance was much better than his, well studied and easily graceful.

 

Gustav let a long breath out o this nostrils, swallowing nervously. He couldn’t lose here- he couldn’t. Not to gentle, healing Ylva who spent more time reading than touching grass. His fingers tapped nervously against the worn leather handle of his axe.

 

Gustav glanced around the ring, watching all the other teens size one another up. Rurik and Brynjar were already fighting- swords clashing in strong, brutal blows. Gustav’s eyes flickered nervously around. 

 

In his peripherals, he caught a glimpse of a long shadow—a figure was leaning against the chained barrier of the ceiling.

 

He tilted his head to look further up. His breath caught.

 

His father. Arms crossed. Was watching.

 

Gustav’s fingers fumbled around the haft of his axe. He swallowed. It was fairly common for parents to show up when their children were training In the ring. He had seen Solveig’s mom several times- Rurik’s and Bynjar’s fathers had also appeared regularly. Ylva’s older brothers regularly came to cheer her on and Gothi usually came to observe all the teens, though her gaze often lingered on Thora. 

 

Gustrav forced himself to send his father a small, sheepish smile. His gut fluttered- but not in the excited, happy way, but the oh Thor everything is about to go wrong, way.

 

A part of Gustav wanted his parents to show up for him- to give him some words of encouragement. He would be lying if he said he never thought about them giving him advice and clapping him on the back. Now, though? Gustav wanted nothing more than for his father to turn away now. Perhaps he was over exaggerating and  it wouldn’t be so bad. His father new the extent of his sons capabilities, what would this show him that he didn’t already know? Maybe Gustav’s dad would see that he was trying. Maybe that counted for something.

 

Still, when Gustav looked at his father’s steely gaze, he couldn’t help but wish for him to be replaced. He imagined Gobber in the same position, offering an encouraging, toothy smile.

 

Gustav looked forward and breathed out shakily. Thora lunged.

 

Steel met steel in a jarring clash that rattled Gustav’s arms to the elbow. He stumbled back immediately, nearly tripping over his own feet as he blocked her follow-up strike too slow, too sloppily. She swept low, hooking his ankle with the flat of his axe blade, and he slammed down into the dirt with a grunt.

 

The world spun. His cheek stung. He blinked rapidly, disoriented.

 

From the ground, he turned his head just enough to catch the edge of the arena—and the figure that had been there moments before.

 

Gone.

 

Gustav’s lungs burned. Something twisted inside his chest—not anger, not yet. Just the old, familiar feeling of not enough.

Boots crunched in the dirt beside him. A second shadow fell over his face.

 

Astrid didn’t crouch. She didn’t offer a hand.

 

“Get on your feet, Gustav,” she said coldly. “Nobody gets better lying down.”

 

Gustav squeezed his eyes shut for a heartbeat, then pushed himself up, mouth tight, fists clenched.

 

One more time. Just one more time.

 

 

 

—∙∘ 𓍼ོ ∘∙—

 

 

 

“Bet that makes for a good view.” Eret said sarcastically, his speech slurred as he clapped the mug in his off hand. 

 

Hiccup ignored him, staring out into the sea with his telescope. Both men were on the upper deck of the ship, which was mostly void of crew. Night had already set in, swallowing the sky in a dark abyss. The ship and its fleet glowed a low orange due to the lanterns scattered across deck, but their surroundings were pitch black.

 

Eret leaned his back against the ship railing, propping his elbows up on the edges. His drink swing precariously over the edge. “Beautiful evening to be on the water. Too bad you can’t see shit this time of day.” He continued to speak, taking sips of his mead and watching his chief carefully as the man lowered his eye glass.

 

Hiccup looked at him for long moment, face carefully neutral. Green eyes glared at the cup in Eret’s hand. 

 

Eret tilted his head. “I would be more concerned if staring into nothing wasn’t such a routine for you. Alas, you seem to be drawn to peculiar habits.”

 

Hiccup looked away, tucking the scope into one of his pockets. “I’m just scanning the horizon.” He said, surprisingly gruff, clearly uninterested in the drunken mans ramblings.

 

Eret glanced out to the dark sea. It was near impossible to see anything more than a dozen meters out from the ship. He looked back to his chief. “Bullshit.” He slurred. “Only one whose seeing that far out it your damn night fury.” He took another long swig and glanced around. “..where is the night fury?”

 

“Downstairs in the holds. Some of the Changewings were getting restless.” Hiccup responded, swiveling his head. “Was there something we needed to discuss? Or is this all just the booze talking?” The chief asked slyly, resting his chin on his hand, resting his elbow next to Erets.

 

The man shrugged loosely. “‘Was gonna invite you to drink.” He said, “But here you are, sulking away. Never too late to turn ‘round, you know. You don’t owe those viking bastards anything.” Eret gestured forward with his mug.

 

Hiccup snorted. He placed a hand on the rim of Erets mug as the man tried to have another sip. The chief removed it from the mans hands and quickly raised it to his own lips.  Erets eyebrows drew together as he shot Hiccup a look of indignation. 

 

“I know.” Hiccup nodded after taking a long swig. The chief was quiet for a moment as he thumbed the handle of the drink. “I know I don’t owe them anything.” He looked out to the dark sea.

 

Eret stared at the brooding man. He squinted his drunken eyes. “The fuck we out here for then?!” He said in a high pitched voice, gesturing out to the sea in outrage.

 

Hiccup threw his head back and laughed. He gave the man his cup back and braced both hands on the railing. He looked down and shook his head. “I know I don’t owe them anything,” he repeated. There were a few moments of silence before he continued, where a frown developed on his face and his eyebrows pinched together, thoughtful.

 

“When I left Berk, I thought it would be easy. I knew there wasn’t much for me there. I didn’t have any friends, I barely had any family.” Hiccup stared solemnly downward. Eret lowered his cup, frowning. “I thought I could just walk away and never think about it again, but I couldn’t. It was hard to leave the people I cared about behind, even if I know they didn’t love me as  much as I loved them.”

 

Hiccup had a sad little smile on his face. Eret’s lips pulled further down, suddenly sobering up.

 

“In my head, I know I don’t have to go back. They don’t deserve anything from me, I know that,” Hiccups voice cracked a bit and he took a long breath to calm himself. “But my heart says differently. I don’t think I could ever forgive myself if I had the power to do something and chose not to. I stepped in with Drago and Grimmel- I should have stopped these raiders a long time ago, too.”

 

Eret stared at the man for a long moment before huffing. He swept his hair back and shook his head. “Taking care of the entire archipelago isn’t your responsibility.”  He started.

 

Hiccup opened his mouth to counter, but Eret cut him off, raising his unhindered hand. “It’s not. You’re one man. A chief who has his own people to look after and put first.”

 

Hiccup frowned. “You think I shouldn’t be doing this? Putting everyone in danger to help Berk?”

 

“Now, I didn’t say that.” Eret said, scoffing a bit. “Don’t put words in my mouth. There’s not a man on this ship who wouldn’t give his life for you, you know that.”

 

Even in the dark, Eret watched Hiccup’s ears go a little pink. The chief grumbled a bit under his breath. Eret couldn’t help but grin.

 

“You are our leader,” Eret continued.  “The one who dragged us all into the light, gave us freedom and a greater purpose. You represent all of us, speak for all of us. You are the embodiment of our passion and dreams. You are our happiness and sadness. Our-“

 

“Fury!”

 

Both mens head snapped to the side, the nickname quickly grasping their attention. Hiccup had already pushed off the railing and was halfway down to the lower deck by the time Eret processed what was happening. His slightly drunken feet quickly scrambled after the chief.

 

Hiccup had already intercepted the man calling his attention- one of the sailors on watch duty. Eret recognized him as one of the newer cabin boys. He was a younger man with mousy brown hair and rounded features. He stood tall as he addressed his chieftain, holding a spyglass in one hand.

 

“-closing in on the ship lights. At this pace, we’ll encroach on the raiders fleet by next dawn.”

 

Hiccup nodded. “Instruct a pull back of our ships- I don’t want them to know we’re on their tail. We make contact after they reach landfall, no sooner.”

 

The young sailor gave a structured nod and darted away, disappearing beneath deck to find his Captain.

 

Eret rested an elbow on Hiccup’s shoulder, looking at the man expectantly, a smirk on his face.

 

“What?” The chief asked, raising an eyebrow.

 

“Nothin’,” Eret said with a grin. “Just ready to watch this plan of yours unfold, Fury.”

 

Hiccup groaned. Eret raised his cup, offering up the last of his mead with a nod.

 

 

 

—∙∘ 𓍼ོ ∘∙—

 

 

 

Hiccup rummaged through one of the merchants chest. He skimmed various book titles as he did, sorting them into various piles. Most of them were copies of novels he already had, others were in different languages. Only a few actually seemed interesting to him. He stacked those ones to his right.

 

He rubbed at his cheek and immediately winced at the sting it caused. He knew the reddened mark would probably leave a nasty bruise. He internally cursed Snotlout and his friends, mentally trying to come up with some sort of excuse to tell Gobber when the smith inevitably asked about it.

 

“Find what you’re looking for, Master Hiccup?” A gentle voice said from behind him.

 

Hiccup didn’t turn around to answer. “Yeah, thanks, Johann.” The boy kept his eyes glued on the books in front of him. He took one out with a green, leather cover. He flipped to the first page, running his eyes over the table of contents.

 

“Always a curious mind, yours.” Johann commented, creeping up closer to stand over Hiccups shoulder. His arms were folded behind his back. He eyed the book in Hiccup’s hands. “Ah, that one I picked up in the far south. Quite a hassle to get my hand on really. You see, I was sailing down by the range of-“

 

“Oy! Merchant!” A masculine voice with a heavy accent said. Hiccup and Johann turned their attention in tandem to a small cluster of men approaching them.

 

Hiccup pressed his lips together. He recognized these men. They had docked at Berk’s ports a few days ago and had bought various supplies from their island. Grain, iron, fish- the sort of things any good expedition required. They claimed they were just there to recharge and restock, which seemed to run true for the most part.

 

They all wore dark leathers and had heavy weapons at their side. It made Hiccup and many other villagers uneasy to be around them. They hadn’t shown any outward aggression, besides the usual boisterous and obnoxious activities of weary sea-legged men.

 

Hiccup knew the man at the front of the pack- Halfdan- was his name. Or so he had heard the others call him.

 

He had scraggly brown hair that was long and unkempt. His beard was unbraided and curled at the edges. The man had dropped by the forge earlier in the week and demanded to have a few swords and axes polished, throwing gold coins and insults around freely. Gobber had done his best to appease the gruff man and pushed the work on Hiccup, who completed it as quickly as possible so he wouldn’t have to deal with the lingering strangers.

 

Hiccup knew from their general attitude and demeanor that they weren’t about to go easy on Johann. Halfdan had gotten right into Gobber’s face with little worry for his tongue, and Gobber was one of the more intimidating vikings- with the missing limbs and all. 

 

Johann was a soft man and could be a bit of a push over at times. Hiccup wouldn’t go so far as to call him a coward, he had seen glimpses of a steel spine before- a straightening of the shoulders or a quick tongue- but it was gone as quickly as it was appeared.

 

Johann chose to keep his head down and stay out of trouble. It was admirable, in a way. It wasn’t how vikings did things, but Hiccup could see how picking fights could affect the merchants image. He had wares to sell, and Hiccup assumed he wasn’t eager to lose his money or his teeth for talking back to the wrong person.

 

Besides, Johann was quick if nothing else. He was personable and could talk until his head fell off. It was annoying at times, but served him well to smother hot tempers.

 

“Ah, gentlemen! I see you’ve made your way to my keep. What valuables can I aid you in searching for, today?” Johann said in his usual, cheerful, business voice. 

 

“Lookin’ for extra hands.” The man said deeply, voice a low grumble. He almost sounded annoyed.

 

Johanne’s voice rasied in pitch. “Well, Master…” Johann waited for the other man to finish his sentence. He didn’t.

 

Hiccup spoke up instead. “Halfdan.” He said to Johann.

 

The merchant gave him a quick smile. “Master Halfdan,” he completed the name. “I unfortunately don’t have any crew to spare, but I am close friends with the warden of this island. Chief Stoick is a very reasonable man. I can pass along a message if you would like to ask for-“

 

“What ‘bout him?” Halfdan asked. Johann froze.

 

It took Hiccup several long moments to realize that the man was staring straight at him.

 

His eyes went a bit wide, his hands went rigid, clutching the book in his grasp a bit tighter.

 

Johann let out a little, desperate sort of laugh. “Master Hiccup is not one of my deck hands.” The merchant said, a bit squeakily. 

 

Halfdan ignored him. “You’re the blacksmiths boy.” He said, more telling than asking.

 

Hiccup stared at him for a long moment, unsure how to respond. He opened his mouth but was cut off.

 

“Aye, that’s my apprentice.”

 

Hiccup nearly melted in relief as he heard the familiar tone of Gobber’s voice, followed by the step, clunk of his prosthetic leg. Hiccup thought Johann would relax, too, but the man remained stiff.

 

“Why don’t you run along and find your own help? I need this one in the forge.” Gobber used his hook to scoop up the back of Hiccup’s tunic, bringing him to his feet from his previous kneeling position on the floor. Hiccup wrung his hands around the book he still held.

 

Halfdan glowered at the blacksmith, lip curling up a bit. He looked as if he was about to respond, but Gobber didn’t seem eager to hear what he had to say. He shoved Hiccup in front of him, forcing him to start walking.

 

He trailed his apprentice all the way back until they reached his hall.

 

 

 

 

—∙∘ 𓍼ོ ∘∙—

 

 

 

Gustav laid in the top bunk of his bed, internally screaming. 

 

A shoddy old curtain was pulled across the ceiling, giving him some semblance of privacy, but he could still hear the squealing of his siblings and the patter of their feet. His parents exasperated shouts reverberated throughout the house.  The events of the day zoomed through his mind, combining with the excess sound to give him a headache. 

 

He had a small candle in the bed with him, propped up in its metal candle holder. He knew he wasn’t supposed to have it in the bunks. His Mom didn’t like him having flammable material near open fire, but she was too distracted with his siblings right now to notice and Gustav didn’t particularly care. He just wanted some peace.

 

He closed his eyes, sighing to himself. He rubbed his hands down his face. He couldn’t help but reminisce on all the mistakes he had made recently- the moments replaying themselves in his mind over and over. Each one made him want to curl in on himself and hide away forever. 

 

He couldn’t stop thinking about his fathers clenched fists and angry scowls- or the other teens snide remarks - or his constant failures to complete the most basic of tasks as an apprentice (He was sure Gobber was going to run out of patience for him soon. The man was a viking, not a saint and Gustav knew from experience that adults only tolerated so much failure). He had been trying, really trying his best recently. Despite his best efforts, though, he couldn’t seem to do anything right. Dread pooled in his stomach as he bit his lip, covering his eyes with his hands.

 

He took long deep breaths, in and out. The distant screaming did not help him calm down. It did quite the opposite, in fact.

 

Gustav felt his chest tighten, frustration curling in his gut. He threw his head forward, then back down on his pillow. He flinched and jolted when the back of his head hit cushioned hardness.

 

The boy sat up, craning his neck down as to not hit his head on the ceiling. He reached a hand under his pillow and pulled out  the notebook he had stolen from the forge. He had kind of forgot it was there. He stared at it for several moments, heavily debating whether or not to open it.

 

Part of him wanted to pretend like he didn’t take anything. If he just put it back in the forge tomorrow it would be like nothing happened. Gobber would never find out he stole from his sacred room and Gustav would be able to breeze by, undetected.

 

The other part of him was beyond curious. There was a little voice the back of his head that wanted him to open it- to unveil whatever dark secrets were inside. It was like a constant itch in his brain.

 

Gustav was young when Hiccup Haddock left Berk. He didn’t know much about the boy, and nobody ever talked about him, especially around the chief.

 

The whole situation surrounding his leaving was mystifying to most. Nobody knows where he ended up or what he was doing now. Gobber seemed to be the only person who really cared that much, and even he didn’t share anything substantial with Gustav.

 

Hiccup was a good smith apprentice. Gobber clearly had some sort of regard for him, meaning he must have done at least something right.

 

Besides, there were dragons in this book. Gustav had seen it earlier on accident. This was practically studying- almost like training, in a sense. It would help him in the ring, if nothing else.

 

Gustav cracked open the spine, flipping through the first few pages of incoherently scribble runes and unidentifiable sketches.

 

He made it about twenty pages in when a certain title caught his eye.

 

The Monstrous Nightmare.

 

Gustav grabbed the candle next to him, raising it to the page, then began to read.

Notes:

Hooray! Over halfway done!

This chapter took me wayyy longer than it should have and (in all honesty) is prob going to be the most boring one to read. But it's here anyway!

Dagur is being a nuisance, Gustav is struggling like usual and Trader Johann has appeared for unknown reasons!

Hope you enjoyed!

Notes:

I started writing this and was like- okay, yeah, this will be a short one. Only five chapters.

I don't think it counts as 'short' when every chapter has 10k words. But I digress.

I hope you enjoyed. I have been looking for a HTTYD fic like this for YEARS and just decided to go ahead and write my own. I already have the majority of the story plotted, I am just working on how I want to end it.

I am obsessed with a good runaway Hiccup fic and wanted to do a little twist with it. Soooo stay tuned (pls)

Also please let me know of additional tags that are applicable! I hate tagging so any help is appreciated :)