He could see her wandering through the Great Hall – a nervous, hunkering shadow prowling behind tables of laughing, drinking Vikings; a wraith-like, cringing nonparticipant staring wide-eyed at the bearded faces and freckled cheeks of old, old, near-forgotten acquaintances; a timid unseen presence ghosting the late-night Hooligan festivities simply because she received the invitation. Familiarities and unfamiliarities greeted her with an equally jarring visage. Passing an old friend brought a baffled frown as readily as foreign aspects within the Great Hall. And so she watched it all, passive in a realm of hectic activity. Drinks and belches and boisterous voices and raucous laughter and food and intermingling and gossip and crude humor and heated discussions passed her all by untouched. In the rare circumstance some human soul did notice her attendance, she shrunk back, spoke minimally, and retreated to the safety of distant shadowed corners. Even standing at the far end of the Hall, he could clearly read the discomfort in her body language.
It was not as though she hated attending the late-night celebration. He knew she returned to Berk readily on her own volition. He also knew she just as easily could have spent her time amongst the dragons outside, where she would have felt far more comfortable. No, she wanted to be here. Wanted to mingle. She merely needed time to readjust to human civilization.
And, admittedly, discomfort emanated from far more locations than proximal to her. For while a number of Hairy Hooligans entered the evening feast with true, unmistakable vigor, many more pockets of Vikings hosted forced laughter, cringed smiles. Some fed and drank listlessly, not even bothering to hide their grief. Others glanced awkwardly in his direction. More than a few parted way for him without speaking, or only with minimal, respectful congratulations or condolences.
The feast to herald a new chief should never have arisen from such tragic circumstances.
As far as his own countenance was concerned, he struggled to maintain a calm outer disposition, at the very least something solemn moreso than melancholy. Oftentimes he wondered how his father would have treated circumstances, stood as a proper chieftain, spoken and interacted with the other Berk residents. Stoick had always entered situations so naturally as a leader. And while Hiccup had observed all that growing up, now that he found himself in the position of chief, he hardly understood how his father had managed to seem so comfortable in any scenario.
So he drifted through the crowds, just as listless as the wide-eyed shadow haunting the far corner of the Great Hall. Sometimes he paused at small Viking clusters before continuing onward. Yet through all this floating, floating through the assembly, he maintained his eyes on the woman at the far end of the room, and thus noticed immediately when she stopped before a painted shield which hung on one of the walls. Hurriedly, Hiccup excused himself from the two thick-bearded Vikings who had just started conversation with him, and hastened up toward his mother and the mounted shield.
She stood there, unmoving, unblinking.
As he approached, he began to distinguish the details painted on the wood. Far more an ornate shield decorated other houses in Berk, yet this one still maintained a wonderful magnificence, boasting high craftsmanship, sturdy lines, and an accurate portrayal of a boy and a hulking man. It was one amongst seven such shields lined along that wall, a piece of art continued in the tradition of past generations. Here, every single chief and his first-born teenaged son stood proudly on the circular boards. Hiccup could name all of them – Hamish the First, Hamish the Second, Squidface the Terrible, Chucklehead, and fabled Grimbeard the Ghastly. All were part of a proud Viking tradition.
Yet Hiccup's mute mother did not stand before the shields of past generations. Those shields were no novelty to her; they all had been displayed within the Great Hall far before she disappeared from Berk. As a young woman she gazed upon the portrait of Hamish the Second. As a child she stared wondrously at Grimbeard the Ghastly's face. Yet never before had she seen the portrait before her face.
A red-bearded, muscular man and his one-legged son.
Hiccup suddenly hesitated, uncertain if he should approach.
She stared for an uncomfortably long time. Then his mother Valka threw her eyes downward. He could read the pain on her face – at least until the world blurred, and he squeezed his eyes briefly shut to let loose a tear.
And when Hiccup opened his eyes once more, the walls of the room brightened, and the multi-colored columns glowed more brightly, and a big beefy hand rested on his shoulder, and a resonant voice from behind him commanded, "Shoulders back, chin up, son."
He tightened his shoulders and tried to puff up his chest as his father continued, "This portrait is going to take its place alongside all the other chiefs and their sons."
For instant – just an instant – he could feel the weight of a furry cloak hanging from his shoulders – could see the Great Hall filled with Hooligan Vikings taking drink after the day's earlier coronation ceremony for the son and successor of Stoick the Vast.
And then Stoick gestured again, pointing to a painting, proudly declaring, "That is the only picture of my father and me."
A wide, brawny boy standing confidently beside a strong Viking man.
A short, scrawny boy holding a scroll beside his father.
That is the only picture of my father and me.
Hiccup again closed his eyes, averted himself from the present.
"It was a great day," Stoick declared.
The pride of a father with his son.
"And so is this."
The portrait of his family, incomplete there on the wall. A life growing up without Valka, only his father to keep him safe. And an incomplete family now, no father to celebrate his son's coming of age.
Hiccup took a step forward, and Valka noticed the footfall. She turned around. Met Hiccup's eyes. Stated, "It's a good picture of you and Stoick."
"It is," he said.
It was a great day.
"He looks so proud of you."
Hiccup found himself fiddling with one of his sleeves, felt his shoulder shrugging in a non-committal response. He had not the heart to tell her about the dysfunctional relationship between Stoick and himself – of years and years of disappointments, awkward and stinted conversations, disobedience, admonishments, misunderstandings. The inability to relate. The rescues during dragon raids. Insults – "every time you step outside, disaster falls" – "all those years of the worst Viking Berk has ever seen" – "you're not a Viking" – and the worst – "you're not my son."
And now Stoick was gone.
A proud painter revealed the portrait, displaying the image of sixteen-year-old Hiccup and his father. In the painting, Stoick lightly rested a hand on Hiccup's shoulder. At his side, Stoick also placed his fingers above his son's arm and stared down fondly at the boy.
Maybe his relationship with Stoick often smarted, often stung, often strained. Yet an abundance of love nevertheless had flowed through the bond.
It was a great day.
"He was proud of me," Hiccup agreed.
Valka answered, directing her full attention to her son, away from the portrait, "And he would be proud of you now." She pulled her own hand forward, rested it on Hiccup's shoulder. Her delicate fingers did not carry the same heavy weight of his father's hand – the hand he never would feel on his shoulder again – yet the delicate pressure of Valka's fingers nevertheless provided a comfort. "Just as I am proud."
It was a great day.
"Mom, I'm glad you're here."
"You'll do well, son. Stand tall, stand proud."
Shoulders back, chin up, son.
"You'll be a worthy chief of Berk."
It was a great day.
Hiccup pulled his cheeks up into the semblance of a smile.
It was a great day.
And so is this.
Is it?
His eyes rested on a cluster of children smuggling in an equally young Gronckle to the Great Hall. Listened to the whoop of Vikings as Snotlout bested Fishlegs in a cod eating contest. Watched young and old men, old and young women, stout and wiry Vikings, squat and towering Hooligans all mingle together in the Great Hall, drinks in hand. Spotted Ruffnut and Mulch and Ack and Tuffnut and Magnus and Gustav and Bucket and Astrid. Smelled the rich aroma of lingering dinners, listened to the rise and fall of many voices. Watched his village live.
Slowly Hiccup returned his eyes to his mother, reached up his hand to place it on top of Valka's, and asked her, "The night's getting late. Want to come home with me? I don't think I can enter an empty house alone."
The two of them left the portrait of a family behind them, but a sense of family remained as mother and son stepped out into chilly late autumn air.
I do not know if today is a good day, Hiccup thought to himself, watching his mother's braids sway as she walked forward through the village. But I certainly hope that tomorrow will be.