Symphony of Torment
This story was inspired by Shostakovich's 14th Symphony, which is a Symphony that focuses on death, namely unnatural death. It was written while Shostakovich, who was no stranger to death, was recovering in the hospital and feared he might not survive to hear it. This Symphony contains some of the creepiest music I have ever heard.
This is a horror story and a mystery story, and it is called "Symphony of Torment" for a reason, and that reason is not an ironic one. There are themes of suicide, neglect, depression, violence, character death, and revenge in this story, and there are also implications of past tortures, rape, bullying, and murder.
Fair warning! I was not kidding when I called this my darkest work!
Chapter 1
The ships that pulled into Berks harbor were battered and barely seaworthy, and considerably fewer in number than when they had departed. Yet another search for the dragon nest had come to grief. Those who had gone on the expedition and managed to return, and not necessarily in one piece, returned downcast and dejected; their every movement evoking the depression of failure and despair. The nest remained as hidden as ever, raids would not improve, the food shortages would only get worse now that winter was rapidly approaching, and a lot of friends were gone, and all for nothing. Nobody felt this more than Chief Stoick, the man who had ordered them to go on this quest. And now, in addition to all of this, he was informed that his only son was missing.
"He's been disappearing into the woods after dragon training and he doesn't often return until after nightfall, but he's never been gone this long!" Gobber the Blacksmith told him anxiously.
"Haven't you sent out any searches?" he demanded, concerned for Hiccups safety but also irritated that it always his son who was getting in trouble.
"Of course we have, but we don't have much manpower when you take everyone out to find that nest! And there's a whole lotta ground to cover."
Stoick sighed. "All right, I'll get rid of my pack and we'll start looking. What's he been doing in the woods anyway?"
"No one knows. I suspect he's either been avoiding his fans or doing some kinda special dragon training. Maybe the Hofferson lassie's teaching him on the sly."
Stoick eyed him perplexedly. "What are you talking about? What fans?"
As they walked into the village, Gobber told him about Hiccup's astonishing achievements in Dragon Training. He described how Hiccup, unarmed, had brought down a Deadly Nadder and had scared away a Hideous Zippleback without even touching it. Stoick could hardly believe his ears. Was his boy, the runt of the village, the worst Viking in history, the wimpy fishbone who could not step outside without disaster striking, finally becoming the man Stoick had always wanted him to be? He hardly dared hope, having been disappointed too many times in the past. Nevertheless, this news, which several elderly Vikings confirmed for him, made him much more eager to find his absent son.
He quickly organized search parties. Most of his villagers were downright annoyed that right after an exhausting and distressing voyage they had to go find Hiccup the Fishbone. Some muttered they would rather leave him in the woods. On the other hand, the five teens who had been with Hiccup during Dragon Training; the kids closest to his own age, were just as eager as their Chief to find Hiccup, but for reasons of their own.
"We've gotta find him!" Tuffnut Thorsten declared as they went into the woods, "Berk won't be the same without him,"
"Yeah, we'll have to find someone else to beat up," his twin sister agreed, but she looked more worried than her tone implied.
"And he's gotta show me how he's gotten so good in Dragon Training," Snotlout Jorgenson declared. His father was Stoick's half brother, which made Snotlout Hiccup's most serious rival for the Chiefdom, a fact Snotlout deeply detested Hiccup for. He had been Hiccup's worst tormentor for years, as if he could make Hiccup give up his position to him by, as he called it, 'putting him in his place'.
Astrid Hofferson privately agreed with Snotlout. She too wanted to know how Hiccup had gotten so good at fighting Dragons. They passed a section of the woods where every tree bore dozens of cuts inflicted by her axe. She had always excelled at throwing axes, and once Hiccup started surpassing her in the rankings she had unleashed her anger, frustration, and jealousy in this way. She hoped very much to be the one to find Hiccup, because she fully intended to discover the secret to Hiccup's success and she had no qualms about doing it forcefully. After all, she was the one meant to place first and kill the Monstrous Nightmare, not Hiccup.
As for Fishlegs Ingerman, he kept silent about finding Hiccup. His reasons for finding Hiccup were both selfish and humane. He wanted to find Hiccup because it was not right that a teenager should be lost in the woods, but he was also worried about his own fate. If something serious had happened to Hiccup, it was likely the others would turn on him once they needed someone to prank. And Viking pranks were not playful, at least in the eyes of the victim. Snotlout would say it was all in good fun, but Hiccup would have called it outright cruelty, and Fishlegs agreed.
So they hunted and found nothing except the remains of a great tree that had somehow fallen over, roots and all. The tree had been perfectly healthy and there were clear signs that it had crashed because something had collided with it. This put them all on the alert because they concluded only a large dragon could have hit it.
As Stoick sought after his missing son he barraged Gobber with question after question about what Hiccup had done during his absence. He wanted to hear every detail about how his son was succeeding in Dragon Training, and Gobber was often stumped for answers.
It was a lovely day in the woods. The last days of summer were upon them. The leaves and needles in the trees were lovely and vibrant shades of green. Sunbeams poked through branches and lit up selective places radiantly. The whole woods had a magical feeling to it, a drowsy and hypnotic feeling, as though one's purpose was really to flop into a patch of grass and dream their life away beneath the warm rays of golden light. Here and there a bird chirped and fluttered away as the searchers approached, and now and then a squirrel leapt up a tree and a hare darted into bush. These were the only signs of life anyone saw. There were no footprints visible—it had rained and hailed the previous afternoon—and though several Vikings had brought dogs they were unable to pick up the boy's scent. It was as though Hiccup had just been plucked up by the Gods and carried somewhere else.
And then the Ingerman elder found the rotting remains of a wooden shield wedged between two great boulders. He called to the others and after a while, with difficulty, they found a way over the boulders and into a large cove. Here more than anywhere else the atmosphere was tranquil and peaceful, as if the Gods had declared this spot would forever be preserved from the troubles of the world. Small gnat swarms skittered about in the patches of sunlight that fell on a pond, whose clear waters gently lapped against the dirt in the cove's center.
When the question was asked, none of Vikings present recalled ever seeing this place before. It was too out of the way for most, and it was proved to be largely inaccessible for the stout men. A child could get in easily enough, but not a full grown Viking with a body wider than a boar's. Since Hiccup had a child's physique, Stoick's instincts told him that his son had come here. The area was examined and a knife was found in the pond.
"That's his, all right," Gobber announced upon examination, "it's got the three 'H' rune pattern on the hilt. It's kinda his personal seal, ya know?"
Stoick did not know but pretended he did. And then he received a jolt. Near the knife, scattered all about the ground, were dragon scales.
There is little need to describe in detail the remaining events of that awful day, for they can easily be imagined. No other trace of Hiccup was found beyond the knife, and with the dragon scales present there was no conclusion to be made other than he had been carried off by one. It was not exactly something unprecedented. Indeed, Stoick's own wife had been taken during a raid many years before. Nevertheless, he stayed up all night, hoping perhaps Hiccup would turn up, and he kept the searches going for many days more. They found nothing.
For Stoick, the hours passed horribly and heavily as he waited and hunted in vain for some news that might relieve his sorrow and rekindle his hope. Gobber had an even harder time than he. To walk into his forge and not see Hiccup rigging some contraption, to not hear him make a sarcastic comment in that nasally voice of his, and to not see his head bob up from behind a pile of dull swords, and to feel he would never see such things again, was heart wrenching for the cripple.
The rest of Berk mourned less. Someone had once said 'no one will miss the little nuisance,' and they were largely right. Most of them felt sorrier for Stoick himself than for Hiccup. Snotlout was thrilled, for it meant he was surely now to be the next Chief. Astrid was now the undisputed champion of Dragon Training, and while she regretted Hiccup's untimely death she wasted no time grieving for him. But then, there were very few people on Berk whom she would have grieved for.
Hiccup's funeral took place on an overcast and windy afternoon. It was a short and dismal event. With no body there was no need for a grave, so Hiccup's name was just craved into a stone specifically used for such occasions. A few short prayers and spells were uttered by the village priests and elders, but although the entire village turned out, as ordered, there were few genuine mourners. More were worried if a storm might be coming, for the sky grew increasingly dark and the wind became colder and stronger. They joined in the prayers that were said, as was customary and proper, but it was merely lip service.
And then it was all over. The villagers returned to their homes and prepared for the storm that was coming. In private they joked that Berk would be safer now that Hiccup was gone and wondered if they could throw a party without Stoick realizing its true meaning.
This might sound heartless, but death was common for the Berkians. Dragon raids, diseases, childbearing, shipwrecks, starvation, fires, and the inhospitable cold took many lives. Children learned from a very young age that Death was something to live with, and they were raised to be hardened to it. They were raised to be warriors. Warriors saluted the deceased and then moved on, not dwelling on the past. And since Hiccup had been hugely unpopular, to the point where villagers would rather risk death seeking a dragon nest than spend time around him, nobody felt like mourning him for long.
So as the storm clouds moved in, Hiccup was swiftly forgotten. His name had been etched into the stone, the latest in a long series of carvings, many of which were fading away to time.
There is a Latin term called 'De Profundis', which means a cry of anguish. Only three gave such a cry that afternoon. One was his father, who shut himself up in his house to cry a string of curses upon all the dragons in existence. The second was Gobber, whose cries went unheard over the sound of him beating a piece of iron as hard as he possibly could. And the third cry of anguish came from the wind.
It swept through Astrid's hair with a loud shriek as she departed from the funeral. The cold stung her cheeks. It swept through the dried leaves on the ground and the dying grasses that choked the grave markers. It came wailing shrilly through every chink and hole in every house.
But the storm never broke. On the contrary, towards evening the wind died down and the clouds, though grim to behold, lost their menace and promise of foul weather. There was no funerary feast this time, because Stoick would not leave his house and he saw no good reason to throw a feast in Hiccup's memory. Besides, they needed to save their food. So the village settled in for a quiet night.
Stoick went to bed at long last, though he was hardly aware of what he was doing. He felt weary with grief and wanted to end this horrible day. His only real consolation was that Hiccup was probably in Valhalla now. The Valkyries chose warriors who had died in a fight, and since Hiccup had just started to become one and had died fighting a dragon, he hoped they would consider him. In Valhalla he would fight with others all day and feast with them all night, just the kind of life a Viking should have. He would be happy in Valhalla, probably happier than he ever was when he was alive on Berk. And one day, hopefully a long time from how, but given how unpredictable the future was he had no idea, he would probably join him and his wife Valka. He smiled at the thought. If Valka had been allowed into Valhalla, and he had every confidence that she had, she and Hiccup would be meeting for the very first time. Yes, Hiccup's death was a serious blow to him, but perhaps it was for the best.
He had just gotten into bed when he heard someone knocking on the door.
"Oh what now?" he groaned, "Can't I ever go one night without someone wanting something?" Crossly, he went to the door and opened it. There was no one there. He looked left and right and saw no one. Frowning, he closed the door and returned to his room. He had been in bed for a few minutes when the knocking was heard again. He was convinced now that this was a prank, probably engineered by the Thorsten Twins. Still, it could be something important, so he went to look again. Again, he saw no one and went back to bed.
The knocking was heard a third time. This time he decided to ignore it, expecting the Twins to give up once they failed to get a reaction. Instead he heard the knocking a fourth time. He now noticed that it was always the same knock: three light taps equally spaced out. There was no variation to it. Still, he tried to ignore it.
And then there came such a loud and ferocious bang that he jumped out of bed and grabbed his hammer. He had decided that enough was enough, so he stormed to the door and flung it opened. As expected there was no one in sight, but this time he stepped outside and went around the entire house and beyond, expecting to catch the culprit hiding nearby. But there was nothing.
Now his anger turned into confusion. It was true a prankster could easily have run away and hidden somewhere else, but he had neither seen nor heard any evidence that anyone had been near his house except himself. Was he imagining things? Was this perhaps a sign from the Gods? If so, what sign? He wondered if he should go to the Elder about this, but decided against it. Perhaps it was just a bird pecking a hole in the door. It was too dark to tell now, but he would take a look at it the next morning.
He returned home and went back to bed, but he was more alert than usual.
Astrid Hofferson had been asleep for a while. She had been dreaming she was flying with moths amidst decayed snags, and the moths were knocking against her head as if they were woodpeckers. Suddenly she realized that the knocking sound was not in her dream and she woke up with a jolt. Someone was knocking on the door. Her parents had heard it too, for she heard one of them shuffle their way to it over the creaking floorboards and open the door. The hinges needed oiling, for they groaned and squeaked so loudly she thought the whole village must have heard them. A few moments later she heard her father creak back to his room.
"Who was it?" she faintly heard her mother ask.
"There was nobody there,"
"It must've been the Twins. Or maybe Snotlout's up to no good. He's probably been celebrating Hiccup's death and had too much to drink."
"Probably. Scoot over. You're hogging the blankets!"
Astrid chuckled and resumed a more relaxed position. She was just about to fall asleep again when the knocking came again, only this time it seemed louder and more urgent. Her mother got the door this time, only to report nothing.
"People pulling pranks just after a boy's funeral," she muttered, "what's the world come to?"
At that moment the knocking began again, and this time even louder and more urgently than before. This time both adult Hofferson's went outside to search around the house. Astrid shut the front door carefully and waited, hoping she would catch the culprit before they could run away if they came a fourth time. Her patience was rewarded, for she heard, a bit gentler this time, someone knock on the wood three times. She instantly flung the door opened and saw no one. Soon afterwards her parents returned, equally empty-handed and equally perplexed.
Astrid returned to bed. She reached to blow out the candle, only to find the candle was out of reach.
"Odd," she muttered, "I thought I set it down over here."
She decided the knockings had distracted her too much, so she got out of bed and blew out the candle. But when she returned to her bed something felt off, and she realized the blankets had been pulled back up to the head of it, as they were when the bed was not in use. But that made no sense, because she had certainly not made the bed since waking up from the knocking, and she had had no reason to. She now decided she really needed a good night's sleep.
She got into bed and pulled the blankets up and began to doze off. She was half asleep when she realized she was cold, and when she woke up she found out why: the blankets had been pulled off her. She decided she must have kicked them off while asleep and got under them again. But when she laid back she discovered her pillow was gone.
Her temper flared. She was now convinced that Snotlout had slipped into her house somehow and was doing all of this. She reached for the candle. It was not where she had set it down earlier, she could swear to it. As soon as she found it and lit it she shut her door and searched her room, certain Snotlout was hiding somewhere. She found nothing, to her surprise and uneasiness. And when she turned back to her bed she found the pillow back on it and the sheets once again pulled up and neatly arranged, as if she had just made it. But she had not just made it, because she had been searching her room!
And just as she was about to go to her parents, a fierce knock was heard on the door, so fierce it made the whole house shudder. Her parents were out of bed at once and went to the door.
They all went outside. Nobody was out there. With few exceptions, the nearby homes were all dark and lifeless. Somehow, the knocking had not even attracted the attention of any neighbors.
At last they heard the sound of people approaching. Her father raised his lantern and saw the Jorgenson family coming over to them.
"Astrid!" Snotlout said, and he for once did not seem interested in flirting with her. "Have you been hearing it too?"
"Hearing what?" Astrid asked, wanting him to tell them first.
"We keep hearing someone knocking, but every time we've opened the door we've seen nothing. We thought it was the Twins playing some joke on us." Spitelout Jorgenson told them.
"We've been hearing the same," Hofferson said.
"And someone's been messing with my bed!" Snotlout said loudly,
"I told you, you were just dreaming," his father said dismissively.
"I wasn't! I wasn't even asleep! Someone pulled away my blankets and then stole my pillow, and every time I lit the candle I couldn't see anyone!" he grinned, "I was hoping at first it was you, Astrid, come to find consolation in my arms over poor little Useless's death, but I—"
Before Astrid could punch him, as she certainly intended, the lanterns went out, leaving them in total darkness.
"What the—!"
"Stupid breezes! Here, Spitelout, have you got a flint on you?"
"Yes, they're right—at least, I thought they were. I must've dropped 'em."
"Oh good grief,"
"Hey, Astrid, you know what we can do in the dark?"
"Yes I do Snotlout: I can strangle you without any witnesses. Get your hands off me!" she snarled.
"OW! That was totally uncalled for!"
"But I didn't—"
Spitelout finally got his lantern lit and raised it. Snotlout and Astrid were standing nowhere near each other, and they looked incredibly confused once they realized this.
"How'd your nose start bleeding?"
"You punched it of course!" he yelled angrily, "How do you think?"
"I didn't punch it!"
"Oh yes you did! Who else would've done it?"
"Well I didn't. And besides, you deserved it, trying to touch my arm like that! We are not a couple, Snotlout, and I do NOT like it when you pigs try to molest me!"
"I didn't touch your stupid arm!"
"Who else would've done it?" Astrid asked triumphantly.
Snotlout's mother broke in, "Look, you stop punching my boy, alright?"
"Woman, stay out of this. He's old enough to stand up for himself," her husband snapped.
"I'll make Astrid stop punching your boy when he stops molesting my daughter!" Hofferson growled.
"Oh come on, I never do that!"
"Only because I never let you get close enough!" Astrid spat.
"So I flirt with her a little—big deal! You'll appreciate it later."
"You're going to die sad and lonely and soon with that attitude," she said dangerously.
"Whatever. At least my tactics are better than what Useless used to do! He'd just stare at you, all bug-eyed and mouth opened like a fish! Honestly, Berk's better off without that little shrimp, although I will miss having someone I can—"
The lanterns went out again and this time Snotlout screamed.
"Shut up!" Spitelout shouted as he hunted for the flint again, "You sound like a little girl! There's nothing about the dark to be afraid of! And what're you squirming around for like that?"
"Someone stole my belt! I'm 'squirming' to keep my balance while I hold my pants up!"
"Hofferson, this is getting past a joke. Give my son his belt back and stop bothering us!"
"Jorgenson, none of us were even close to your son! How the heck are we supposed to give back something we didn't take?"
Spitelout got his lantern lit again and held it near the ground. Snotlout's belt was lying in the dirt. Astrid denied touching it, and as she was nearly two meters away and behind her mother nobody could see how she could have. Both sides decided they were too tired to argue now, and they were attracting attention. Several people were appearing in their doorways asking what was going on. The matter seemed too silly to spread around so, fuming, they returned to their homes.
Exhausted, Astrid flung herself into bed. Then she realized her blankets were as they should be if she was sleeping on them, but she had left them otherwise.
