Others

Hotshot (Stoick's mistake)

DISCLAIMER: With the exception of Camicazi (because Astrid is a Camicazi expy, so what would be the point), I halfway suspect the series will take great pleasure in using all the book characters at some point or another. So, more than likely, this series will become non-compliant very, very quickly. But, for now…

Sometimes, we make mistakes, and have to live with the consequences. It's a lesson everyone learns at some point. Sometimes, those consequences turn out to be good things. Other times… not so much. But the real problem is that sometimes, you don't even realise you're making a mistake, which means you've got absolutely no warning when the consequences hit. But you still have to live with them.

Flying high over the cliffs of Berk, Hiccup and Toothless were supposed to be testing a few theories Hiccup had about clouds, wind resistance, and the way heat rose. But the truth was they'd gotten distracted, and long since given up on the science to instead just play in the air.

It didn't really matter either way – they were facts only Hiccup would probably understand. Even the other Dragon Riders didn't really care about why their dragons could fly. Even Astrid and Fishlegs, who had very patiently sat through Hiccup's explanation of the tail fin and how it could be manipulated to allow Toothless to fly, had only really gotten the 'it helps him balance'. Fishlegs compared it to a rudder, and Hiccup… hadn't felt inspired to explain the complexities. His friends weren't really interested. They'd just pretended to be, because they had said they wanted to know all about dragons.

Night furies were just a little more complicated than they'd signed on for.

Toothless was coasting on the wind when a flash of light jerked both himself and Hiccup out of the half-alert doze they had been in. It flashed again, and Hiccup frowned, following the light down to its source.

"A ship!" he hissed, and Toothless beat his wings, pushing them up into cloud cover.

It wasn't one of theirs – it had been too big to be anything but a warship, and Hiccup knew all of their warships were docked out of the water, in preparation for the freeze. But in hindsight, he didn't think it had looked like one of Alvin's, either – a neighbouring tribe, maybe?

"Okay, bud," he said, patting Toothless' neck, "let's check it out."

He strapped himself into his rarely-used harness, fished a spy-glass out of his satchel and then tied it shut, sheer seconds before Toothless rolled in the air, letting him hang upside down out of the cloud cover. He peered through the glass, taking in the ship and all the damage it showed—recently earned, if Hiccup was any judge—before focussing on the source of the light.

It was the reflection of the sun on a spy-glass. A spy-glass that Hiccup remembered making himself. And behind it…

He grinned and guided Toothless back up. "Hotshot! Come on, Toothless, we've gotta go tell the village!"

Hotshot was a hero. In fact, his full name, according to Viking Lore, was Humongous Hotshot the Hero: the Greatest Adventurer of Them All.

He didn't belong to any particular tribe, and he didn't have a full crew, or even a ship. He sailed whatever he could find, served whoever he needed to serve, in order to go where the wind took him, always in search of glory, gold, and greatness.

Like most of the other chieftains, Stoick had just enough patience with Hotshot to grant him sanctuary when he inevitably ruined his ship. The sanctuary would usually last a few weeks, while Hotshot earned repairs, bartered for a new boat, or conned his way into a voyage to another island. By the end of it, Stoick was never sad to see him go.

It wasn't that he disliked Hotshot. It was more a matter of… apprehension.

Hotshot's stories were wild and exciting, exactly the sort of tales that made children hang on his every word. He fought bandits from every continent, rescued damsels from towers, spoke of wild, hot places and strange, furred beasts… he made children want to rush to grow up and go on their own adventures.

The problem, for Stoick at least, was that Hotshot encouraged the children to do it. All of the children. Including Hiccup.

Every single visit from Hotshot had always either included or resulted in Hiccup nearly getting himself killed on some ridiculous venture. Searching for trolls, chasing pixies, fishing for mermaids, shooting down night furies… alright, so that last one had happened repeatedly, outside Hotshot's influence, and once successfully, but the point remained, and Stoick blamed Hotshot entirely.

He frowned at Hiccup from the corner of his eye, but had to force it when he noticed the excited grin on his son's face. Hiccup was so rarely enthusiastic about anything that wasn't related to dragons. But a quick glance out at the bay to see Hotshot almost within hearing distance reminded Stoick of what he needed to do.

"Remember, Hiccup. Not a word about the dragons until I finish sounding him out," he warned. "The last thing we need is Hotshot the Hero going telling every Viking and his mother we've ended the three hundred year war."

"Yeah, yeah, keeping it a secret from the Berserkers is more important than ever, I know," he said, and strained up onto his toes, trying to see onto the boat. "Do you think he's got any new trophies? He was going to hunt yeti last time he left."

"Hiccup. This is serious."

"Yeah, Dad, I know," he said, and dropped back onto his foot to fix him with a direct look. "I don't want a war either. I'll keep Toothless and the other dragons out of sight, I promise. Toothless is already hiding in the cove, and Astrid's leading everyone in rounding up the other dragons. It's fine."

"And nothing on the Outcasts," he added, his brow furrowing when Hiccup rolled his eyes. "Nothing. It's been a perfectly quiet year on Berk, understand?"

"Yes, Dad, I know! I get it! We still fight dragons, Alvin's only interested in us for our land, I'm just Gobber's screw-up apprentice, and the only reason you're not leading the army out in search of Dragon Island is because the frost is setting in. I've got it, Dad."

He continued frowning at him for a few moments, though he was no longer entirely convinced it was because of Hiccup's flippant attitude, but wasn't given much time to really analyse it before Hotshot called out, waving an arm over his head.

"Stoick the Vast! Hail and well met, Chief of Berk!"

He looked over at Hotshot, then set his hands on his hips and turned to face him properly. "Hotshot! What brings you back to our shores?"

"Naught but the winds of change, and a burning desire to see my favourite group of youngsters again," he said, and made a show of shielding his eyes from the sun as he looked toward Hiccup. "But that – surely that can't be Hiccup Horrendous Haddock beside you? When I left, Stoick, your boy was but a sprout! Have you traded him for a sapling?"

Hiccup laughed and waved high over his head. "How were the winds, Hotshot?"

"Fine as ever, my boy, though I've a few new tales to tell. Stoick," He turned back to the chief, gaining a slight embarrassed edge to his grin. "Might I trouble you for a longboat? I'm afraid I lost my crew and have no way to safely dock this whale of a ship alone. This is as close as I can come, I fear, and I have little desire to soak your gift before it is even given by swimming into the bay."

At least the showboat could at least still remember common courtesies. Stoick inclined his head with a tolerant smile and jerked his head to a couple of boatmen who had been watching the exchange. They smirked, but quickly started preparing a longboat in amused silence. That was another reason Stoick tolerated Hotshot – he was a hero, true, and the children held him in awe, but most adult Vikings knew better than to take him at face value. Most of his heroics, they all knew, were simply his lucky and reckless attempts to get out of the trouble he got himself into.

By the time they had prepared and rowed the longboat over to the warship, Hotshot had weighed anchor, and was already lowering packages over the side for the men to take. Hiccup watched each one with slightly narrowed eyes.

"Silk! You've been to the Orient again!" he cried, and Hotshot laughed.

"I have indeed. And from them I bartered a gift just for you, young Haddock. But that shall wait until the night."

Hiccup leaned on one of the dock-posts with an easy smile, but Stoick found himself frowning again. It didn't take much to earn Hiccup's trust, and so Stoick knew they were on limited time before he went rabbiting on about his dragons. He'd have to keep Hiccup busy.

Hotshot the Hero was not your typical Viking.

He was over six-foot, with long blond hair and a warrior's braids, but the only reason he wasn't called skinny was because his shoulders were as broad as Stoick's own, and no one was stupid enough to risk insulting the muscles in the arms attached to those shoulders.

He was a swordfighter, and not of the variety Berk's children were trained in. He called himself a 'swashbuckler', and always called his sword a 'blade', not a knife.

In Hiccup's dreams, when he'd been younger, he'd seen himself growing up into something like Hotshot. He knew he'd never be big and bulky like his father, but when he'd been twelve and not quite the shortest kid his age, he'd thought Hotshot's size was possible. He knew better, now, but he still liked the idea of learning how to fight like Hotshot.

So when he opened his gift and discovered it was a beautiful, elegant, Oriental sword, Hiccup was, for possibly the first time in his life, completely speechless.

"Isn't it the finest blade you've ever seen?" asked Hotshot. "They call them jian. Much lighter than Viking swords. I thought you might appreciate it."

"It's… it's amazing," he said, hefting it in his hand. He could actually hold it one-handed, something he'd never been able to do with the swords he made himself. But then, he'd always made weapons for fighting dragons – he doubted this would hold up against them for long. Still, it was beautiful, and felt solid enough. Testing a theory, he rolled his wrist, and was pleased to see the sword do the same graceful spiral he'd seen his father's weapons do. Even if he wasn't convinced anyone could fight with it, it still felt like the real thing. He gripped it tightly. "Thank you, Hotshot."

"Don't thank me until you've tried to use it," he advised, and patted his shoulder. "You're old enough now – what say you that tomorrow, I teach you a few things?"

He blinked, then looked up at him with wide eyes. "Really?"

"Of course. I'll have a word with your father – mayhap that shall be my pay for my stay and safe passage to the next island," he suggested, but Hiccup's dry smile was his only answer as Stoick himself pushed open the door, eyebrows rising when he saw Hiccup.

"Here you are," he said, stepping inside. "Astrid's looking for you, son. They thought you would be at the cove."

"Uh – yeah," he said, and sheathed the jian. It had a strap that was perfect for slinging over his back, and he quickly did so, smiling when it still felt balanced. Real weapon or not, he appreciated good craftwork when he felt it. "I'm heading out now. Thanks again, Hotshot."

"Not at all," he said, and Hiccup shot him one last grin before hurrying out the door. He barely noticed his father's raised hand, and didn't spare him a second glance, knowing Toothless was probably going crazy from boredom and hunger.

Back inside the Visitor's Lodge, Stoick stared after his boy for a few moments, then slowly turned back to Hotshot, who was eyeing him warily.

He hesitated a moment, then stepped inside, gently shutting the door behind him. "Interesting knife."

"Yes. They're quite strong – hardly up to your own standards, but against human opponents, quite deadly," Hotshot said slowly. "And from memory, I did not think young Hiccup had much hope to fight any other kind."

"Aye, you could say that." He gave him another long look. There was something… something Stoick didn't like about Hotshot giving Hiccup a sword. He wasn't sure why, but he felt insulted. "You know Hiccup can't wield a sword."

"I… I thought I might teach him," he said, and nearly stood up, but seemed to think better of it at the last minute and so stayed where he was on the chest at the end of his bed. "As my payment for your hospitality, Chief Stoick. I could teach your son swordplay."

Again, a fine line of annoyance edged around Stoick's mental response. It eased back a little at the acknowledgement of his title and who Hiccup was, but it was still there. Hotshot giving Stoick's son a sword, and assuming he could teach him swordplay, something a father should…

He stopped that thought, remembering that this wasn't about him. Hiccup had never learned swordplay because the boy couldn't lift a sword. And now he was far too old to be learning such basic skills. That had to be it. Hotshot was insulting his boy, trying to teach him lessons for children. It came from a good place, to be sure, but it was still an insult.

"I think we can find better uses for your skill, Hotshot," he said coolly.

For a moment, it looked like the adventurer would argue, but he stopped himself at the last moment, instead just nodding his head quietly. "As you will it, Chief."

Stoick nodded in return, and then turned on his heel and strode out of the lodge.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Hiccup spent the evening in the cove, and Stoick only heard him return home because if they had learned anything this year, it was that you cannot quietly smuggle a night fury through a window.

"You two best be out before dawn," he called up the stairs. Hiccup poked his head over the landing with a guilty smile, which Stoick responded to with a dark look. "I can keep Hotshot from the academy, but not even he can ignore the sight of a night fury skulking through the village."

"Sure thing, Dad," he said, but rather than retreat as Stoick had expected, he awkwardly continued, "So um, I was thinking that with the new sword Hotshot brought me, I might maybe be able to, you know, learn how to use it."

He had been staring into the fire, but he looked up at that. Hiccup was lying down now, his arms folded over the ledge. With Toothless standing over him, wings spread slightly for balance, and the fire reflecting in Hiccup's eyes, he looked so much less like the weak boy Stoick had known for sixteen years, and more a creature of legend. A man born for dragons.

The short distance between the floor and loft had never felt so incredibly large.

"I promise I won't let it interfere with the dragon training," he said. "And I'll help Gobber in the smithy whenever he needs. It's just, you know, with this new sword, and with everything that's been happening lately, with Alvin, and everything, I thought, you know, maybe it might not be such a horrible idea if I could, well, you know, if I could actually… use a – a blade."

Stoick just gazed at him quietly for a moment, wondering why the wording bothered him. When Hiccup put it like that, it did make sense. Toothless and Astrid were good guardians, but he had to admit, the idea of Hiccup having something to protect himself against Alvin's inevitable tricks was… comforting.

"You want me to teach you how to fight?" he asked, and Hiccup jerked, then grimaced and shook his head.

"No, no. No. No, you're busy, I know that. I was thinking maybe…. Maybe Hotshot."

Years of diplomacy kept Stoick from glaring, but Hiccup still pulled back like he was.

"Stoick, you're Chief of Berk," Gobber pointed out as Stoick paced in front of him. "Hiccup knows that, and he knows you have responsibilities. Of course he's not going to ask you to waste time on something like that."

"Waste – it's learning to fight, Gobber!" he cried. "It's only the most important thing a father can teach his son!"

"Aye, for most fathers," he agreed. "But you aren't most fathers, and Hiccup isn't most sons."

It was a fairly standard response from Gobber – Hiccup was different and he always had been, which made treating him like a normal boy very difficult. But this time, Stoick found himself offended. "And what is that supposed to mean?"

"It means what it's always meant, Stoick!" he said, and sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Hiccup is a walking disaster. Just because he's good with dragons doesn't mean he's suddenly become any less dangerous when he's not on one. The boy can't fight. It's not in his nature and it's not in his body, either. He knows that as well as we do. Chances are, he knows this is going to go just as well as any of his attempts with a hatchet have gone. He doesn't want to waste your time."

"But he'll waste Hotshot's," he said, and collapsed onto the bench. Gobber raised a knowing eyebrow, which Stoick pointedly ignored. "A waste of time or not, responsibilities as chief or not, teaching Hiccup to fight is my responsibility as his father."

"Aye," Gobber agreed carefully. "Just as it was to teach him to sail."

He shot him a look at that. Gobber had taught Hiccup to sail.

"And give him his first drink."

Hiccup had discovered alcohol the same way he discovered dragon training – on his own and behind everyone's back. It had exploded in all of their faces in much the same way, too.

"And how to stand up for himself."

He slammed his fist down on the table. "Do you have some kind of point here, Gobber?"

Oh, he knew exactly the point Gobber was making, but he also knew Gobber wasn't stupid enough to say it to his face. Sure enough, Gobber didn't look at him, or continue speaking, for a long while, just staring into his tankard with a sombre look on his face.

Stoick looked away and rubbed a hand down his face. "He wasn't the boy I expected him to be. But that doesn't mean anything. I know that now. I know him, now, and the great things he can do."

But still, Gobber didn't say anything. When he did, it was surprisingly accusing. "And if you didn't?"

"What?"

"You're acting like you're dealing with a whole new boy, but he's not. He's the same boy he was for fifteen years before he killed that dragon," he said quietly. "This is the painting, Stoick. The painting, and Thawfest, and probably a million other things we don't notice."

"What does any of that have to do with him not wantin' me to teach him –"

"He's working off what he knows, Stoick," he said. "And what he knows you think of him."

He nearly cursed. "How many times do I have to tell him –"

Gobber didn't say anything, but he still managed to cut him off with a look, and they both fell silent, thinking about history, and all the things they probably should have done.

…I suspect that however many I do of these, none of them will have endings, just so you know…