Stoick was not traditionally a religious man, but as the days dragged on, he found himself praying several times a day. His son was missing half a leg at fifteen years old—not an uncommon occurrence on Berk, but one he certainly never thought Hiccup would ever have to face. To make matters worse, the boy was unconscious, in and out of a fever, and Stoick's chiefly duties forced him away from the boy's bedside for more hours than he'd like. Honestly, if he had his way, he'd never leave that room at all.
Breathe, the little voice in his head told him.
And Stoick's problems only worsened from there. With the dragons free from their telepathic slavery, many had settled on Berk, some finding the welcome arms of Gothi and Hiccup's classmates, while others forced themselves on the Berkians by settling in their barns, in their houses, and on their rooftops. Several had even found their way into the Mead Hall; Stoick couldn't enter the public meal house without slamming into the hide of at least one Gronkle or excited Deadly Nadder. The Terrible Terrors tripped pretty much everyone in the market, and this morning a Zippleback had crashed Gunther's roof in. The aftermath of that was what Stoick had woken up to.
Needless to say, most of the village was not pleased with their new roommates, and Stoick spent most of his days sorting out arguments, calming villagers, and stopping fires before they could take the whole of Berk down. Which was exactly what he was doing now, taking a bucket Spitelout offered him and splashing out a fire a Gronkle had caused in the market place. As the fire shriveled down to smolders, Stoick ran a hand over his face and sighed, turning to his brother. "What happened here?" he demanded. Behind Spitelout, several villagers shifted, murmured, and shrugged; most of them had responded to the shouts about the fire out of instinct, and had zero real concept of what had caused said fire. One, however, marched forward, waving an ax and red in the face.
"I won't have it, Stoick!" Mildew shouted. "I won't have these—these beasts in our homes! They're killers, I say—killers! This here Gronkle," here, Mildew waved vaguely toward the now wounded and whimpering Gronkle cowering behind the remains of the fire, "was trying ta steal Fungus! Wanted ta eat him, it did! I won't have it, Stoick! Tell that boy of yours ta make them go away before I take care of it myself!"
Just breathe, Stoick. Deep breaths...The little voice in his head was not helping.
Stoick shook his head, "We have peace now, Mildew, and that's not something I'm willing to give up. For generations, these creatures have fought for their own survival—or do you not remember the beast that enslaved them? Now, they have no place to go, and I'm sure we can find uses for them—they're certainly willing to help." That much was true: many of the dragons had taken up roles as beasts of burden, carrying yak milk jugs across town, flying their humans out to nearby islands and sea stacks where the fishing was good before aiding in bringing the loads back to Berk. It was those examples that had helped change Stoick's own opinion of the beasts—those, and the actions of the Night Fury currently babysitting his ailing son.
Mildew sneered at Stoick, "Then cage them," he growled. "If ya want ta use them as yaks or mules, find a place ta put up when yer not usin' them. Make Hiccup-"
"Hiccup," Stoick said softly, "Is still unconscious, and I'm not making him do anything he don't want to do when he wakes up. I'm sure he'll have some ideas on how to make things move more...smoothly around here, but if he does anything with these creatures it'll be on his terms. Not mine, and certainly not yours." Maybe it was his words, or the stony tone Stoick's voice took on toward the end, or maybe it was the cold authority mixed in with a father's worry and grief on his face that had Mildew backing down for the moment. Stoick turned his attention to the crowd that was still milling about behind them, lead in part by Spitelout.
"Go on!" he shouted, waving his massive hands around, "Nothing to see here, people, keep moving! Sure there's something better for you grimy snots to be working on!" the crowd slowly broke up into groups of gossiping Berkians, all heading in different directions. Stoick turned to Spitelout. "Go get Gothi. I want her to take a look at the Gronkle." Spitelout nodded wordlessly and disappeared into the crowd.
The Gronkle had a gash on its left foreleg, nothing too serious, but enough for the beast to be limping as it made its way—head down—over to Stoick. It head-butted him gently, crooning, and Stoick started for a moment before remembering what Fishlegs and Astrid had told him. "Scratch them behind the ears, and under their chin too. They like that. Just be gentle with them, and they'll be just as gentle back." Slowly, Stoick followed those instructions and took up scratching the dragon under its chin as he waited for Spitelout and Gothi to arrive. The dragon seemed content with it, but Stoick was glad when the healer and his brother came, and he gave up the Gronkle to Gothi.
An herbal salve and a bandage was really all that could be done for the beast, the wound wasn't even deep enough to need stitches. Stoick guessed Mildew would have done more damage had the dragon not set fire to the seller's booth behind him in a fit of rage and pain. He was surprised to find that he was glad the old man hadn't gotten that chance.
Temporarily free of duties, Stoick made his way back to his house to visit Hiccup and make something to eat. Breakfast had been a quick affair; the Night Fury took most of it while Stoick left it unsupervised in search of a jug of mead. That had been hours ago as well, and now Stoick could feel his limps go weak and shaky with a need for protein.
He arrived at the house in surprisingly short order. No one stopped him on the way there, nothing broke, no more fires were set, and he didn't even so much as trip on a Terrible Terror. Perhaps it was a sign from the gods that things could go his way in this new life of his, Stoick mused. Or perhaps he had just gotten lucky.
The Night Fury wasn't in the front room when Stoick got in. Immediately, he knew the beast was at Hiccup's bedside, just as he was when he wasn't eating with Stoick or outside...doing whatever it was he had to do outside. Stoick sighed in relief and began searching for some fish to smoke over the fire.
The Night Fury smelled his lunch almost immediately after Stoick had it on the plate. It poked its great head out of the doorway at the top of the stairs and eyes him curiously. Stoick shooed him away with a wave of his hand. "Oh no, you great brute," he said, "You're not getting my lunch too, now. Off with ya! You already had my breakfast!" The Night Fury snorted in what Stoick thought might have been derision and stalked back into Hiccup's room. Stoick ate his lunch in peace.
Aside from the dragon and the comatose boy in the bed, Hiccup's bedroom was empty. Astrid had come and gone for several days, checking up on the boy whenever she could, but Stoick hadn't seen hide or hair of her all day. He wondered if she'd finally taken Gothi's advice to get some rest, something Stoick himself had been avoiding for days now. He sat on the little chair by Hiccup's bed and took up the cloth soaking in the bowl on the floor. He squeezed the excess water out of it and leaned over to place it on Hiccup's head. Just like every other day, Stoick assessed his son's face for any sign of improvement, and just like every other day, there wasn't any. Stoick leaned back again with a sigh and look over at the Night Fury. It sat with its head on Hiccup's abdomen, and its gaze rose and fell with the boy's breathing. Nevertheless, that gaze remained steadily on Stoick, never blinking.
Stoick knew quite well that the Night Fury didn't trust him. He hadn't given it very much indication that it could when they first met, and while he'd done his best to make up for his actions, they still had a long way to go. The fact that he was allowed in the room was a sign of the progress they made; the fact that he could lay a towel on Hiccup's head, another. Still, every movement Stoick made around Hiccup was watched and judged by two unblinking green eyes. Stoick watched the Night Fury back. Hiccup may trust the beast, but Stoick didn't—not entirely—and especially not around his son.
Stoick wasn't very good at showing it, he knew, but he did care for the boy. While he knew it wasn't an excuse, part of the reason for his neglect of the boy was all of his similarities to Valka. Another, of course, was his role as chief, a role that made single-handedly raising a child difficult, especially a child as wild and headstrong as Hiccup. Still, he did his best, and while his best obviously wasn't good enough, he had vowed the day after the battle to try much, much harder as soon as Hiccup woke up. Now, Stoick was beginning to wonder if Hiccup would ever wake up.
With a grunt, Stoick got up and wandered the room, conscious of the Night Fury's eyes on him. Idly, he meandered over to Hiccup's desk and began to flip through some of the things there. There were pencils and blank papers, a low candle in dire need of replacement, and several, several drawings. Stoick sat in the desk chair and scanned each with interest.
The older ones, he noticed, were of Astrid. Dozens and dozens of portraits of Astrid, each highly-detailed and dated in the bottom right-hand corner. Many were old and smudged by constant use and movement around the desk, but a few were on the top and intact. The better ones, Stoick soon realized. The ones Hiccup was proud of. The newer drawings were of the Night Fury and its saddle contraption. Stoick knew just by looking at them that there were more—most likely in Gobber's workshop—because there were sequences of flight patterns that were incomplete and notes about dragons that looked like they'd been torn from a notebook. Probably because of the mistakes all over the paper, making them mostly illegible. There were other contraptions, too, and as Stoick flipped through the papers he scratched his beard and began to form a growing ball of pride. His son was an accomplished artist, more than that, he had the makings of a brilliant engineer. Even the built and failed machines were well-thought out and planned, with notes about what didn't work and how to fix it scattered along the edges. He smiled and made a mental note to Gobber to show him all of Hiccup's work. Perhaps the two of them could perfect some of those machines and make them truly useful.
There's so much about him you don't know, that annoying little voice reminded him, and Stoick grunted.
A knock (more like several frantic bangs) sounded from the door downstairs, and the Night Fury perked up at Hiccup's bedside. It growled, but Stoick waved it away. He stomped down the stairs as the banging grew more and more frantic. "I'm coming, I'm coming!" he shouted, annoyed. He swung the door open. Fishlegs's father stood at the door, arms crossed and a Terrible Terror hanging from the hen of his tunic.
"This is the third time today," he growled and pushed into Stoick's house. "The third time today I've had to deal with one of these...beasts!...and frankly, Stoick, I've had enough!" He spun towards Stoick as he ranted. "The Gronkle's fine, sure, I don't care what 'Legs does, he's almost a man, but I have been picked up by a Nadder, pushed over by a Monstrous Nightmare, and then—when I was taking some fish home to my wife—this wee beasty latched onto me! I haven't been able to get it off for an hour, now! Not even 'Legs can get it!"
Stoick crossed his arms. He had a sneaking suspicion as to what was coming next, but he still asked, "So what are you here for?"
Fishlegs's father straightened awkwardly. "I've come to see your son. The dragon tamer."
Stoick was right. "He's unconscious," he said shortly and opened the door. The man in front of him balked as he made his way out.
"Still?" he asked. "Well, damn, I guess just 'cause he lost his leg fighting a dragon that doesn't make him any less, well, Hiccup, right?" he laughed and Stoick glowered at him.
"I thought I told everyone never to speak ill of my son," he growled. He had, the first night home after the battle, Stoick made an announcement that Hiccup was to be treated with respect, as one of their own. This wasn't the first time he'd had to remind someone about that. Fishlegs's father cowered slightly, nodded, and left. The Terrible Terror let go as he broke into a run and took off in flight in another direction.
Gobber came with Hiccup's newly finished leg the next morning, about an hour after the boy's fever finally broke. For Stoick, it felt as though things were finally beginning to move forward. The Night Fury gave a soft warning growl to Gobber as he came in, but it was nothing like the pounce the blacksmith had received when he first came to check on Hiccup. When Gothi unwrapped Hiccup's leg for the fitting, Stoick was relieved to see the stitches healing nicely and no infection had set in. Gobber's craftsmanship was perfect as usual; the leg fit the boy wonderfully. He'd added some extra padding, for comfort's sake, and the straps were easy enough to get on and off. Gobber made a point of teaching Stoick how it was done.
"This one wraps around his leg like this, see? And then it tightens with this here buckle—so it doesn't fall off. And then you strap this one in like that and..." he pulled the second strap tight. "There ya go!" Gobber beamed at him. Stoick simply nodded his thanks. He knew that Hiccup would need his help—someone would have to teach him to put the leg on and take it off, and Gobber couldn't always do it, what with his apprentice out of commission and jobs still needing to be done. Stoick had logically known this since the very beginning, but learning the way to put the prosthetic on, seeing Hiccup's nearly-healed stump...it somehow made it all the more real. He thanked Gobber and sent him away. Gothi left of her own accord a few minutes later. Thankfully, she guessed that Hiccup would wake up soon.