Walking through his village, the new chief of Berk looked around, once more. Ice. That's all he ever sees anymore. Everywhere he goes, there's ice. He passes former homes and structures that are being pierced with ice.
He sees children, who are no longer running house from house, giggling and screaming, sitting quietly on the steps of the Great Hall.
He sees his villagers, who are usually loud and very vocal, who are now quietly working to remove the cold, clear, splinters from their former homes.
He sees the dragons, who usually are running and flying and messing around, huddling in corners. They're avoiding the people. The people's dragons and most trusted allies. He can see the scars on the bodies from medal and beatings that the dragons took from being under his control.
And last but not least, he sees them. His team. His partners. His riders. His friends. His family. He sees them slowly sitting and covering their faces with their rusted and dirty hands. He can see the tears. The tears that are threatening to fall any second. He can see their eyes. He can see the sadness, the pain, the hurt, the worry. The loss of hope.
He knows. He knows. All of this suffering. All of this pain. All of the hardship. Is because of him. He knows that to be true. No matter how many times people tell him that it's not his fault, he brushes them off. Because it is.
If he had never flown from Berk that morning. If he had never went to that island with Toothless. If he had never confronted those dragon trappers. If he had never went after that madman. If he had never tried to reason with him. If he had never done any of that, then his people would not, absolutely not, be suffering the way they were. If he had never left that morning, then his home, their home, would not be covered and destroyed in ice.
If he had never left that morning, then he would still be alive. He would still be chief. He would still be sitting there, watching the races and cheering too loudly. His father...would still be alive. Stoick the Vast would still be alive.
If he had never ran that morning.
As he made his way past the silent village and into his own house, one of the few that were still standing, he felt anger. He felt hatred. He felt guilt. He felt it all. All at himself. All of this happened because of him. None of this would've happened if he never left that morning.
This could've been avoided. Easily avoided.
But he never listened.
The chief entered his hut and slammed the door behind him. He stared at the emptiness. The quietness that surrounded him. This could've been avoided. All of this could've been avoided.
But he never listened.
He then made his way, up to his room, where he silently sat down and shoved his face into his hands. Oh, how he hated himself. He was utterly disappointed and disgusted at himself. This was all his fault. He fell back into the bed, tears storming from his eyes, and his chest heaved with agony.
"One more chance," he whispered to the darkness. "Just one more chance."
But as always, there was no answer.
"Please, let the clock turn back. Please, rewind the time. Please, allow me to redo my mistake. The mistake that destroyed everything. Please," he whispered once more, with a very hoarse voice. "Please." His final plead was met with more silence and darkness as his eyes closed.
As his emerald eyes shut and his body slacked, the chief failed to notice the sky, the sun setting sky, rewinding.