Hiccup's first Snoggletog as chief of Berk. Featuring an assignment, a gift, a question, and a little too much mead.
Chapter 1:
This is Snoggletog: a mid-winter excuse for drunkenness, carousing, scandalous stories, and more than a few neighborly brawls. For as long as parents have lived in Berk, they've taught their children that Snoggletog is a season to celebrate with the rest of the village, and for as long as children have lived in Berk, they've annually looked forward to making their own contributions to the general mayhem.
We have eating (not enough of that), drinking (far too much of that), games (usually of the indoor variety), and worst of all, dancing. No girl in her right mind would ever consent to dancing the Snoggletog jig with a one-legged boy. And no one-legged boy (or man) should ever ask . . . unless, of course, your name is Gobber and you can blame all ungainly stumbles on excessive consumption of mead.
But as boisterous and chaotic and miserable as Snoggletog sounds (and it is), there is one good thing about it: the exchanging of gifts. Some gifts are useful: new tools, weapons, clothing, food, or promised help with a difficult task. Some are ridiculous, like the year my dad gave me a war drum made of dragon bones and skin that I couldn't even lift. Other gifts are highly symbolic: the best black eye I've ever seen was Ruffnut's gift to Snotlout after he gave her a mouse pelt. Dad never did explain to me what that was supposed to mean.
But this year, this year, Snoggletog is going to be different. Because this year I will actually have something to celebrate. That is, if I can finish this gift in time.
"What's that yu're workin' on there, Hiccup?"
I drop the pliers with a clang and turn around, hands behind my back. Gobber, having once again startled me, is leaning against the wall, arm nonchalantly crossed over stump.
"N- nothing," I stammer, trying to hide both my embarassment and my project. I wish I didn't stammer; it's undignified, and as chief, I need all the dignity I can muster.
"Oh, really?" he persists. "I haven't seen ya spend so much time in yer little corner since ya were in Dragon Training all those years ago."
"Fine," I relent, "if you must know, it's a project." If I'm lucky, that much will satisfy his curiosity.
I am not lucky.
"And what kind of project would occupy so much of yer time that ye've forgotten about decoratin' the Hall?" Now Gobber is leaning his good arm on the anvil and wagging his stump in my face.
The new subject is a straw which I grasp eagerly. "The Hall? I asked Ruff and Tuff to organize decorations."
"That's precisely what I mean, Hiccup," he protests. "Those two are more likely to destroy it than decorate it."
The words slip out before I can stop them. "Destruction or decoration, it can't look any worse than it usually does." Sarcasm will be my undoing someday.
"Oh, so while yu're busy, the twins burn the Hall to the ground in their overwhelming enthusiasm ta help."
Gobber is peeved. I can see it in his posture and hear it in his tone. That means disaster is either imminent or already upon us.
"If you like, Gobber, why don't you go supervise?" I suggest, hoping against hope he'll take the hint.
No such luck. "Well that just brings me back ta mah question: what are ya doin' that's takin' so much time away from ya preparin' for the celebration?"
"I - I can't tell you, Gobber. It's a secret." It sounds lame, I know, but Gobber's wasting my time and I need to finish this project. His face falls; it's been about five years since the last time I kept a secret from Gobber. "I'm sorry. Look, why don't you go help decorate the Hall?" His look of consternation tells me I've said the wrong thing. "Tell the twins I sent you. I'm sure they could use some help, you know how much they fight."
Gobber's still not happy with me. "Well, all right, Hiccup. I just thought ya might confide in me . . . like yer father did."
Now he's making me feel guilty. One more failure to add to the growing list.
"Ya know, if ya ever need any help, ye can always ask. Anytime."
"Thanks, Gobber," I reply, avoiding eye contact and not trusting myself to say more. He hesitates, then finally leaves, grumbling something inaudible.
That makes one more reason to dislike Snoggletog: decorating the Hall can lead to hurt feelings. I sigh, retrieve the pliers, and turn back to my work.