Lost and Found

Fjola the Fierce was a small woman, but she had more than earned her name. She wasn't especially pretty in the traditional sense, but she was a spitfire of a shield maiden, stubborn and more vicious in battle then men five times her size, returning each time drenched in the blood of her enemies. And he had been absolutely smitten with her from the day she had first slammed a broken spear on his workbench and threatened to run him through with it if he didn't have it fixed within the hour, way back when he'd been nothing more than a fumbling apprentice.

The courtship process wasn't easy or safe, but he hadn't minded her threats of dismemberment or dodging axes and spears when he showed up at her house each morning at her doorstep trying to woo her. In time, her death threats lessened into annoyed grumbles, and she began not minding him as much. When he lost his arm battling the dragons, she was the first face he saw upon awakening, smacking him over and over again with a pillow and threatening to murder him herself if he ever scared her like that again.

They were married a few months later.

Never in his life did he think he could be as happy as he was in the years that followed. Fjola was hardly the perfect wife- she was still too violent, and every attempt she made at cooking was more likely to set their house on fire then a dragon raid- but she was determined and feisty and absolutely beautiful in his eyes. And it only got better when they found out she was pregnant, just a month after his best friend and chief had announced that his own wife was expecting.

He and Stoick had drunk themselves half blind celebrating, laughing as they dreamed of their future children. Of sons who would grow into strong, capable Vikings. He could train his to be a fine smithy, and they could bond over the forge as Stoick's trained and fought and became the next chief of the tribe. They imagined their children growing up as friends, practically siblings or maybe, if one of them had a daughter instead, perhaps someday their children would fall in love and join their families into one. It was a glorious time for him and though Fjola had grown even more dangerous in the mood swings brought on by her pregnancy, both of them eagerly awaited the day their child would finally come into their lives.

Unfortunately, things rarely go as planned.

Val had gone into labor dangerously early. After a long, terrifying three hours with the midwife, she gave birth to a boy so small that he could fit into the palm of Stoick's hand. The village whispered at the new of the child's coming, nervous and pitying towards their chief. Newborns that came too early rarely lived through their first months, and the hard life of the Viking made it unlikely the small child would survive long even if it made it through the dangers of coming into the world too soon. It was all too likely that Stoick would have to bury his first child before the child's first birthday.

This realization- that something like this could happen to a Viking couple as strong and hardened as Stoick and Val, left him feeling more than a little frightened about his own child's chances. Fjola kept up a brave front and tried to tell him that he was worrying over nothing, but he could tell it scared her too. But there was little either of them could do about Stoick's fragile newborn, or their own child, save for turning to the Gods in prayer. Every morning when he awake, and every night before bed and every hour in between, he prayed hard that his child would make it into the world unscathed.

Three months after the birth of Stoick's child, Fjola went into labor right at the time that was expected. When the midwife came out of the room to tell him his wife had died in labor, his entire world came down around him. It felt as though he'd lost all his senses, and he was only dimly aware of the healers working vigorously to keep his child alive. Their efforts were in vain though, and his son died only six hours after his birth.

As his wife and son were set aflame in the pyre, he couldn't help but wonder what he'd done to make the Gods hate him so much that they would so cruelly rob him of his wife and newborn son. The pain he'd felt at losing Fjola was a hundred times worse than losing a limb or being wounded in battle, and he was certain in that moment that he would never recover from it.

And he didn't. He learned to life with that pain and try and convince others-especially Stoick- that he was fine. He cracked jokes and worked the forge and day by day he got better at acting and soon enough they all believed it. But the loss still ate at him, every night when he returned to an empty bed, or any time he found hidden traces of Fjola or the baby they were supposed to have around their (His now, technically, but it would always be theirs) home. Some days it was harder to hide it then others, but he learned that keeping busy and not thinking helped a little, though it made Stoick worry from time to time.

Not that that was the biggest concern that Stoick had. The little, fragile thing that Val had given birth to, surprisingly, lived through its first month. And the year that followed. And several more after that. But despite proving to be either astonishingly lucky or more hardy then he appeared, the tiny baby was still far too small for his age, even at the age of four, and Stoick was starting to worry. A Viking chief was supposed to be strong and big and tough, and the boy was exactly none of those things. A little bitterly, Gobber couldn't help but wonder why the chief complained to him about these things. His son was small, but at least he was alive, and so was Val. That was a lot more then he could say.

Two years later, when Val was gone and Stoick was left helpless with a son who wasn't at all what he was expecting, he felt terrible for those uncharitable thoughts.

Stoick, the strong, brave Viking chief who always guided them through everything and protected the village with his life, was lost and terrified and completely clueless as to what to do with his son. And as time went on, he became more and more lost and desperate when everything he tried to make the boy a better Viking failed miserably. The child didn't have the strength to lift any weapons, or the nerve to hunt or the patience to fish. He held things with the wrong hand, and he tripped and stumbled everywhere, and he never listened and- at the tender age of six- had already started sassing Stoick something fierce. Night after night he played a sympathetic ear to Stoick's complains as the chief tried desperately to think of something to do with the boy. Then one day, he told the chief something he wasn't expecting.

"Why don't ya send him ta me in the forge?"

At first Stoick had been aghast at the suggestion. He himself was a little surprised he'd thrown it out too, after the fact. But when he stopped to think about it, he decided that he really wouldn't mind having Stoick's son as an apprentice. Even if the boy was clumsy and awkward and everything a Viking shouldn't be. A little company in the forge wouldn't be that bad, and if it would lessen the complaints Stoick had about his son, then that might help go a long way in easing the pain and bitterness he still felt over his own lost child.

A few weeks later, Stoick conceded and Hiccup was given to him to be trained as the Blacksmith's apprentice. To the Chief's surprise, this didn't end with the entire village going up in flames like he was expecting. This wasn't to say that Hiccup was a perfect apprentice from day one. He was always fumbling and dropping things or breaking something, but his master was patient and good-natured, and didn't mind if he had to go over something a hundred times before the small boy understood.

It wasn't long before he found that he appreciated the boy's presence in the forge, and the way it gave him someone to talk to and tell stories of his wild youth. He never told the boy about Fjola or his son, but everything else was an open topic for discussion. And unlike Stoick, he actually appreciated the boy's developing wit and humor. Then there came the day when Hiccup first presented him with a sword he'd crafted all on his own (A little clumsy in some places, but actually not a bad weapon and quite a bit better than his own first attempt) and he had felt a surge of pride that almost sent him to tears that he blamed on non-existent onions as he blubbered happily at Hiccup, who was thrilled that he'd done something right.

It was then that he truly realize what it would feel like to have a son.

It didn't matter to him that Hiccup was clumsy, or sarcastic or abnormally small. He didn't care if the boy used the wrong hand, or spent hours drawing and daydreaming and coming up with all sorts of crazy ideas, none of which really worked. Because to him, Hiccup didn't have to be strong, or fearless or perfect. When he looked at the boy he didn't want a Viking, or a Chief or even an apprentice. He just wanted to know what it felt like, even for a little while, to have a son of his own.

And even when he messed something up, Hiccup couldn't have made Gobber more proud if he tried.