A HtTYD one-shot from Hiccup's POV, on the origin of his name.
For years I had always wondered why my father named me Hiccup. Always too afraid to ask him, I kept the question to myself and would only subtly mention the inquiry to Gobber, who probably would have given me the answer if he knew it. The best the old one-armed, one-legged blacksmith could come up with was, "I'll bet it comes from that time long ago, back when Frigg was still sewin' ya together in your mum's body, when ya gave your first hiccup. Yes, you were hiccup'n like crazy in there, still only about as big as your father's fist! None of us could recall anything like that ever happenin' before then!"
It was a great story, and it was probably a true one, but it didn't seem like the right answer to me. If you don't know Gobber, he's known for adding a good dose of make-believe into his stories; sacrificing truth for a good and interesting fireside tale. His idea of where my name came from could very well have been pulled right out of the big, blue sky of Berk, but I'm pretty sure he's telling the truth.
Even if that were the origin of my name, it didn't explain where the "III" comes from. It's a family name, apparently. But I've never been told anything of the ancestors bearing my name.
They say the Naming Dame names the children in the village at their birth with a good, Viking-like name that will carry them into their adulthood destinies, but Gobber always told me that my own father gave me my name the night I was born. The calm, cold and snowy evening that I was brought into life, and my mother up into Valhalla where she belonged with the other great Viking warriors who'd long since passed on.
This bothered me for a long time, until one gloomy summer evening when I thought nothing in my life could get worse than what had happened that very day.
My father had always loved questing and adventure, seeking out unexplored islands, discovering buried treasure, fighting other Viking tribes, and all sorts of the other things that happen when you go on a quest. A week before, he and a group of his close friends set out in their boats toward the south, embarking upon The Quest to Annoy Those Pesky Meatheads – which would later be known as The Quest of No Return. I didn't want to go that time. Usually if it involved fighting another tribe, I was content to stay home and practice keeping the villagers in check while my father was away – something I desperately needed to learn, since I was going to become the Chief one day – draw, fish and play with Trippwit, who at the time was only four, or work down in the Forge by myself to pass the time and hone my skills. I watched that day as my father boarded his large ship, The Dancing Wave, grinning ear-to-ear, then stood facing the salty wind with his large, braided red beard gently rippling in the breeze. I couldn't help but smile at the sight. My father made a pretty awesome leader; I had to give it to him.
I stood at the shore with little Trippwit at my side, and we both waved at my father as he sailed out to sea, wishing him the best of luck at the top of our lungs. We stayed there at the shore, watching the big boats slowly turn into small dots on the horizon, right up until they melted away from view; entirely oblivious that only one of the five boats that had just sailed away would actually return.
The weeks that progressed in their absence were fairly uneventful, except for one night where a nasty storm bubbled up through the Inner Isles and descended upon Berk, throwing fits of gusty wind and pelting rain on us for five days straight. The ocean churned and thrashed like a god in the heat of a fever, and the harsh waves caused lots of damage to our boats. All I could do was pray to Thor that Dad and his group of men had already made it safely to the island the Meathead tribe lived on. And of course hope that they weren't still bobbing around in the roiling ocean like a piece of driftwood on those choppy waves.
Five months passed and finally there appeared a speck on the horizon – a telltale sign that the ships were probably returning. The entire village gathered down at the shore… only to see that there was just one boat slowly creeping closer to Berk. It had only seven men on it, and when they landed, they brought back no treasures, no stories, no smiles – only a body wrapped in white sheets.
The body of my father, I soon learned.
Despite being an extremely good swimmer, my father had been thrown off of his boat during the storm, and his ship splintered to pieces against some tall, jagged rocks shooting up from under the water. He and quite a few of his other men drowned in that storm.
That night I shut myself into my house, locked the windows and doors, and refused to be visited or consoled. I had always been prepared to lose my father unexpectedly – since it's an occupational hazard of being a Viking – but I guess I never thought about just how hard it was going to be when it did happen. All of a sudden, I'm the Chief of the Tribe, and have to keep everyone safe and make sure they follow all the rules; don't get themselves or the rest of us in trouble, and ensure everyone's well-fed and well-looked-after. Caring for a single child was hard enough; I couldn't even fathom what caring for an entire village was going to be like!
And it was in this moment of mulling and mourning and muttering incoherently to myself that I noticed something sitting on my table. A folded-up piece of paper, marked in ink with my name on it. I was sure it hadn't been there the last time I checked, and when I opened it up and began to skim through its contents, tears filled my eyes. I had found my answer to the question I had always been so afraid to ask.
To my dearest and only Son, Hiccup –
You know I'm not the writing-type, so I hope you'll forgive my misspelled words and awful handwriting. There is something you should know, but I've never found the right words to tell you. When you find this, I'll probably be dead and buried in the ground. I instructed Gobber not to give it to you until I'm brought through the Big and Mighty Gates of Valhalla.
When I married your mother – beautiful, majestic Eira Torvald the Intelligent – we never put much thought into having children. In fact, we were happily married for three years before you ever came along. We hadn't planned you. You came at a very inopportune time. A mistake, a hiccup, it seemed. For a while, we didn't even want you. But as you grew inside your mother, you grew in our hearts as well.
I was beginning to believe that this accident of a child could possibly become an important part of my life, and anticipated your arrival, as did your mother, but she fell ill in the last days of her pregnancy, and gave you birth when she was yet at her weakest. My beautiful, strong bride had fallen into the most weak and helpless state I had ever seen her in, and she never lived to see your little face.
(It's been quite a while since I've recalled these memories… forgive the tears on the paper, son.)
But when I looked at you – your small, fragile, sickly frame and red, freckled face – I became angry and bitter. You were nothing like the brawny little Viking boy I expected. Instead you were sick and weak, and I believed that I had been cursed with your existence. It was never meant to be. It was all a mistake. A hiccup, like we had believed so many months earlier when we first learned we were to be parents.
So, hardened and bitter from dear Eira's death and the fact that my one and only son was nothing like a Viking, I gave you that name as a curse to your very existence. The two previous Hiccup Horrendous Haddocks were so named because they were sickly, tiny, not very Viking-like things born to the Chief, and were frowned-upon as a curse to the royal blood. Little hiccups. Children never meant to be born to Chiefs of our tribe. Yet they were still born and raised, and only brought about bad luck on their fathers' land and people.
Naturally, I expected as much to come out of you. Yes, there were many times when all you had to do was step out the door for disaster to break loose. Yes, you were completely different from the rest of the Viking children. And for nearly your entire life, that's all I believed you were.
But then I saw what you had done for that dragon – the very dragon that was supposed to be the most fearsome and deadly dragons mankind had ever known – and the commitment you showed to him; it was all displayed when you came riding on the back of Astrid's dragon right into the middle of danger, to save the life of that Night Fury. Something changed inside of me that day, Hiccup. You had tried to prove to me that our violent, fool-hardy way of life could be changed by understanding and loving these creatures, and I refused to listen until I saw you return for Toothless. I realized that I had been wrong to treat you in the way that I did, and that maybe… maybe you were meant for something great and meaningful all along; like the gods had blessed your existence when I believed it was the opposite.
You were supposed to be an accident in my life, but you turned out to be the most important and wonderful thing to ever happen to me. I ask forgiveness from the Great God Odin every day of my life for cursing you as I did, and will beg for mercy to the day of my death.
For everything you have done, and everything you became, I'm proud of you. I'm proud to say you are my son, my own flesh and blood, the rightful heir to my throne. You were no accident, no mistake. You're just Hiccup, and that's why I'm proud of you.
Guard the people and treat them well – they're yours to look after now. I will see you on the other side when it's your turn to come.
Sincerely, Your Father,
Stoick the Vast, Chief of the Hairy Hooligan Tribe, Oh Hear His Name and Tremble, Ugh Ugh
As I gazed down lovingly at that letter, and my tears fell and slid past the soft smile on my face, I found that I had more than just my answer. I had the assurance that my father loved me and was proud of me; something I had questioned all my life.
It also makes me think of life differently. Maybe those things that happen unexpectedly, that we think have no purpose or meaning, or that we believe were never meant to happen, could be the very thing that changes us for the better; something that becomes a part of us and our future.
That little hiccup might just be a blessing in disguise; hiding underneath insecurity and smallness, jumping at the chance to change your life and prove you wrong.