This was the prologue to an AU I started and realized I'd never finish. This chapter, though, could stand on its own, and I figured it would make a pretty good oneshot. This is about the Naming Dame of the Viking Tribes in the book series and her relationship with Runts. It would have led into an AU where Stoick and Valhallarama cast Hiccup into the sea instead of keeping him, but he still survived to change Viking history, something the Naming Dame would have hated.
Thank you for reading, and please review!
The Naming Dame
The Naming Dame was the prophetess of the Vikings of the Barbaric Archipelago. They only visited her for the Naming ceremony of their children, but she was more than just a woman who came up with names. She saw in the fire the Fate and Destiny of the children as she Named them. Most of the time, the children brought to her were Fated to be imbeciles: big, fat brutish Vikings who would not impact society in any way at all.
But sometimes the children were different. These children were usually smaller than the other Vikings. While in other cultures, these children would be welcome additions to society, all the Vikings saw was strength and other physical abilities. The Naming Dame was a Viking at heart, and she frowned upon these children as much as the normal Vikings, if not more so.
They were called Runts, and once they were brought to the Naming Dame and Named the Runt Name of their Tribe, they were cast out to Sea, or left helpless in the Wilderness, or sent to some other, similarly ghastly, fate.
The Runts, if they survived, were destined to Change the Viking society, and the Naming Dame was always the most conservative Viking of all. She abhorred Change. Thus, she always urged the parents of the Runt to cast them off. Nine out of ten times they listened to her.
But there was always that one time that they didn't. And there was always that one time where the cast-off Runt survived, and returned to Change the Vikings.
The Naming Dame always chose and raised her own successor. One girl child with the Talent to See in the fire more clearly than any other was always brought to her in her years. She would take the child from her parents and raise her, Nameless (for the Namer was always Nameless), as a prophetess—a witch, if you may.
When the old Naming Dame died, the younger Naming Dame assumed her position and Named the children brought to her, occasionally warning the child's parents of something that was to be in the child's future. Most of the time, she said nothing. Rare was the occasion where there was something interesting about a child that wasn't a Runt.
"Bring the child to me," croaked the ancient Naming Dame.
The two parents, nervous, brought their first son forward. The young Nameless girl hung in the shadows, watching, waiting for her turn to be the Naming Dame. She said nothing.
The ancient old woman took the baby in her arms and crooned to the fire in front of her. Oooh, it was spooky in the Naming Dame's cave. The Nameless girl hanging in the shadows, her eyes dead and shadowed even in her young age, the Naming Dame a bone-thin skeleton with long black robes draped about her, holding the parents' precious child. It sent shivers down the spine.
The two parents were the model of Viking Warriors. Their names were Squidface the Terrible, Chief of the Hairy Hooligan Tribe, and Brenda Bigarms the Sixth. They had been to the Naming Dame twice before with their two daughters, who were Named Brenda Bigarms the Seventh and Egginbreeza Six-Pints, but her cave never failed to unsettle them.
The Naming Dame took the baby boy, hardly three days old, in one arm and threw a powder into the flames in front of her. They flared up for a moment, then died down to their normal height.
The Naming Dame picked up the little boy, who was softly sleeping, and held him above the fire. "I Name thee Stoick the Vast," she croaked, "Hope and Heir to the Hairy Hooligan Tribe, O Hear His Name and Tremble, Ugh, Ugh."
Solemnly, she handed the child back to his parents. Squidface grumbled out in his gravelly voice, "Thank you, Madam," and Brenda echoed him.
They turned and left the cavern.
There was nothing different about this child.
"Bring the child to me," said the Naming Dame in a voice as smooth as honey.
The two parents, confident, brought their first daughter forward. There was no Nameless shadow in the corner for them. The old Naming Dame had died three weeks after she had Named Stoick the Vast, and in the two years since then, the new Naming Dame was confident and young. Parents bringing their children to her were happier and calmer, as she had cut away the vines covering the cave entrance and put some good curtains there instead, letting more natural light into the room inside. She also had decided to hold the babies in front of the fire instead of over it, to reduce the anxiety of the parents.
This little girl, barely three days old, was tired and dozing, but awake. She watched the Naming Dame's face drowsily, the flames warming her back. The Naming Dame cradled the child in one arm and flung the powder onto the flames. They roared upward, then fell back down. The Naming Dame held the baby in front of the fire and said in that soft voice, "I Name thee Valhallarama of the White Arms and Chunky Thighs." She frowned, looking into the fire. It was doing something strange. Usually the outlines of the child's life were vague and confusing, but this one was clear, with one name shouting in her brain.
Valhallarama is Fated to marry Humongously Hotshot the Hero.
How strange, the Naming Dame thought as she handed the baby back to her parents without another word. They thanked her and left.
Humongously Hotshot was a child brought to her one year previously. The fire had told her then that he would be a Great Viking Hero, and insisted she tell his parents. She had reluctantly informed the Vikings. She could tell that they were surprised. This Humongously Hotshot was the youngest child of a family of nine. The firstborns were supposed to be the Heroes. The Naming Dame had not liked what the fire had told her, but she trusted the fire. The fire was always right.
And now here was this baby, Valhallarama of the White Arms and Chunky Thighs, destined to marry Humongously Hotshot the Hero. How strange.
The Naming Dame was interrupted in thoughts by another couple bringing in their baby to be Named. She sighed, and turned to the couple wanting her attention.
"Bring the child to me," said the Naming Dame in a flat voice.
Six years had passed since Valhallarama was Named. The novelty of her occupation and Destiny had passed long ago for the Naming Dame, and she was now a young woman who was terribly bored with her job. However, she couldn't do anything about her Destiny. She abhorred Change too much for that.
The couple here were odd. One was a normal, brutish Viking with flaming red hair and bulging muscles. He was covered in blood-red tattoos, and his teeth were filed to points. An Outcast. She looked into the fire for his name.
Algarick Ogglebert. Jurassic the Red. Oiler, the fire told her. Chief of the Outcast Tribe.
The Naming Dame looked at the woman. She was small, with long raven-black hair. She, too, had tattoos, though hers were in blue-black ink, not red. She had long limbs, a large nose, and walked with a slouch. There was a singularly unpleasant wart on her chin.
Excellinor the Witch, the fire whispered.
A witch. The Naming Dame raised one eyebrow slightly, searching the fire for more about this Excellinor.
Witch. Intelligent. Conniving. Evil. The fire's answers were shuddering, and the flame flickered.
Still, she had to Name their child. Excellinor, who was carrying the baby, gave him to the Naming Dame.
The baby looked at her with solemn eyes, and the Naming Dame shivered. This was an evil child. She threw the powder in the fire, and as it revealed the child's name to her, she intoned in her flat, uncaring voice, "I Name thee Alvin the Treacherous, Heir to Jurassic the Red and the Outcast Tribe!"
The baby let out a cry as she finished. But it was not a cry for food or a cry of discomfort. This was a cry of malevolence.
The Naming Dame was glad when the witch and her husband left.
"Bring the children to me," the Naming Dame intoned only a few days later.
The two parents brought forward their twins. One was a boy, the other a girl. The father of the children was Moody the Murderous, Chief of the Murderous Tribe. The mother was the daughter of the Berserk Chieftain.
The boy child, screaming, came first, from the father's arms.
The Naming Dame did her powder trick, then held the boy in front of the fire and said, "I Name thee Madguts the Murderous, Heir to the Murderous Tribe."
The baby writhed and shrieked and the Naming Dame almost dropped him in the fire. At the last second, the Naming Dame put him on the ground next to the pot of the powder she threw into the fire. He whined and rolled toward the pot as his parents and the Naming Dame tried to grab him up. But it was too late, and he knocked the pot over. Some of the powder spilled out into his face, and he shrieked all the louder, because the powder tasted terrible and stung when it got into his eyes.
The baby Madguts screamed and whined, but eventually his pitiful noises ceased, although he continued to open his mouth.
Once his parents and the Naming Dame had dusted him off, his father asked, "What is wrong with him?"
"The powder has gotten into his voice box and burned it out," the Naming Dame said flatly, for she knew her powder well. "He will never speak again."
"What have you done to our child?" the mother asked in a shaking voice.
"It is not my fault," the Naming Dame said harshly. "It is what Fate has in store for him."
"He cannot be Chief if he cannot speak!" cried Moody the Murderous.
"Get a translator," she said bluntly. "And will he not be a fearsome and terrible Chief if he never speaks? Then none can take advantage of his words."
She returned to her place behind the fire. "Bring the child to me," she repeated, gesturing toward the placid, quiet girl baby held in the arms of the mother.
The couple exchanged a nervous glance before reluctantly handing their remaining child to the Naming Dame. She stared into the fire, threw the powder in it (which really did nothing—she knew the child's name just from the first glance at the fire, but it looked impressive), and intoned solemnly, "I Name thee Termagant." The name was rather short for a Viking, but her parents were only relieved that their little girl could still talk.
The Naming Dame did not waste time worrying about what Moody would do to her because of the powder accident with Madguts. The Naming Dame was, perhaps, in the eyes of the Vikings, the holiest person alive, and anyone who even suggested something against her, even the Chief of the Murderous Tribe, would be instantly shunned by every Tribe.
"Bring the child to me," the Naming Dame said in a slightly gravelly voice. Many years had passed since Alvin the Treacherous, Madguts, and Termagant had been Named. The child being brought forward now was the child of Baggybum the Beerbelly and Fainting Freda, two Hooligans. She remembered naming the father, Baggybum—he was the standard Viking, all brawn and no brains. Just the way she liked it. The way everyone liked it.
Respectfully, Baggybum brought his son, who even at this age had abnormally large nostrils, forward and placed him in the Naming Dame's arms. She did her powder trick; the fire flared. "I Name thee Snotface Snotlout," she said.
She was about to hand Snotface Snotlout back to his parents, but something made her pause.
Snotface Snotlout will be Chief of the Hairy Hooligan Tribe, the fire told her.
"Impossible," she muttered under her breath. The Chief of the Hairy Hooligans was this Snotlout's uncle, Stoick the Vast. His son would be Chief of the Hairy Hooligan Tribe.
Unless something happens to his son... she thought.
Tell them, the fire murmured. Tell them!
Reluctantly, the Naming Dame handed the child back to his parents and told them solemnly, "I have seen the Future, and it tells me that your son will be Chief of the Hooligan Tribe."
Baggybum's eyes widened, and Freda gasped.
"But—" Baggybum began.
"Do not ask me to share my secrets," the Naming Dame snapped. "I am your Prophetess, am I not? Do you not trust my words?" The fire has told me, and the fire is never wrong, she added to herself. She never told anyone the Truth, that all she did was read the signs in the fire, not See the child's destiny with some sort of Magic. It was the same as any old soothsayer, only much, much stronger, and clearer. No other soothsayer could see as clear as she could in the fire, she only could speak and commune with it. It only spoke to her; to soothsayers it showed simple, crude pictures. The Naming Dame was different, and her only friend was the fire.
Baggybum and Freda left shortly afterward. The Naming Dame sat and brooded, staring into the fire.
"Bring the child to me," the Naming Dame said two years later.
There was only one parent in this cave, a young woman. The shadow of her father waited beyond the cave entrance, eavesdropping intently. The Naming Dame approved of his bad form. It was proper Viking behavior.
She looked to the fire for her name.
Termagant, it whispered. Daughter of Moody the Murderous and Freaky Frankie of the Berserk Tribe.
The witch grunted. Half-Murderous, half-Berserk; yes, she remembered Naming this child, and her twin brother Madguts. The fire revealed other secrets to her: that Moody, waiting behind the curtains that were the entrance to her cave, was worried about this small baby being unfit for Viking life, and that the chieftain was ill with an incurable rotting disease. He would die in less than a year, leaving his fearsome son Madguts in charge of the Murderous Tribe.
Termagant was deep in depression for her late husband, lost in a storm before her baby was born. As she walked forward with her baby nestled in her arms, she shook with frailty. She, also, would not live for long—a month at most.
There was something else outside—three somethings. Dragons. No, one dragon, with three heads—a Deadly Shadow. Moody spoiled his daughter, she thought as she took the baby in her arms.
Instantly, she noticed just how small the child was. He was skinny and gangly, but his eyes were wide with wonder, and he cooed happily as he looked at the flames. But there was something him about him—something sickly and sad.
A Runt!
This child is Different, the fire murmured. It never called Runts what they were, only Different. But the Naming Dame did not dwell on this, she looked for his name. Even Runts did not deserve to die Nameless.
The Naming Dame felt that most keenly: names were very important to identity. While other cultures named their children themselves, without a Naming Dame, they were corrupted, with the weak living amongst them. The Vikings took their child to the one who could read the fire to find the true names—the Naming Dame. But it was essential that the Naming Dame have no name. It kept them separate from the normal world. But it was a great sacrifice: with a name came a sense of identity, knowing who you were. The Naming Dame felt the loss of a name every day. But it was not her fault, nor the previous Naming Dame's fault. She was born without a name, the fire decreed it so. So while the Naming Dame's only friend and companion was the fire, it was also the fire who Doomed her to only know it, and not even know herself.
It was a necessary task, and was looked upon as a Blessing. But it was also a Curse.
The fire told her that the child's name was Fishlegs as she brooded. She stared into the fire for a long time, brooding, long enough that Termagant began to show signs of nervousness. At last she snapped back to reality, threw the powder into the fire, and growled, "I Name thee Fishlegs."
Termagant blinked. "Fishlegs?" she asked softly. "What does that mean?"
"It means Runt in the Murderous Tribe," the Naming Dame hissed. "It is a rotting drag on society, an impossibility. The name is an impossibility in itself, fish do not have legs! Mark my words, if you do not rid yourself of this disease, it will bring down your whole Tribe!"
The poor mother looked heartbroken. Dejectedly, she took her baby in her arms and walked out of the cave.
The Naming Dame heard her and her father mount the Deadly Shadow dragon and take off, and then she was alone but for the fire in her cave.
One year later, the Naming Dame had quite a shock when Stoick the Vast and Valhallarama of the White Arms and Chunky Thighs visited her cave, a tiny little baby in Valhallarama's arms.
She first asked the fire for their names; when she received them, she froze.
Something has gone terribly wrong! she shrieked in her brain.
She remembered Naming Valhallarama, how the fire was so sure that she would marry Humongously Hotshot the Hero. Could the fire have been wrong? she wondered. She asked it as the couple walked forward.
Something has gone terribly wrong, the fire told her. Valhallarama of the White Arms and Chunky Thighs is Destined to marry Humongously Hotshot the Hero. Stoick the Vast is Fated to marry Grimhilda the Gormless.
"What will this lead to?" asked the Naming Dame as Stoick and Valhallarama stopped a respectful distance from the fire.
Change, murmured the fire. Different children. Different marriages. Children who are...Different.
"Runts," she whispered in horror. Not another Runt! There had been so many in the previous year—three, including Termagant's child. But the fire assured her that all had been properly disposed of.
She blinked, focusing on the couple in front of her. She had to Name their child, she had to proclaim it a Runt. It had to die, and this mistake had to be fixed.
Do not interfere, the fire whispered. There is nothing you can do to stop the marriage.
But there was something she could do to stop the atrocities that the Runt would bring. "Bring the child to me," she growled.
Stoick, who was holding the baby, brought him forward and placed him in the Naming Dame's outstretched arms.
In her agitation, the Naming Dame almost forgot to do her powder trick, but she remembered at the last moment to throw the powder into the fire and watch it rear upward, then die back down before she briefly glanced into the fire, collected his name, and spat it out at the Runt's parents.
"I Name this child Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third," she hissed, startling Stoick and Valhallarama with her anger.
Stoick frowned. "Aren't you going to name him my Heir?" he boomed in surprise.
"Your nephew Snotface Snotlout would make a fine Heir," she growled. "And this is a Runt." She spat the word out with unusual vehemence. The Naming Dame rarely got excited, but when something happened that was not the way the fire had told her, or she found a Runt, she got angry.
This was not how things were supposed to work.
"A Runt?" Valhallarama whispered through white lips.
"A Runt," the Naming Dame repeated. "This is a mistake. An accident! You—" She stopped herself just in time from spitting out Valhallarama's poisonous secret. The fire had told her not to interfere. She calmed herself and continued. "This," she growled, thrusting Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third into Valhallarama's startled arms, "should be cast out to sea. I am sorry," she said, not feeling sorry at all. "It will drag down the whole Tribe. It will be a disease. It will ruin you."
Stoick and Valhallarama looked shocked and angry. Stoick began to speak, but his wife elbowed him and gave him a look.
The Naming Dame bid the parents farewell, then sat poking the fire with a stick.
"Will they choose to keep him?" she asked the fire in a guttural voice.
Perhaps, it said, and that was all she could get out of it.
"Bring the child to me," the Naming Dame growled. A year had passed since Valhallarama and Stoick's baby had been named, with only one more Runt appearing in that time. She was much more concerned about something else: her successor. She was growing old, and if she was to raise a child, the child would need to come to her soon. She watched every girl baby with interest, hoping that it would be the one.
This child was also a girl. She felt excitement rising in her chest, and hoped with all her might that this would be her successor.
The parents were two standard Vikings—no, the mother was Big-Boobied Bertha, Chief of the Bog-Burglars. The father was the traditional Bog-Burglar male; submissive and not that bright. She looked into the fire for his name: Haddock Happyfarts.
The baby was tiny, her blonde hair wild and messy even at three days old. The Naming Dame felt a chill in her arms as Bertha gently placed her daughter in her arms. Runt, they seemed to whisper.
But as she looked into the fire, she found that the girl in her arms was stronger than any Runt she had felt before.
Nonetheless, when the fire whispered to her This child is Different before giving her the name, she resolved to throw it out anyway. Runts, even strong ones, were still Runts, still destined to Change things.
"I Name thee Camicazi," she said after her powder trick, "Disaster and Catastrophe Waiting to Happen, Runt of the Bog-Burglar Tribe."
Bertha and Haddock gasped in horror. Bertha had gone very white and Haddock was wringing his hands in anxiety.
"But, there must be some mistake!" Haddock burst out. "Our daughter is the Heir, not a Runt!"
"She is a strong Runt, admittedly," the Naming Dame said reluctantly, "but she is still a Runt. Camicazi is the name given to Runts in the Bog-Burglar Tribe. It means disaster and suicidal tendencies—she should be left to die in the mountaintops."
"No," whispered Bertha.
"Yes," the Naming Dame said grimly.
Bertha and Happyfarts took Camicazi out of the cave looking very worried.
The Naming Dame pulled her furs over her, brooding in silence.
There was everything wrong with that child.