Quick Note:
wow i finally finished the first chapter that's a whopping... 3k words. mostly of valka and stoick being gross and in love.
some notes about this: i'm going to be taking from the books, though not too much. mostly character relationships, specifically snotlout & hiccup being cousins, & old wrinkly because that old man reminded me so much of my dead grandpa when i was growing up reading httyd. there will be gratuitous use of headcanons. hell, if y'all wanna toss me some, go for it! i can't guarantee i'll add them, but i'm always up for smol hiccup and his shenanigans.
i wanted to do this story since 2010. i know a few exist, and i doubt i can do this idea justice, but i gotta try. the series is over and my brain won't let this idea go, so have this mess. it will get sad, for obvious reasons, but i plan to put as much fluff and humour in as possible to balance out the angst. there will also be a lot of h/c. i love my whump. hiccup is a disaster kid. we've all see httyd. the child is a NIGHTMARE. there will be a LOT in between now and anything after httyd, however. i plan to go as far as httyd 2, including httyd, riders & defenders, & race to the edge, with everything in between. it's gonna be a ride. we'll see how far we go.
mild warnings for birth (i tried to be very, very minute about details as the concept of birth creeps me out), & spitelout being an asshole. if you're uncomfortable by the idea of breastfeeding, it's implied, so just a heads up. i mean, a baby's gotta eat.
without further ado: TAKE THIS FROM MY BLOODY FINGERS
Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III is born on a cold, dreadful winter's morning.
Valka's labour is agonizingly slow, as painful as they come; her body burns, every muscle cramping where she perches against the wall for support. Eyes bore into her, shadows chasing the dying light of the hearth, and Valka wishes to shoo them all away—she's aware what they must think. Months early, this child is coming, on a day the year skips more often than not.
She gives a low moan, hands cupping the swell of her belly, and Stoick is up before she can chastise him. Large, warm hands swallow hers, her space narrowed to the thrall of Vikings waiting for their heir.
The elder, her father, her husband. Her brother-in-law and his wife.
This is her child.
"You're doing well," Stoick tells her, as though she has a choice. As though she can do anything else. "Alright, Val."
The dawn rises.
He's born so, so incredibly small.
They consider it an omen; they dare not speak it, not in front of her, but she's known these people her whole life. She needn't hear their voices to know their wills, and the love for this tiny bundle of limbs and toes outweighs her aching need to chase them out of her house. She washes down quick, Freda and Gothi keeping her steady, and her babe is washed of residue to ensure his breathing. Though his cry is quiet, it's strong—her babe is strong. If the gods had demanded his life, they'd have taken it by now, that much she is sure of, and she will not allow anything to be said otherwise. When Stoick meets her gaze, she pours this so desperately into her eyes, and if there's anything she believes in, it's the sanctity of her husband.
He will be safe.
They will be safe.
"He's barely alive," Spitelout declares, slamming his fist on the table. Valka's eyes roll so hard, she thinks the fever might return. "He won't last the spring!"
"I assure you, he's quite alive," Valka snaps, the babe cushioned against her breast. Nursing will be trouble, his tiny mouth finding it a struggle to latch, but he's as diligent as they come. Spitelout's glare sent her way is cold, but the other members of the counsel don't seem to share his opinion nearly as strongly. "He'll make it through."
"He's a runt," Spitelout argues, and at this, Stoick smashes his own hand on the table. Spitelout backs down. For now.
"He's an early birth!" Stoick yells, proud and furious, and Valka hides her smile in the warmth of her son's dusting of hair. "A survivor! Two months soon, and he has a cry of a warrior!"
The room falls silent, though her brother-in-law looks properly chastised. Valka isn't sure what she wants to name this child; he's beautiful, a spatter of freckles over the bulb of his nose, red-faced and incredibly fragile where he dozes in her arms. His cheek is squished against her breast, and though she can't consider it a successful latching, he had tried—for a babe this small, it's enough. They won't touch him. She will not allow them to.
"He's a hiccup," Spitelout says, and Valka glances up. There's no fight in his voice, just a statement of fact as he leans over their kitchen table, the cooking hearth casting a glow throughout the room. Freda remains silent, but spares a glance at Valka that screams pity, and something in her chest snaps.
"He is," she agrees loudly, holding her babe tighter against her, "and he'll prove to be stronger than any of you."
He's already overcome a traumatizing birth, one that's left her weakened and pained; he's done more in the last few hours than a babe of his size ought be able to.
"We don't have to settle this tonight," her father murmurs, a hand on her shoulder, and she realizes she's shaking, her blood cold as she stares at Spitelout with a fury she had forgotten she possessed. "You need rest, and I believe your son does, too."
"Hiccup," she corrects, firm in her choice. Stoick watches her carefully, but there's something like pride in the way he holds her gaze. "The Third, to be precise. His ancestors held the name well—as will he."
There's an uproar from both Spitelout and Freda, as though the very notion is unheard of. Valka knows their history, as well as they know hers, and while her father may not have seen this coming, she is sure of her position on this. Hiccup.
Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III.
"Are you sure?" her father asks, splaying a hand against her spine. There are few things in this world she's sure of: that she loves her husband, willow bark leaves earth residue on her tongue, and her son is meant for something great.
Something his ancestors left behind.
"I'm sure," she murmurs, Stoick's eyes boring into hers, indescribable emotion staring so openly back at her.
Not her son: their son.
"Hiccup," Stoick breathes, swaddling her with a great arm as he stares down at the lump in Valka's arms.
"This won't end well," Spitelout warns, standing abruptly from the table. It's unorthodox, choosing a name so quick, but Valka has never been ordinary.
If it means getting them out of her house, too? Well.
"I'll hear no more," Stoick commands, standing at full height. Valka gets little satisfaction from the curl of Spitelout's lips, the way Freda's hands encircle her husband's arm in support. They stand against her. This is fine, as far as Valka is concerned. "Val needs to rest, and the matter is settled. The ritual will take place at the end of the ninth sunrise."
Spitelout nods curtly, turning for the door, but not without one final snark. "If he lives until then."
Valka swears she will keep Hiccup's heart beating by her own will.
"He has your nose," she teases, those tiny hands grasping at air. Stoick bellows a laugh, tickling the underbelly of the babe in the wooden crib. "The poor boy."
"Hey, now." Stoick mocks offense, hand over his heart as he shoots her a look of pure betrayal. "I thought you fell for me because of my dashing looks."
Valka chuckles, leaning into his chest as they watch over their boy. Under any other circumstances, Hiccup would be sleeping with them, the three of them tucked away in their bed; unfortunately, Hiccup is simply too small, and Stoick had insisted on the crib. Valka is uneasy, leaving him unattended for the night, but he's a mere arm's length away. They've yet to head to bed, Hiccup awake and attentive while the moon is at its peak, and the hut has settled with all its aches for the night.
"He's so small," she whispers, tracing the round curve of his jaw. His skin is soft, bumpy with baby-rash. "Two months, Stoick. The tiny thing is a gift."
Stoick nods, tucking her close against him, a comforting hand smoothing the tangled, limp braids she's yet to fix. "The gods have blessed us, Val. His lungs are good, his heart beats. You've done it."
"We did it," she corrects, leaning up on her toes to press a gentle kiss to his lips. "Hiccup Horrendous Haddock. Your brother is furious."
Stoick snorts, leaning over her to admire the baby in the crib. Hiccup coos, a quiet wisp of a noise, and Stoick says carefully, "Spitelout is not one for history. Neither am I. But I know you, and I know Old Wrinkly, and this suits him well."
"He's a fighter." Valka slips away, seating herself on the edge of the bed. The crib is close enough that she only has to stand to reach her son. "He's shown that already."
"That he is." Stoick presses a kiss to the crown of Hiccup's head, nearly swallowing him in the thick of his beard, and the sight has Valka nearly in tears from both laughter and warmth. This is her family now: the man she's fallen in love with, and the boy they've brought into this cruel world. The boy they have to protect, not just from the tribe's judgement, but from so much more. She's yet to make her mark. To persuade.
Stoick joins her on the bed, easing her back and tucking her under the blanket, and she doesn't fight him. The adrenaline has worn off, the soreness of her muscles, her lower back, her pelvis—every movement is a fresh trauma over her skin. He sleeks the loose hair from her forehead away, a large, rough palm over her head, and she sighs, content to just be.
"I love you," she breathes, resting her hand atop his. He pulls her close, a comfort for the week's tasks ahead. "We have a son."
Stoick laughs a little breathlessly, lips against her neck as he murmurs, "He's perfect."
The first night, Valka considers, might be the hardest.
"Hush, little one," she coos, half-asleep and leaning against the wooden board of their bed. Stoick is dozing in and out, attempting to remain awake for her sake despite her pleas for at least one of them to rest. "You're alright."
Hiccup cries harder, a broken sound that Valka clings to because though he's screaming, he's loud, and this is important. She urges him to latch, and he fights her; she offers him her pinky, and while this amuses him briefly, the flicker of lightning outside that's chased by thunder has him wailing once again. He's very cute, even like this, his cheeks swelling with air and fists seeking her chest.
Valka will never say it out loud, but he reminds her an awful lot of a Terrible Terror.
"Yes, you're just fine, Hiccup," she murmurs, his crying eventually slowing to whimpering. She's making progress, and she hoists him up just enough to have him attempt a latch again, his mouth seeking, and she prays for—
Stoick gives a loud, boisterous snore. Hiccup wails.
"Oh, for Odin's sake, Stoick!" she snaps, kicking his foot under the blanket. He's up in a matter of seconds, seeking the danger and only finding his furious and exhausted wife. "He was about to nurse! I'm not sure what's worse: you or the storm!"
Valka's not truly angry, just frustrated, but the confusion that's painted over her husband's face is really something; she refuses to give in, to laugh, but Stoick wipes away a bit of drool around the corner of his mouth and she can't help it. She snorts, Hiccup still sobbing in her arms, and Stoick finally catches up to the situation at hand. Valka will get her son to nurse before sunrise, gods willing, but Stoick is awake now and it's his fault, so she passes the bundle of tiny human to her husband, Stoick taking him with a look caught between horror and affection.
"I'm sorry, Val," he mutters, adjusting Hiccup in his arms. Surprisingly, the boy's cries begin to cease, those same tiny hands finding purchase in the thick of his father's beard. "Didn't—"
"Hush," Valka whispers, watching in amazement as Hiccup, this… this small, pear of a baby, finicky and loud, tangles his fingers in Stoick's red mane of a beard. Happily. "Stoick, he's…"
"Atta boy!" Stoick exclaims, ever so careful to cup Hiccup's newborn head. "Ah, just wait son, one day you'll have your own."
"He's barely hours hold," Valka teases, pulling the blanket back as Stoick meanders back into bed. They're both wary of the precious bundle in Stoick's arms, the babe seemingly content to rest in the bulk of Stoick's beard. "He does have a mighty fine head of hair already though, I must admit."
She's struck with an idea, a way to perhaps have Hiccup nurse, and she motions for Stoick to hold still as she gently lifts Hiccup from his arms. He gives a weak cry, clearly displeased with this, but she settles him in the crook of her arm, against her chest.
"Come close," she says, nodding to her husband. "He wants you. I'll hold him, nurse him—but you let him hold you."
The look that shadows Stoick's face is their first kiss, the day of their wedding, the lilt of their voices when they sing; she guides Hiccup to latch while Stoick perches over the two of them, a hand on the back of Hiccup's head, and Hiccup calms enough to nurse. It leaves her exhausted, her forehead resting against Stoick's broad shoulder, and he protects the two of them for as long as it takes.
"He'll make it," she pleads, to herself, to the gods, to anyone listening. "He has to."
"Aye." Stoick kisses her cheek, the curve of her ear. "He came from you. I have no doubt."
"He's a small one," Gobber says, waving the wooden rattle attachment of his hand towards the babe in Valka's arm, "but he's a cute one, 'n' ye know I don't say that about just anyone's spawn."
Valka chuckles, Hiccup's barely-open eyes finding the toy curious, and Stoick claps a hand on Gobber's shoulder.
"Ah, Gobber." He sighs, staring down at his son wistfully. "He's already growing. Been less than a day, and he's already nursing better than Snotlout."
"That boy's a nightmare," Gobber agrees, pulling up a chair to the table and hunkering down. "Temper of a Monstrous Nightmare, that one."
While her body still aches, the wort's tea is beginning to soak in her veins, and the three of them sit around the kitchen with Hiccup tucked into the cusp of her arm. Stoick had appointed Spitelout the day's duties sometime in the early morn, and Valka isn't going to complain about having a day with just her son and her husband—and, of course, Gobber, who is having an incredible time trying to catch Hiccup's admittedly weak attention span.
"He loves beards," she points out helpfully, Gobber cocking his eyebrow. "Don't ask me why. I'm hoping it's a phase."
Gobber shrugs, but dangles one of his braids over the newborn, Hiccup's fingers immediately diving for the hair. Gobber laughs, shaking his head at the absurdity, and Valka grins.
"Barely a day and already has taste!" Gobber tries to tug away his beard, but it's held hostage by baby fingers. "Ack, you fiend. Give Uncle Gobber back his hair, now."
Stoick scoffs, and suddenly Valka has two towering, large Viking men over her, fighting for beard duty. "He prefers his father's beard, thank you, Gobber."
To prove his point, Stoick offers his tied nest of red hair, and Hiccup reaches for it with his other hand.
"Congratulations," Valka teases, looking at her Hiccup, already beginning to nod off with fistfuls of men's hair in his hands. "He's played you both for fools."
The naming ceremony takes place in the Great Hall, the entire village showing for the official naming of their heir.
Valka isn't nervous. Hiccup has grown, albeit barely, and he's taken to nursing—he wears his prematurity well, something she'll wear with him proudly. Her father sits with her near the back, Stoick speaking with his brother about something or other, and she takes a moment to collect herself. This is for Hiccup, for his future; he is the Hope and Heir of Berk.
"You've chosen an excellent name for him," her father says quietly, fingering at the hem of the fur wrap. Hiccup coos, but otherwise doesn't stir. "You do have a rather petty streak in you, my dear."
Valka shakes her head, a smile on her lips regardless.
"I don't know how to explain it," she whispers, staring at the bundle in her arms. "The war can't last forever, dad. He's…"
A lump in her throat, she swallows thickly, swiping angrily at her eyes; this is not the time nor place. Her father merely squeezes her knee, understanding even now as he says, "He is a beautiful boy, Valka. You and Stoick should be very, very proud."
"We are," she says fiercely, something more pressing on her mind. "If anything happens to me, or to Stoick, promise me you'll watch over him."
Her father smiles, a little sadly, and makes to stand. "Of course. That boy will always have someone to watch over him."
It's enough to ease her fears, at least for now, and the ceremony is about to begin; Stoick beckons to her, and she gives her father a quick hug.
The tribe watches her, as they usually do, and Valka holds her head high as she walks to the front, Hiccup fast asleep in her arms. The elders are chanting, and the runes have been hung to commemorate. This breathing, sweet, beautiful babe is oblivious to the responsibility he will one day carry, and Valka can only hope she can prepare him for what will come, for the inevitability of his future.
"Our son," Stoick murmurs, so quiet Valka almost misses it. She places a kiss to Hiccup's forehead, between his brows, and passes him into his father's arms.
The Hope and Heir of Berk.
"Your future chief!" Stoick declares, Hiccup on his knee, head held carefully. Valka kneels next to them, offering a prayer to the gods as Stoick splashes water on their son, their hope, their body and flesh and soul. "Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III!"
There's a beat of silence. Hiccup lets loose a sob, and the Hall bursts into cheers, cries of his name, of the future chief, of the Hope and Heir, and Valka doesn't bother to wipe away the tears falling this time.
Whether from relief or sadness, she doesn't know.
as per usual: both fic and author can be found at ao3 under same name/pen!