I apologise for the crappy Scottish dialect. All I did was watch Craig Ferguson's show on Youtube and clips of Billy Connolly's stand-up, so it was a bit hard to spell out the sounds. Lol.
Send a Message
In the heat of his anger and horror, Stoick had stormed out in the wee hours of the morning. His mind in a fog, he somehow believed that would erase the memory of what he'd just witnessed. He now had perched on his knees on the edge of the shore, gazing out to sea. The sun not yet awake from its slumber, Stoick was left alone in his heartbreak, his entire body trembling in shock. He breathed heavily in order to compose himself, but he didn't want to be calm. Deep inside, he was raging and screaming, being engulfed by his grief. As he looked towards the blue horizon, the salt in the water dancing around him in the blustery winds, he felt her firm yet kind voice already starting to fade. The image of her crooked smile also began to dissolve to nothing but a distant, unreachable dream. And only a few hours ago, she was alive; perfectly well; perfectly healthy. Stoick repositioned himself, the urge to weep battling through, and his broad, mountainous shoulders shook violently. His wife, the one woman he'd ever truly loved, was dead. The tears streaming down his face gave him a feeling of fire burning his skin. His mighty howl was like that of a wolf. Stoick was not ashamed to cry now.
Gobber stood quite and still in the darkness of the morning air. He was only at the top of the harbour, watching out for his best friend, but he wasn't sure if he'd been discovered yet. The disabled blacksmith heaved a deep, inaudible sigh full of heartache for the chief. In all the twenty eight years he'd known Stoick, he had never seen the man cry. The bundle in his muscle-bound, hairy arms wriggled and squeaked. Almost heartbroken, Gobber gazed down at the face of the tiny baby boy. As if it was his own child, Gobber tenderly readjusted the woollen blanket he was wrapped in. The poor bairn was shivering slightly in the cold spring air. Even though he was a little hesitant to, Gobber decided to make his presence known. With a distinctive hobble, he stepped closer to Stoick. Before he got the chance to speak, the baby let out a little gurgly whine. Stoick whirled around, starting slightly. When he noticed the infant, his eyes immediately narrowed in pure rage. His face was soaked in tears.
" What are ye doing 'ere?" the chief ordered in a slow, rumbling snarl.
" This kid 'ere is yer son. I know Val would want 'im tae be with 'is dad," Gobber replied in a mumble. He didn't really know what to do with himself. He'd never felt this awkward around Stoick before.
Stoick scoffed. He rose to his feet, making himself look bigger than he actually was. " My son? Ye think that…creature is my son? No son of mine would kill his mother."
The large man growled again in disgust at the sight of the pathetic little boy. He brought his shoulders down and straightened his spine. He then became to walk away to mope in solitude. But for Gobber, it was a terrible sight to see. Yes, Stoick was allowed to grieve, but he was giving up the fight before it had even begun. Vikings were better than that, and Gobber was disgusted that Stoick was going against all his principles.
" She went on 'er own terms, Stoick," he said. He skipped a few paces to catch up with his friend. " She bled so much…" He trailed off and swallowed hard, suddenly overcome with emotion. " There was nothin' I could do, Stoick," he went on, shakily. " Ye know that."
Stoick stopped in his tracks, his shoulders back, his head slightly raised. He turned slowly and leant forward, almost pressing his bearded face against Gobber's. With an animalistic scowl, he muttered, " Prove it."