Disclaimer: I do not own "How to Train Your Dragon."
A/N: This idea has been floating around in my mind for quite some time now, and I finally decided to answer it. So enjoy, and let me know what you think!
Twelve years before the bond between man and dragon had been established, when all the final scurrying for winter's fury had reached its climax, an old woman with spider-withered hands arrived to meet with the Chief of the village, Stoick the Vast.
It was tradition that on the third birthday of the Chief's sons, when it was certain they would not be taken by infant disease, that the elder of the village come and tell whether or not he would one day become Chief.
Now Stoick, who still had not accepted the fact that his wife was gone, had little hope that his son, the runt of the litter, would become Chief, but was willing to see anyway. Maybe it was the fact that he was his only son, or maybe because his mother had loved the boy so much that believing otherwise would be disrespectful to her memory. But for some reason he still retained hope for him. A hope so inexplicable that it angered him to the core.
A bony knock came at the door, the father had been so angst ridden that he nearly jumped out of his chair to open it. It was time. Passing a sudden hesitance, he opened the door, feeling the biting cold sting his nose. He had to adjust his gaze to meet the short old crone's and quickly invited her in.
How she had not froze to death in her frail elderly state, he would never know, but he did not care now. Now was the moment when he would find out whether or not his son, Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III would become Chief.
The silent old woman walked ominously over to the cradle in which he lay, tossing and turning in infantile behavior. Her cracked old lips spread into a warm smile as she placed a hand atop his forehead.
Stoick watched from afar, trying to maintain his composure while the crone did her work. How long will this take? Is taking more time a good thing or a disastrous one? His thoughts had no time to organize, because the old crone had straightened from the crib and was now facing him.
It was as if life itself had froze in this instant, like the gods were watching him, and he stood tall and with as much dignity as he could muster. Slowly a trembling old finger pointed toward a yellowed paper on a desk nearby.
Good, she has something to say. He thought and like a dog, fetched the paper. He then followed around to her back to observe her writing from over the shoulder. The charcoal flowed in strange patterns that to a normal eye would appear babble and utter nonsense, but to him it meant both happiness and fear.
He translated it as: Becoming Chief will be but the most minuscule of his accomplishments. However, you will not live to see it. But fear not, his great accomplishment will present itself with you as the ultimatum.
His heart was enveloped in bittersweet essence. His son would be Chief! But it was not something he would live to see. He then realized that she had not yet finished. He continued: But beware the most perilous threat to our well-being will be in the hands of your son. His desire will be called by something, and if he chooses to answer that call, it will bring the end of his life and the life of Berk.
In an instant she folded the paper up and tossed it in the fire, leaving Stoick bewildered. That couldn't be it! There were so many questions left unanswered. Is he supposed to prevent this? What will call his son's desire?
His ravaged and torn face looked to hers for the answers, but she was gone. All that remained was the faint sound of embers rising from the mantle, and the distant sound of a dragon approaching the village.
Limply he grabbed his axe above the mantle, taking a brief moment to look at his son in the cradle. "Your mother always believed that you would do great things… and I'm going to make sure that nothing hinders your path." He tightened his grip on the weapon, then in a new surge of confidence, threw open his front door and ran for the beast that had begun to torch homes by the shore.
Twenty three years later, the sun shone bright above the village as a twenty-five year old Hiccup soared over the town on his companion, Toothless.
The ecstatic dragon basked in the warmth of the early summer sun, allowing his tongue to hang out over the side of his mouth. He loved the feeling of the wind whipping it, but would only do it when he was truly happy.
Hiccup on the other hand, preferred to keep his tongue inside his mouth for, one time he decided to mimic his friend and ended up choking on an insect.
"All right, bud, whaddya say, we try the mountain again?" He saw the dragon's head set, determined. "I'll take that as a yes."
Aside from the attire he regularly wore, he had made some upgrades. Taking inspiration from Astrid, he forged steel shoulder plates which descended down the triceps to his elbows. He also had a pair of fine leather and steel plated gauntlets which kept his finger exceptionally warm.
After they had reached the mountain top he realized that he had been followed. The Nadder came to a stop next to him; its wings glistened with slick sturdy steel armor while the metal on her head flowed to just above the mouth. The Viking that rode the saddle jumped into the snow below; face hidden beneath horned iron, the rider approached. The helmet was carefully removed, thick blonde hair poured out, instantly captured by the wind. Eyes of ocean blue washed over him as they caught his. Sometimes her beauty caught him off guard. This was one of those times.
As her sweet, slender figure approached, she began, "Your mother's looking for you, says it's important."
He loved the way her delicate voice sounded, taking every word she spoke as a gift. He thanked her for the message. "I will be down in a moment. Will you be joining me?" He retain hope to be able to spend some time with her. She had been so busy over the past few months that he had hardly even seen her face. Having her deliver the message to him was a blessing.
"I'm sorry, but I can't. I have too much to do. Maybe I'll stop by tomorrow." She tried at a smile.
He forced a smile back, that's what she always told him; tomorrow, the next day; always giving something to keep his mind positive. But it was not her fault, and he knew it. It was his fault if anything. He had made the decision to make her his assistant: a job that is very consuming.
She seemed to like it though, and that at least made him happy.
As she departed, he set his sights down the perilous slope before him. "Ready, bud?"
The dragon barked in confirmation. Muscles contracting in his legs he launched off the side, speeding downward. As incredible the feeling of rapid descent was, it was overshadowed by a sudden longing to spend time with his friend, Astrid.
They soared into the village moments later, Toothless upset by his friend's behavior; he had no loud, joyful cheers nor did he compliment him on his performance. He just smiled thinly and went to his house. He knew he had not done anything wrong, but that something else occupied his friend's mind. And he was going to help.
He approached the familiar shack of a home with his friend by his side, observing his solid distant face as his mother greeted him.
The older Viking had lines of happiness tugging at her cheeks as she excitedly dragged her son over to a small table.
"Mom," He whined, "what's so important that you had to drag me from flying with Toothless?"
"Oh, just you wait! You'll love it, I'm certain of it!" She turned away from him fiddling with something he could not see.
What could it be? he wondered. Not normally would his mother get this excited over something. So natural intrigue consumed him.
She turned around and his eyes fell on a small dark wood chest that was poised in her hands. "What is—"
"It's a chest from your father!" She was nearly jumping from the balled up excitement.
Now it was his turn to show emotion as his eyebrows raised nearly off his head. "What? What's inside?"
"I haven't opened it yet. I thought I should wait for you. It's only right to do this together."
He eyed the strange box, noting its sinuous metal designs. "Where did you find this?"
"It was tucked into your old cradle. I happened to come across it while I was rearranging things. There was a note on it," she handed the aged slip of paper to him. It read: To my son, for all the great things you'll accomplish in life.
Lowering the paper he saw the warm smile of his mother, arm extended with chest balancing on her palm, "Here you are."
He grabbed it; Toothless sniffed it, immediately recognizing the scent. He drew back and looked to his rider's face. Hiccup popped the thin latch and slowly opened it, the hinges sticking from age.
Inside he saw a withered piece of paper with a small dragon crest necklace lying on top. He shook his head and swiftly closed the chest, handing it back to his mother.
She grabbed it with a confused hand, "Do you not want this?" she asked, her tone soft.
He continued to shake his head, "I'm sorry, it's just… too much right now. I'll look at it in the morning."
Her lips curved with sympathy, still years later the subject of his father was vulnerable. She watched his retreating back move up the stairs, closely followed by his companion trying to cheer him up.
She looked down to the small box and dared to peek inside. Bright gold reflected from a within and she quickly closed it, knowing exactly what it was.
Quivering, a tear escaped her eye as she hugged the box. It was the pendant that Stoick's great grandfather had made. It had been worn by his son who gave it to his son who now... gave it to his son.
Later that night, Hiccup's mother invited the weapon forger, Gobber, over to show him this chest. She felt it right to do this considering how close the two had been. She cradled the small wooden box in her arms as she peered into a dark room, watching her son sleep blissfully. Thin, pale moonlight illuminated his features, she noted the way his arms lay, one under his pillow, one on top. He never did outgrow that habit. She thought.
She felt tears spring into her eyes as she noted the similarities between his appearance and Stoick's. Sure he had her eyes and facial structure, but the nose; large and bulbous. The mouth; thin but capable of carrying swift ferocity, and then the hair; smooth silk auburn, with frayed ends that would no doubt need to be one day, tethered. Those were his father's.
She sighed, "My boy…"
The sudden touch of a hand on her shoulder caused her to recoil in a gasp, only to see the lopsided face of Gobber. She allowed a sigh of relief to flow from her as she recognized the face.
"I'm sorry miss, didn't mean to scare ya." He apologized. He felt the tension in her shoulders, couldn't help the concern. "Is everything all right?"
"Yes. I was just… caught up in the moment." She sighed again, looking back at the rising and falling form of her son. "He finds such peace in slumber."
"Aye, it's a wonder too, with all the things he does in a day." He said.
She could not hide the overwhelming feeling in her heart, sniffed back tears.
Gobber was alarmed by this and took her shoulders. "What's the matter?" Was it something he said?
She wiped away a tear, shook her head, "Forgive me, but, today's just been… " She found herself unable to finish, confronting emotions too much for her to handle.
The larger Viking straightened and gestured down the stairs, "Maybe we could discuss this downstairs."
She nodded slowly, glancing at her sleeping son one last time before following the man into the room below.
They pulled up screeching chairs to the small platform. Gobber angled his large aged body to slowly plop into it with a grunt. He shifted for a moment, trying to get comfortable, while Valka waited patiently. Honestly she was nervous about discussing this, still raw, topic and felt even more awkward expressing such feelings to a man like Gobber.
She sighed inwardly, then realizing that her arms still clutched the chest, set it on the table. She saw the way her action had resonated on his face as Gobber watched her with obvious concern. Am I really that readable? Perhaps all those years with the dragons caused her to lose her perception of humans. So she decided to take the most sensible approach and be honest with him. "Be honest, Gobber, what do you think of me? For being absent all those years."
Her question carried such force and desperation that it took him by surprise, "Why?" He asked. Only after, when he saw her gaze, did he realize how foolish the question was. "If honesty's what you want, then all right; I think it was foolish to've stayed away all those years when you had a husband and son that needed you." He hated the way it sounded, but it was honesty in its full bestial form. "As a mother it was your duty to be there for him; to nurture him; to give him his sense of purpose in the world, and you weren't there."
The painful truth shone through deep shadows under her eyes. "Thank you." She said quietly, fixing her gaze on the chest to avoiding his. "Your honesty means a lot."
He was unsure of how to respond to that, so he remained silent. After a moment of awkward silence, he began sliding his thumb over his nails. "You know, your son loves you, despite your absence."
She nodded in silent knowing. Even though he never said it, she knew just by his perception of her that she had been forgiven, and that was why she returned to her birthplace.
Gobber wet his lips and drummed his fingers on the table. Something else floating his mind. "So, living around dragons for all those years, did you ever find the Stone?"
She stiffened at the word. "No." She bit off, "And I never tried either." Now her posture had become sloppy as she leaned forward. "I'll tell you something that no one, not even Stoick knew… My father, you know him correct?"
"Why, who hasn't heard of the great Torsten?" He said, his tone jumping in admiration.
"And do you know what happened to him?"
"He was killed in a pirate raid." Gobber said confidently. Everyone who resided on Berk knew of the great raid where Torsten sacrificed himself to save the village. There was even a portrait of him hanging in the Great Hall.
She laughed bitterly. He took her laughter as an insult and hardened his face, "Aye, what's there to laugh about?"
She looked at him, "Do you really believe that?
"Aye." He said firmly.
"Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you but he died searching for the Dragon Stone."
"You lie!" He yelled, outraged at her accusation of this great man.
"If only." She said regretfully, "He was quite the adventurer, and as soon as he found out that an object existed that could have full power over dragons, he had to find it." She paused looking nervously to the stairs to make sure they were not being listened to. "Hiccup can never find out about this!" She held her tone low, "He'll surely set out to find it."
Gobber shook his large misshapen head, "I don't see what you're worried about? The lad's got a dragon now, a Night Fury at that! Nothing will dare attack him."
She gritted her teeth in irritation, her forehead wrinkling as she did so. "No. Him having a dragon won't make a difference!"
"Listen, I know that you're scared 'cause legend tells that 'Many a Viking hath sailed its waters questing for it and none hath returned.' But the world is less dangerous now."
Her eyes appeared as deep pools of black, "It's not the world I'm worried about."
"So what? Man has tried and failed to find it—"
"No," She shook her head solemnly, "They tried and died."