Part I: Hiccup
Chapter 1: Lightning and Death

I was born during one of the worst thunderstorms Berk had seen in several generations. Many in the village believed that the gods were angry with us. They would not be wrong. But perhaps I'm getting ahead of myself.

You see, this is Berk. It's a miserable spit of land in the middle of an icy, unforgiving ocean. It snows nine months out of the year, and hails the rest. It's a truly horrible place to live and I have yet to figure out what possessed my ancestors to settle here. In fact, I have yet to figure out why the current inhabitants don't take the next available ship away from this godsforsaken place. I would, if I could.

Nine months before my birth, Stoick the Vast inherited the title of Chief of the Hairy Hooligans. In hopes to receive the blessings of the gods and have them find favor in his rule, he asked Thor to send a sacrifice. Thor sent a dragon, sleek and agile and black as coal, to be sacrificed. Dragons are not uncommon on Berk, but never had the Hairy Hooligans seen such a beast. Stoick decided to keep the dragon and instead sacrificed a ram.

Angered by Stoick's greed, the gods placed a curse upon Berk and all its inhabitants. The dragons turned against the Hooligans and the Dragon Wars began. But, because of Stoick's greed, an additional curse was his to bear. His and his offspring's. Until an appropriate sacrifice was made to appease the gods, their wrath would remain on Berk.

As I was saying, I was born during one of the worst thunderstorms Berk had seen in several generations. Many in the village believed that the gods were angry with us. They would not be wrong. This is my story. The unholy offspring of lightning and death itself.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Gothi always listened to signs. Signs were from the gods. Signs told you when life-altering events would occur—whether for good or for ill. During the many years of her life, she could only remember one storm that was as bad as the one that arrived that fateful night. It marked the end of a terrible man and his lust for blood. The gods had heard their prayers and the gods had answered.

The night she was called to the chief's lodge started out like most nights in Winter. They were on the cusp of Devastating Winter. The weather was freezing and it made her bones creak, but snow had yet to fall and, despite the overcast sky, everything was calm. She arrived at the chief's lodge in good time, considering her age, and was unsurprised to find Stoick anxiously pacing the floor, his brother Spitelout and friend Gobber lounging by the fire and drinking mead.

Thunder rumbled on the horizon and she hesitated, glancing at the dark skies. A storm was rolling in and the taste of lightning hung thick in the air. The wind picked up, bringing with it the scent of rain. Her bones ached. Phlegma and Thistle came hurrying up the hill, both bundled in thick furs.

"Not the best time for a baby to come; eh, Gothi?" Thistle greeted as she passed.

Phlegma sniffed, rolling her eyes. "A baby comes when it comes. There's no accounting for convenience. I'm sure every mother wishes her child was born in Summer."

Gothi smiled at the two younger women, casting one last glance at the sky before crossing the threshold. The baby would come, despite the signs. There was no stopping it. Stoick noticed them as soon as they arrived, moving straight to Gothi and helping her with her cloak. "Pains started hours ago, but Val insisted on waiting. They've been getting worse."

"Aye," Gothi allowed, gratefully taking her staff back and hobbling slowly after the younger women as they disappeared into the bedroom, "and they'll get worse."

A loud guffaw came from the other men and Spitelout raised his tankard. "Aye. Best ya can do is drink until it's over."

Her eyes moved over the men, pausing on Gobber. The burly blacksmith was rubbing at his amputated arm, grimacing. She changed course, stopping in front of Gobber and peering critically at his face. "You need something, boy?"

Thunder rumbled overhead and the first splatters of rain hit the roof. Gobber grinned. "Nah, it's just the storm. It's going to be a bad one."

A gust of howling wind made the whole lodge creak. The men fell silent, apprehension spreading across their faces. A crack of thunder shook the heavy timbers of the roof and Gobber laughed uneasily, "Well, at least there'll be no dragon attacks tonight."

Phlegma poked her head out of the bedroom. "Gothi, we're going to need you. She's crowning."

Gothi nodded, sending Gobber a significant look, before she shuffled into the bedroom. She was getting too old to be the acting midwife. Phlegma and Thistle were both gaining confidence in midwifery and soon she could pass the reigns onto them and she could rest her weary bones at home in front of the fire on these dreadful nights.

Valka was delicately built. Unusual for a Viking of Berk. Most of the women on Berk were built much like most of the men, only not as hairy and perhaps a little shorter. Valka was tall and thin. She didn't have the coveted blonde hair that Dagmar Hofferson had, but her startlingly green eyes made up for whatever deficiencies she may have thought she possessed. Gothi had always had a soft-spot for the girl. She moved between the young mother's legs, checking the babe's progress. Valka groaned and Gothi patted her knee. "It's nearly over, my girl. Take a breath now."

Thistle brought a bucket of nearly scalding water and Gothi quickly dunked her hands. Valka's breath was coming in sharp, pained pants, but she wasn't panicking yet. That was good. Another contraction rippled across her stomach and prompted another groan. "Something's not right."

Gothi looked sharply at the birthing mother. The storm outside increased its intensity. Phlegma and Thistle exchanged knowing glances but quickly went back to their work when Gothi gave them a pointed look.

"Get ready to push, Valka."

The new mother's hands scrabbled at the bedsheets, her eyes wide as she gasped out, "Save my baby."

"You'll both be fine. Now push."

The labor was blessedly short compared to come of the births Gothi had attended over the many years. The rage of the storm made it seem longer than it truly was. With a cry, Valka pushed the infant out and collapsed with gasping breaths. The thin, unhappy wail of the newborn nearly drowned out the horrified gasps of Phlegma and Thistle. Only years of delivering babies prevented old Gothi from dropping the infant in her surprise. Thunder crashed over the mountains, shaking the entire lodge with its might, rain hammered on the roof, and winds made the entire lodge creak and moan. A muttered prayer of "oh gods!" was silenced by a stern look from Gothi. Valka stirred at her newborn's cries, weakly lifting her head, searching for the infant.

Gothi cut and tied the umbilical cord and moved away to allow the other women to see to the last of the labor. She gazed at the infant, her eyes lingering on the smooth transition from human flesh to black, scaled hide and the small horns that lay against the side of its head where ears would normally sit. A tail curled close to the child's body and tiny, bat-like wings were folded against the shoulder blades. In all her years, she'd never seen anything like it. Thistle was at her side, jarring her from her thoughts, her voice urgent, "Gothi, she's losing too much blood."

Gothi handed the child to the younger woman, frowning fiercely at her cringe. "See to the infant. Hide," she hesitated for the briefest of moments, "hide everything."

Gothi turned back to Valka, pushing Phlegma out of the way, and working quickly to attempt to slow the bleed. Too much. She was going to lose her. A faint groan made her look up, glazed eyes staring. "My baby?"

The voice was weak, barely a whisper, and Gothi motioned for Phlegma to take over. There was nothing left to do but comfort the dying woman. She lifted the mewling newborn from the cradle Thistle had dropped the child in and carefully wrapped the new mother's arms around her child.

"A boy, Valka," Gothi told her. "Healthy."

"A son," she whispered, drawing a shaking finger across his cheek. A smile, weak but radiant, bloomed across her face as she looked at the babe. Her expression turned sad for a moment. Gothi always wondered if people knew they were dying. Valka studied the boy through half-lidded eyes, too weak to keep them open any longer, her voice barely audible when she murmured, "Mommy loves you, baby. Tell Stoick…"

Her voice failed her, but Gothi knew that last was for her. She passed a shaking hand over Valka's sweat dampened hair. "Good bye, child. Phlegma, bring Stoick here."

The woman hesitated, casting an anxious glance at the blood soaked cloths. "But—"

Gothi gently took the baby from Valka's limp arms, speaking sternly, "Go. A man should be allowed to say goodbye to his wife while she's still here."

The young woman fled the room and Gothi turned to Thistle. "Bind her and cleanup what you can. Make her as presentable as possible."

Vikings weren't afraid of blood, but blood from a battle injury and blood from labor were two different things. Any man would panic. Thistle worked quickly and quietly, tucking soiled cloths into a bucket to clean later and carefully pulling a skin over Valka. A moment later, the doors burst open again and Stoick the Vast entered, blue eyes wild. "Val!"

He was at Valka's side in an instant, scooping up his wife's hand with more gentleness than most in the tribe believed he possessed. Gothi moved out of the way, laying the baby down in the nearby cradle and shooing Phlegma and Thistle out of the room. There didn't need to be any more witnesses to the man's heartbreak.

Stoick knelt next to the bed, pressing Valka's hand to his cheek, whispering words too low for Gothi to hear. Thunder rolled overhead and Stoick let his head drop to the bed, shoulders slumping with defeat. Gothi approached then, placing a hand on his broad shoulder. "I'm sorry, Stoick. Valka has left this world."

Stoick sat back, carefully folding Valka's hands across her body before rising to his feet. He gazed down at his wife, taking in her peaceful features one last time. He bent, resting his lips against her forehead, failing to stifle the choked sob. Farewells complete, he stumbled to a nearby chair, sinking into it and burying his face in his hands. Gothi let him be, sure he would want some time to gather himself. "The child?"

"Is a boy," Gothi said. "He is small, but healthy."

He was silent, the crash of thunder and the drumming of rain the only sound that filled the lodge. Gothi waited patiently. It wouldn't be the first time a mourning father blamed a child for the loss of his wife. Sometimes Gothi could find a home for the child if the father couldn't — wouldn't — raise it himself. Finally, Stoick took a steadying breath, rubbing vigorously at his face. "Let me see him."

Gothi deposited the swaddled child in his father's arms and took a step back to allow Stoick time to look over his son. Long minutes passed while the large man gazed down at the child. Finally, he moved, resting the child on his legs and pushing the blankets aside. The swaddling fell away and he gasped, raising a shaking finger to trace over the horns and soft hide of the tail. Gothi allowed him a moment to absorb the unusual sight before speaking, "He has wings."

Stoick didn't move the baby to check, simply nodding his understanding. The bedroom door opened and Gobber limped in, not at all put off by Thistle's attempts to stop him. Gothi was actually surprised the man was still coherent with the amount of mead he'd been drinking earlier. Of course, the absence of Spitelout must mean that the other man was passed out in front of the fire. The blond blacksmith halted at Stoick's side, gazing down at the baby. Surprise was the first expression that crossed Gobber's face before it settled into thoughtfulness. "Night Fury, eh?"

Thistle halted several steps away, sneering at the child. "An abomination. The child should be left on the rocks."

Gobber glanced up at her, frowning. "Aye. I can think of several I would've left on the rocks had I the choice."

Thistle flushed an angry red. Stoick didn't seem to hear either of them, his eyes transfixed on his son. The gods' curse had been absolute. He'd lost his wife and his son would carry his father's folly. Thistle sniffed, choosing to ignore Gobber, and addressed the grieving man instead, "Marry again, Stoick. In time you will have another child. Another heir."

Gobber looked aghast at her audacity and Gothi frowned her disapproval. It was well-known that Thistle was a social climber, but to suggest such a thing to a man who just lost his wife — to a man whose wife's body was not yet cold — was not only rude, it was insulting.

"No."

The word was definitive and left no room for argument. Gothi nodded her approval. There was no proof that the gods wouldn't curse a second child, after all. A soft whimper made Stoick swaddle the boy with clumsy movements, cradling him protectively as he turned to face Thistle, defiance set in his features. Thistle's mouth hung open. "No? You can't expect this…creature to be your heir. The tribe won't allow it!"

"I will not remarry," Stoick declared and Thistle wilted. "I will not have another child. He is my son and he is the last I have of Val. There is still time before the issue of an heir becomes necessary and my brother's wife just had a son."

Lightning flashed through the cracks in the windows followed immediately by a near deafening crack of thunder. Gobber frowned. "You would give up your son's birthright?"

Stoick turned to seriously regard his friend, shifting the child to a more comfortable position in his arms. "That is still a long way off. There is time. Maybe time to appease the gods."

Thistle looked mutinous, but Gothi thumped her staff into the floor. "Enough, girl. The chief does not want you and your arguing will not change that. Go home."

For a moment, it looked like Thistle would refuse, but she turned and marched away, snatching her furs from the chair she'd tossed them earlier. The door in the main room opened, bringing a gust of wind and rain, before it slammed shut again. Phlegma appeared in the bedroom door, glancing over her shoulder. "Don't know what's got her britches in a knot."

The infant wailed and Gothi shuffled forward, tugging on Stoick's cloak and indicating the chair he'd abandoned earlier. "The child is hungry. I will see to the panada."

Gothi hobbled her way out to the cook fire, just catching Gobber's next words, "So, if you're going to keep him, he's got to have a name."

She paused in the door, waiting. Stoick sighed, brushing the blankets back from his son's head. Father looked at son, catching a small fist that waved in uncoordinated movements, tucking the hand back into the blankets.

"Hiccup," he finally said.

panada - a type of gruel; old-fashioned baby food.

AN: So, big changes are coming. Expect this chapter to receive some additional writing and edits and the next two chapter to disappear and be replaced with totally new content. (Oct. 26, 2017)