I intern at a press right now and have a lot of time to think. This story came about during those long hours of quiet and thinking. Enjoy!
X
Wanderlust
The only people who said being chief was easy had never been chief. How many times had Stoick watched his father come home with an ice block to his head? He'd lost count. How many times had Stoick come home with an ice block to the head himself? He'd lost count.
As chief, everyone came to him with their complaints. And everyone complained. Daily. Someone had caused someone else grief and demanded justice. It was a never ending game of he-said-she-said. But, as chief, Stoick's word was final. He had to be solid in his decisions, strong about them, and not in any way uncertain. He couldn't let people question his authority. But he couldn't simply pick a side. No, he had to know the entire story from both sides of an argument.
His father had told him many stories about the chiefs of past, about their mistakes and triumphs. Vikings may be stubborn but they can learn from mistakes. A chief that doesn't listen to his people ignites mutiny, inspires conspiracy, and welcomes an early grave. A chief who listen to his people sparks trust and diplomacy.
Stoick's father's father had had a cousin who had never listened to his people. He had been power-hungry and selfish, and a bit dull as it was told. His people were starving, and a mutiny had put his head on a spear for the entire village to see. A chief is for the people, Stoick's father had said in accompaniment of that story, wizened by age and experiences. A chief without his people is not a chief at all, but just a man.
The headache of chiefdom was returning. It never truly went away, only subsided, rested, waiting on the slightest provocation. He could almost feel the cold relief of ice.
From the village, he could look up at his house, standing strong against the rainy sky. He had spent so many mornings and evenings looking down at the village. His village. It was strange to be looking up at it, as any other Viking would do.
A clap of thunder sounded in the distance. Stoick remembered his son's blunt absence that day. Hiccup had left in a huff the day before when Stoick tried to retell one of his father's stories, a good one about chiefing. Hiccup made it clear he wasn't ready to become a chief. But who was ever ready?
Stoick wanted his son to know everything that he knew, that he'd been told, stories passed down from father to son for generations. How could he teach his son when he spent more time in the clouds than on the ground?
He sighed. A new layer was added to his headache, a dullness that pounded, provoked by Hiccup. He had hoped more than once that the gods would send Hiccup a son just like him, as infuriating to Hiccup as Hiccup had been to Stoick. That would give him a taste of what he'd put his father through.
Hiccup had stayed away through the night. He couldn't run away from his problems forever. Thunder rolled high, a threat of more rain. It had rained through the night and most of the day. Stoick hoped that it was the weather that had delayed his wayward son's return. Stoick looked to the sky, scanning the weather for signs of storms.
The clouds were dark and stuffed with cold water. From the constant rain and drizzle everything in the village was wet. Vikings, sheep, even the bread. The rain had eased into a soggy mist that coated everything with a cold layer of water.
Stoick shrugged his great shoulders and a small shower fell from him. He took the steps to his house one at a time, thinking over what he would say to Hiccup. He did not respond to blunt anger, or force. It had taken a long time for Stoick to figure that out. Like is mother, he responded to arguments, to facts, to reason.
The sun was low behind the dark gray-blue clouds, but as Stoick reached his front door it poked through. The sudden burst of sunset light cast the entire village below in a magical illumination. The mist that coated everything was lit with the bright pink-gold of the sun, like a shower of tiny golden flakes. Stoick dropped his hand from the door. Something this beautiful could only have come from the sun, the gods.
The dark waters of the ocean were still steely gray. The sun's light hadn't reached that far. Just the village was under the heavenly lighting. Any Viking could admire this rare and natural beauty. It wasn't every day the sun shone while the rain fell.
A memory came forward, and Stoick sighed. It was years ago that the rain and ebbed into mist and the sun broke through the dreary clouds right at dusk, to alit the entire village with gold. He had still been a boy, around Hiccup's age, and trying his best to avoid his father. Stoick laughed, he had almost forgotten.
But that wasn't what made this memory special. He had been the entire day away from the village but he hadn't been alone. The woman that would become his wife and his son's mother had been with him, Valka. They had spent the entire day together, just the two of them, just talking. That day had been the first day they had been able to get to know each other, just then.
They had wandered back to the village around dusk, and the sun had peeked out at last. Suddenly everything was doused in a golden glow. Little droplets of mist had clung to her dark hair, her skin, and her clothes so when the sun hit them she looked angelic. A halo glowed around her, amplifying her already beautiful features. She was, by far, the most beautiful woman Stoick had ever seen. She was infuriating, not unlike her son, but she had sparked something deep in his chest that no other woman could. That was the day that he knew, without a doubt, that she was the only one for him.
There, in that glowing dusk, he had kissed her for the first time. He had tried to do so sooner, but the timing always felt off. That day, that time - everything was perfect. Like Hiccup, she wanted to explore, to see, to understand. She had a sense of adventure that could not be quenched. His father had called it 'wanderlust' but he hadn't meant it as a compliment. But that was just another thing Stoick loved about her. He loved everything about her.
When he's kissed her, and she had smiled at him, that timid smile etched itself onto his mind. She had laughed and he laughed with her. Her hands were so small in his, delicate but not weak, gentle but strong. Had she felt the same thing?
With that warm memory in the front of his mind, Stoick couldn't help but sigh. Standing there, in near the same light as back then, it felt as if it could have happened yesterday. He felt an echo of the rushing in his ears, the hammering in his chest, the sudden fullness of somewhere much deeper. He could feel her hands in his, the softness of her fingertips on his rough axe-wielding palms. He could almost see the glorious mist-drops all glowing gold in her hair and on her cheeks.
The sun gradually sunk lower and lower, each moment a tiny bit less bright than the one before. The bright gold faded into dull amber, to dingy pink, to violet, to shadow-blue. Stoick stood until the last golden drop was paled. He wanted to remember those feelings, those thoughts, everything about that moment.
When at last the night was present, the mist was dark and foggy, and the cold air thickened with the threat of rain, Stoick opened the door to his house. He wasn't sure how long he had been standing outside, but took immediate notice of the sudden warmth on his chilled face.
The hearth fire was burning strong and bright. Someone had kept the fire going. A log was burning away, maybe three or four hours old. But that was not what gave his son's presence away.
Toothless was curled around the hearth, an empty fish basket on its side, and white fishbones scattered around him. One stuck precariously out of the dragon's mouth. Stoick tiptoed passed the sleeping dragon and took the stairs one at a time. If the dragon was home then his rider must be as well.
Stoick didn't need to climb all the stairs to see into his son's room. Two steps left in front of him and he could see Hiccup sleeping soundly. A blonde head was nestled between his shoulder and neck, hair strung out across the pillow like spilt sunlight. Astrid held a fistful of Hiccup's shirt and curled her arm toward her. One of his arms was draped over her back, fingers dangling at her side. They were curled together like sleeping dragons, intertwined to the point where one could not wake without waking the other.
Stoick momentarily forgot the talk he'd prepared for his son. It could wait a while longer. Seeing the two of them there, together, so much in love with each other, reminded him of when he felt the same way. It filled him with him same joy, and some of a different kind. It was the joy of knowing his son was as happy as Stoick had been, of knowing he had found someone like Astrid, who loved him so honestly.
So many marriages on Berk were forged not out of love but out of have-to, out of ought-to, out of tradition. Few were for love, as far as Stoick could tell. He had performed many marriages over his course as chief. Life was short and dangerous; love was unnecessary, but procreation was a must. If a man and a woman liked each other, even just a little, they married. That was why when Stoick caught Valka, he didn't let her go.
Stoick stole one last look at the sleeping couple before retreating downstairs. His talk could wait. With his first step the stair let out a whining creak. He paused, drew in his breath and held it, as he turned over his shoulder to see if he'd woken them.
Hiccup stirred, and sighed in his sleep. His eyes might have flickered open, but it was such a subtle motion that Stoick wasn't sure if he had really seen it. Hiccup's free hand twitched and readjusting, and lethargically searched for the girl sleeping almost on top of him. His hand found hers, and he followed her arm to rest his across her shoulders. Astrid sighed but did not wake. She seemed to nestle closer to his neck.
Stoick waited a few long moments before moving again. Slowly, one foot at a time, he retracing his steps backwards. Toothless twitched as he dismounted the last stair with a relieved sigh.
He couldn't help but smile. Still, there was a nagging in his mind. Hiccup shared his mother's wanderlust. Always wandering, always thinking, always looking over the horizon at something new. Even though Stoick loved that woman dearly, she still caused him pain. Stoick knew that Hiccup was the same. Many times Valka had caused him brief heartaches. Stoick feared Hiccup would do the same to Astrid.
Valka had been hard to catch and even harder to hold onto.
X
A little more…melodramatic than I thought it'd be. But that's the rub, isn't it? You've got an idea and in the process of writing that idea it changes from what it originally was into something else, and yet it didn't change at all. Oh, the woes of being a writer.