I know, I haven't updated in a while. Please don't hurt me. I've been really, really busy and all, and my evil muse went on sugar high again and wanted to write a story based on the peculiar resemblance between Irina Spalko (Indiana Jones) and Willy Wonka (Johnny Depp version). At least in terms of appearance. See, my brain's a little off balance right now, I fear, and so this drabble might not be grammatically sound. Please point out my grammar errors if you find them. I'm beginning to imagine a younger Stoick looking like a red-headed Kili, as the Vikings always reminded me a little Middle Earth's Dwarves. Except probably taller. And then Stoick's older self looking like a red-headed Thorin... Of course Valka's just molded partially off what I gleaned from the trailer and partially off my own completely random imaginings.
Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I own nothing but my writing. And I don't have the cash to buy rights to HTTYD. Nor do I own Middle Earth, of course. Which sucks. But I will survive.
"The Nightwalker?" Gobber had asked him one evening, in the presence of a roaring fire and more than one roasted bird. "You mean from the legends?"
"Yes, but what if the Nightwalker wasn't just a legend?" Stoick pressed, hoping that Gobber would work out what he was trying to say before he had to come out and say it aloud. He had realized that eventually Gobber would find out on his own, and he would prefer for his friend to find out from him and not from the forest.
Gobber narrowed his eyes. Unlike Stoick, his beard was more than just a stubble on an angular face that shadowed his face in suspicion as he spoke. "What are you trying to imply?"
"Only that this legend could be more than an old wives' tale."
Gobber snorted and took a sip of ale from his mug. "Oh, yes, because there really is a Shadow Man lurking about our mountain."
"Not our mountain," Stoick interjected before his better sense could stop him. "Her mountain. The Nightwalker's."
"Her?" Harsh coughs came from his throat, and Stoick could not tell whether his companion was laughing or choking on his ale in shock. "What do you mean, her?"
Stoick sighed. He'd known, in the back of his mind, that it would come to this. He would have to tell Gobber outright what he was trying to imply. "I mean," he began cautiously, "that the Nightwalker is real. That our Shadow Man is, in fact, a woman of the mountains. She knows each peak like the back of her hand and can pass unseen by most when she pleases. But she is a human woman, a daughter of the wilds."
Gobber shook his head in disbelief. "How do you know all this?"
"Because I know her." Stoick's forehead was resting in his hands as the weight of his secrets slowly overcame him. "Quite well, really."
And then the weight of his words finally hit Gobber, as well, and his eyes grew wide with shock and no small amount of fear. "Oh, Stoick, what have you done?" he whispered, drowning himself in the remainder of his ale, as if that would wipe away the whole thing.
"My father is not going to react well to this," Stoick murmured. "I was hoping you could help soften the blow?"
"That depends. How deep does your relationship with this Nightwalker run?"
"To the roots." He didn't even lift his eyes.
"And you father is a major problem because?"
"Because he wants me to marry. He expects me to have chosen a bride within the next moon, and to produce an heir before he dies. You know how his health deteriorates, Gobber."
Gobber sighed loudly, exhaling all his friend's problems onto the rotting wood of the table. "Back up for a moment. Tell me your history with the Nightwalker and perhaps I will have a better idea of the gravity of your situation."
"I met her in the forest," Stoick began, recalling the details of his first and rather unnerving sight of Valka. "It was night, and I was tracking a dragon. She attacked me with claw-shaped blade, and in the dark she looked like a ghost or a shadow. Terrifying, yes, but she piqued my curiosity, for she had confirmed in my head that the Nightwalker, the Shadow Man, was not just an old village myth. So I went back.
"She revealed herself to me in daylight, a woman of the wildlands, with storms and wildfires blazing in her eyes." He was careful not to mention her real name, as he understood it was only for his lips to utter.
"You're romanticizing the tale, my dear friend," said Gobber with a chuckle.
Stoick tlited his chin proudly. "I am telling it as I felt it then, Gobber," he informed the older Viking, before continuing the story. "She said perhaps I would see her again beneath the light of the full moon. That was nearly a year ago. Since then, we have met every full moon."
"Except for this one," interrupted Gobber for the second time, glancing up at the ceiling, beyond which he knew the full moon glowed overhead.
"Which is why I come to you tonight. She said she would be gone, but told me not where. I fear she has discovered a greater danger than what the dragons can impose upon our tribe, and that she has gone to counter it."
Gobber leaned back in his chair, satisfied that the story Stoick told him was the truth. "Well, from what you've said, she seems competent enough to hold her own in a fight and manage whatever peril she may have gotten herself into."
"I didn't say the story was finished, Gobber. What if I were to tell you that the Nightwalker was carrying my child?"
Once again, Gobber choked on his ale, though there was not so much ale left in his mug than the concentrated remains of it that he was sipping to retain his regular mental health.
"What?"
"I'm not repeating myself, Gobber. You heard what I said."
"This is all purely hypothetical, right?" said Gobber with a nervous laugh.
Stoick shook his head. "None of it is in any way hypothetical. Which is why I fear to speak with my father."
"Can you bring her to the village?"
"I will not sacrifice all that I love in her, my friend," he said with a slight smile. "I fell in love with the daughter of alpine winters and raging storms, and I cannot take those traits from her."
"You're very difficult to deal with, Stoick," said Gobber, carefully. "What will you do with the child?"
"I'm still thinking," he muttered. "That is a complicated question."
"You know as well as I do they won't care where that child came from as long as you have an heir to become chief after you."
"I'm debating over how fair it is to lay that burden on a child's shoulders."
"I'm not here to tell you what's fair, Stoick, that isn't my job. Nor is this counseling session, for that matter. I can bear your secrets as long as you need me to, but I cannot hold sway in the matter. These decisions are for you to make."
He scooped up his ale and got up from the table.
Smeagol would like me to inform you that he misses you all. Gollum would like me to inform you that he hates you and wants to wring all of our filthy neckses. But you probably shouldn't listen to Gollum. See they're on vacation in the Bahamas and are leaving the sarcastic notations at the end of this drabble to me (lazy, lazy) while they go and give tourists heart attacks in the Caribbean.
Read and review, and leave me prompts if you want them!
