XXI.
"My son."
Son.
Mother.
Eight years old. Listen to Dad yawning. Even without looking back at Dad's face, from the sounds he can tell his father's mouth stretches open enormously wide, a cavern. Then Dad grumbles like a groggy, angry Gronckle, clearly tired, even though it is only mid-morning. He is always tired. Today even more than usual. Despite this, Dad keeps a very firm, steady hand on his son's tiny shoulder, steering them both into a shop covered head to floor in swords and axes and shields and many weapons for which the boy knows no name. All are so sharp, so grand, and many blades are wider than his face.
As always, his father's voice warns, "Now, Hiccup, don't touch anything."
A roundish blonde-haired man with one arm and one leg glances up from his work. With his right hand, he pulls off a protective mask to reveal a pair of narrowly-set, sparkling blue eyes. After adjusting a false tooth in his lower jaw, the man remarks, "Aw, babysitting duties again, Stoick?"
The boy wanders off to investigate an axe head twice the size of his torso.
The chief heaves an enormous sigh. "You know I'm too busy to look after him, Gobber."
"And you know I've got work to do, too. Couldn't you ask one of your sisters to look after him today? I've got more orders on call than I've got hairs on my chest."
"I already tried talking to Brenda and Gladioli about it."
"And what about Egginbreeza, Burly Sweet, and Glugga? Or even Spitelout? The lad's not short on relatives to look after him."
The boy pretends not to hear the conversation. He can see the reflection of his two suddenly-solemn green eyes in the polished silver of a mace in front of him.
"Gobber, please, you know I prefer you watching over him than someone like Burly. I just…" Stoick's eyebrows fall into a hairy frown. "This would be so much easier if he had his mother to help raise him."
"It would," Gobber agrees. His voice is hesitant after Stoick's last comment. Then, after a sufficient and rather somber pause, he suggests more lightly, "You know, he's getting to be old enough anyway not to need such a close eye on him. How about you just let him play in the village with the other lads and lasses?"
"Without adult supervision? He could get hurt. He would get hurt. You know what he's like." Out of the corner of his eye, the boy notices Dad staring carefully at him.
I'm not going to touch anything, he thinks sullenly. He turns pointedly back to one of the axes lying low to the ground.
Meanwhile, the one-armed man shakes his head. "No, you're being too protective," Gobber responds. "The boy's got to live a little, Stoick."
"Exactly," Dad says. The chief hefts a massive breath through his beard. For some reason his exhale sounds heavier than the hammer Gobber wears on his left arm stub. "The dragon raids are becoming worse and more frequent. They're even attacking during the day now. I can't risk losing him, Gobber. I can't lose him to a dragon in the same way he lost his mother."
Mother. It is a word the boy rarely hears, at least coming from Dad. He listens curiously while pretending to still investigate Gobber's latest smithing projects.
"You won't. Look, okay, he's safe right here. I'll watch him," Gobber agrees at last.
"Closely this time?"
"Closely. No more… near accidents."
"Good."
Dad turns to go. The boy slumps. Dad never stays around.
"You know, Stoick," the one-armed man states suddenly, right before Dad strides out the door, "Hiccup working directly for me would keep him from running off into trouble." And with a little chuckle, glancing briefly down at his arm stump, remarks, "And I could certainly use another hand or two."
"Make it two," Stoick responds. "I don't want him losing any limbs."
"We'll start easy. Completely safe."
The chief hesitates. "Isn't he a little young to be an apprentice?"
"Eight's about as young as I think a smith would take them, but he should do fine." Gobber looks over and smiles at the child, who stares, mostly uncomprehending, at the two adults.
"Alright then. But again. No injuries."
Then the chief really does leave, big back hunching under the doorframe as he steps outside. Gobber turns to his charge. Big green eyes stare up at him.
"If I had a mother," the boy pipes up, "then I wouldn't spend each day with you or one of my aunts or Uncle Spitelout or Gothi, would I? I could stay home."
He sees Gobber pause and purse his lips. Did he say something wrong?
"Yes," the blacksmith finally replies. "You would stay at home."
"I wouldn't be passed around. Someone would want me around."
Gobber turns away. He gives no answer to that.
"I wish I had a mom."
Hiccup stumbled inadvertently backwards, back bumping up against Toothless' nose. The dragon, sensing Hiccup's shock, nudged him gently from behind. A gasp – and then a second one – jumped out of Hiccup's jaws, and he just stood there, gaping, at the Vigilante – this woman… this…
Did I hear that correctly? Did she just call me her son?
Fifteen years old. He sits, tense, uncomfortable, in a dimly lit room. Sketches of Night Furies and mechanical tails are chaotically swept to the corner of his desk, barely hidden under his scrawny, stick-like right arm. No one other than his father is seated across from him – the reason for his great discomfort.
But Dad seems uneasy, too. He feels guilty about it – Dad was only trying to be friendly, after all… unusually enough… coming into his work station to talk to him about his recent success in Dragon Training. Yet, feeling nothing to say, he has simply stared at his father's face, worrying that his Dad will suddenly somehow guess the true reason he has flourished in the Ring.
Dad shuffles. "Oh. Uh. Uh. Here. I, uh, I brought you something," the chief pipes up. He pulls out a metal helmet, fairly plainly built but strong, and then holds it by the two upward-curving horns protruding on either side. Slowly Dad hands it out to him. "To keep you safe. In the Ring."
He accepts the helmet, glances down, smiles slightly, and answers, "Wow. Thanks." He begins to finger the horns on the helmet, poking his finger carefully at the sharp point of the left side. Though truly not much of a fighter in need of such a helmet, receiving a gift from his father is rare anymore, and the fine curve of the horns on this helm entrance him.
Dad continues, "Ah, your mother would have wanted you to have it. It's half of her breast plate."
Immediately, he quits stroking the horn of the helmet.
"Matching set," Dad continues, not at all seeming to find the origin of the helm awkward – or else, better at hiding it. "Keeps her… keeps her close, you know." And then the chief again slips into a cumbersome demeanor, eyes downcast, inwardly grieving even after nearly fifteen years of his wife's absence.
He finds himself incapable of responding. For all he never met his mother – cannot remember her, anyway – he feels a gap in their family, as well. Someone he always imagined would nurture him, rather than scowl disappointedly at him. Someone who could comfort him, rather than tell him to "act like a Viking." Someone who would approve of him, rather than off-handedly call him "the worst Viking Berk has ever seen."
Someone whose presence would make less painful the emotional gap between himself and his father.
I wish I had a mom.
Twenty years old.
This woman… the Vigilante… is my mother!
All at once he noticed himself in her, saw the subtle reflection of his own guise in the mirror now standing before him, noticed the similarities in their eye shapes and eye color, recognized that the two of them shared the same nose, the same body build, similar hair colors, similar... but even then, with the physiological evidence presented before him, it was no less than absurd for a strange woman to just declare that he was her son. A woman who was supposed to be dead.
Eaten by dragons, the Berkians always sympathetically murmured, just beyond Stoick the Vast's hearing.
Carried off by dragons, actually.
"You are not… upset?" she asked hesitantly. She stood, crouched down, fingers near a patch of old, dried blood, staring at Hiccup quite apprehensively.
Upset about the fact that I'm standing in a room full of dead bodies that my mother killed? No, how could I be upset about that?
My… my mother. Her. Maybe I never should have wished for my mom. I never could have imagined…
So different than everything he had ever conceptualized through the years, so unlike the image of the woman he imagined in his head as a child, the make-believe wraith who ghosted him with hugs and kisses and supportive comments, the missing link in his family which would have made his home life complete. Did he truly want this, though, this reality? A woman who could – and already had – disarmed him with a single blow? Someone who single-handedly controlled a legion of dragons, attacking the ships and fortresses and villages of her enemies?
"Do you – do you grasp how insane this sounds?" Hiccup instead babbled aloud. Better to voice something like this, even if poorly conceived, rather than express every other startled thought coursing his head. At least this commentary did not focus on the bodies. "Everyone said you were dead! I – I have so many questions. Like first – first off, how – how did you know?"
"The scar on your chin," she replied. She had to cut in to prevent Hiccup from rambling off an entire list of inquiries. Contrasting to the Hooligan man, she spoke slowly, measuredly, softly. "You received it when you were a babe. The night I was taken by dragons." Her eyes remained downcast the entire time she spoke. "That's how I knew you were Stoick's son – my son."
Her earlier narrative, of all those years ago when the dragons spirited her away to this frozen winterland, rose to Hiccup's mind. The worry in her voice, speaking of her son. The regret wrinkling the corners of her eyes into a tense sadness after she mentioned leaving her family behind her. The words she had spoken regarding her infant child – I rushed to protect him. The nostalgia with which she had murmured about her son in the present – It would be best if everyone, even my son, never knew about me. And yet also she had expressed intentions to unite with him in a war against dragon trappers – Stand by me. I can teach you all that I've learned these past twenty years while living amongst the dragons.
Even after all these years apart, had she displayed subtle signs of… loving ...him?
And when she repeated her comment, "You are upset," Hiccup could hear in her voice the worry that a son was rejecting his mother.
He found himself amending his previous answer, scratching awkwardly at his head. How could he balance her positive traits with her unfavorable ones? How could he judge her? One who stood passionately before dragons – something he admired. Someone who stood amongst the bodies of those she killed – something repulsive. How could he reconcile that aspect of her? If her actions had been entirely out of self-defense, such as she implied, he supposed he could possibly accept it, for his father had done no worse during the era of dragon raids, but it nevertheless did not ease the queasiness churning in his stomach…
"What? No. I… I don't know. I mean… it's – it's a bit much to get my head around, to be frank." Waving his arms around, eyes wide, he observed, "It's not every day you find out your mother is some crazy, feral, vigilante dragon lady."
Who killed these people. He could not quit thinking on that. The bodies suddenly appeared even more repulsive to him, now. Slowly he inched his foot further away from the half-chewed femur lying on the ground beside him. Toothless crooned worriedly from behind.
Can I accept someone like this as my mother?
The Vigilante had a question of her own, one she spoke aloud. "Well, I guess at least I'm not boring, right?"
She waited for a response.
"Well…" Hiccup said slowly, glancing at Toothless' own perplexed facial expression, and grabbing the end of the Night Fury's nose for some desperately needed stability, "I suppose… there is that… one specific thing." He fumbled again, hoping to eject out a phrase sounding somewhat more positive – at the very least to placate the Vigilante – if not also to try to bolster himself up into a more rose-tinted mentality. "I – I – I don't have the words."
The Vigilante sighed. After picking her way carefully toward Hiccup, feet padding quietly on the cold stone surface, the Vigilante hunched down and murmured quietly, "I think it's best if we leave this room. As you said, you have many questions. If you want to talk more about this, we should return to the cliff side. Neither of us like seeing what's in here."
Hiccup glanced quickly over at the far end of the room, where the exit lay, where he could find freedom from this ice-covered fortress. So much for getting out of here. Even if he refused to speak to the Vigilante again, he suspected that she would not allow even her son to leave her hideaway now. Not with what he knew. As one, he and Toothless turned around and started following the Vigilante back to the center of the mountain.