Disclaimer: I don't own How to Train Your Dragon, but if I did Hiccup would be taller.

From How to Train Your Dragon.

"Ready the ships!"

For the first time in his life, Stoick the Vast cursed himself for the overwhelming responsibilities of chieftaincy and fatherhood, and his complete inability to accomplish both simultaneously. Thor only knew, one was hard enough for any man, but both? Stoick had always believed that a Viking could do anything, but he was beginning to realize there were some things in life that no one could do.

But, gods help him, since he had already failed as a father, he could do this one good thing as a chief. He could take the nest. He could, and he would.

"Ev'ry bit the bull-headed, stubborn Viking you ever were."

For the second time that day, Stoick the Vast cursed himself for the infernal Viking stubbornness and hubris that kept him mired in blind ignorance and denial. Surely he was the greatest fool in the archipelago and how could the gods forgive him for all he had said and everything he had done that day?

He watched in despair as the beast's foot crushed the ship beneath it and his only child disappeared in the troubled waters. Then he ran, the monstrosity forgotten, his duty to his warriors abandoned, intent on one thing only: Hiccup. He plunged into the water, almost gasping at the shocking cold, and dove, his powerful arms propelling him downward.

Hiccup was at the bottom, his arms slack and limp, his mouth open. Stoick reached out and yanked him toward the surface, a prayer running through his mind in dismal repetitions. Odin, spare him, Odin, let him live...

Hiccup retched, coughing up water and gasping for air. He sat up, his brow furrowed in surprise.

"Dad?"

But Stoick was already gone, streaking down toward the dragon. They faced each other for a moment, beneath the waves, and Stoick stilled. The weight of their shared history, generations of animosity and hostility between Vikings and dragons, lay between them, that history a raw and bleeding gash. He would have to be blind to ignore it. But there was Hiccup, ready to salve all wounds, to save them from themselves. And for Hiccup's sake, he could try to forgive. He gripped the collar, and pulled.

They shot toward the surface, the dragon not so much swimming as flying. Stoick crawled up onto the rocks, watching his son climb into the saddle with practiced ease. But Stoick wasn't ready to let him go so soon.

"Hiccup! I'm sorry. For...for everything."

Hiccup paused, nodding in contrition. "Yeah, me too."

"You don't have to go up there." Please don't, son; your mother would never forgive me.

"We're Vikings: it's an occupational hazard."

Stoick's heart swelled and then broke. "I'm proud...to call you my son."

"Thanks, Dad."

"Oh son; I did this."

For the third time that day, Stoick the Vast cursed himself for the utterly weak and feeble man he was, powerless to save his child. Around him the ash settled like snow, as if Hodr wept in the aftermath of the battle. Tears stung his cheeks, but he refused to wipe them away.

The dragon was alive and lowing softly, curled in weariness on the ground, the saddle empty and in ragged ruins. Stoick knelt some feet away, too ashamed to draw closer, and pleading with the gods that the dragon would end his miserable life quickly. He bowed his head, murmuring words that could never assuage his guilt.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

The dragon lifted his head, blinking slowly and gazing at Stoick, pain and sorrow and wisdom and hope in his eyes. Then he unfurled his wings.

Hiccup was there, cradled like an infant. Stoick rushed forward, shame and dignity forgotten in the wild surge of hope that leaped in his chest. He took Hiccup in shaking arms, his body so small and light it was a featherweight in his hands. The boy's skin was warm to the touch, his muscles completely limp. Stoick wrenched off his helmet and put his ear to his son's chest, desperate for a sign.

It was there, faint but steady, the rhythm of his heart, his life.

"Ach, he's alive. You brought him back alive!"

The boy was hurt, badly. As Stoick held him, the habits of a vigilant chief returned, now subservient to those of a loving father. In his mind, he considered every possibility, every necessary action in the hours and days to come.

But time heals all wounds, every silvery scar a testament to deeds of greatness. Hiccup's blood was a salve to the injuries of war with the dragons, every drop precious and effectual.

For the fourth time that day, Stoick the Vast thanked the gods for another chance.

A/N: Slightly different format and very different tone today. Let me know what you think! Also, I'm publishing the first chapter of an independent piece today, so keep your eyes open for that.