Etymology
Aegir: Norse god of seas and storms.
Freya: Norse goddess of love, beauty, fertility, war, death and sorcery. Concubine to Odin.
Helheim: Nordic realm of the dead. Equivalent to the Greek/Roman underworld.
Limpets: Aquatic snails that bear no good taste to human tongues.
Njorun: Norse goddess of dreams.
Odin: Main god of Norse mythology. Creator of all. Holder of many more names, titles, and powers.
Sea-Steeds: Viking longships.
Valhalla: A place in Asgard reserved for those who die in combat. Equivalent to the Greek's Isles of the Blessed.
Yak: A wild ox.
Chapter II:
The viking's mustache twitched at the sight of the recruits assembled in the arena. While only a handful, they were hope and heir to the Tribe of Hairy Hooligans. And like all who had come before them, and all who would come after, they held a certain uneasiness in their faces. Standing there in a loose circle, shifting their balance from toe to toe, trying hard to digest the anxiety mixed in with their morning porridge.
"Alrighty!" Gobber the Belch declared from his perch. "Pay attention now, because I've only got the energy to say this once!"
Despite their anxiousness, half of the younglings rolled their eyes, which served to only make Gobber's growl louder,
"Wake up the lot'of you! Unless you prefer running, I'd advise you tighten ya' straps."
The threat of cardio seemed to do the trick. The usual case with this bunch.
"Dragons, what do any of y'all know about them?" He asked the group.
Frode, the keenest, spoke up, "They breathe fire."
"Okay, what else?"
"They attack us." Answered Grasshog, the burliest of them.
"Alright, anything more?"
"They breathe fire." Repeated Dogsbreath, the youngest and shortest.
"Frode already said that, you limpet." Grasshog teased.
"Quiet Grasshog," Gobber warned. "We do not hurt each other."
"I didn't touch him!" The young viking exclaimed.
"Words can hurt just as much." Gobber apprized.
Grasshog, clearly the maverick, bravely rolled his eyes and muttered, "Whatever."
This set Gobber off, puffing out his chest as he said, "Did your father not teach you to never talk back to an elder? Another foul word from you and there'll be limpets in ya' lunch for a week!"
There was nothing better than the threat of eating sour snails, to shut a young child's mouth up.
"Dragons, they breathe fire, they attack us, and they are what set us apart!" Bellowed Gobber. "While other Vikings train hawks, or breed horses, we dare to tame the wildest, most dangerous creatures on Earth."
His prideful words bounced off the pock-marked floors of the arena, and through the iron net that lay atop. Above sat the sky, gray and cloudy, which Gobber pointed to with his prosthetic arm,
"As is tradition, in a few winters time, your courage and skill will be tested. A test you must pass, if you wish to officially enter the Hairy Hooligan Tribe."
"The Dragon Initiation Test." Frode said.
"Correct, my dear Frode." Gobber answered, "The year of your fifteenth winter, you will traverse the Wild Dragon Cliff, just as your brothers and fathers before you."
Expectedly, the boys' heads turned towards the cliff that loomed in the distance. Black and sinister, it cowled at the edge of their existence, a foreboding reminder to all. In the summer months, it was possible to see dragons flitting in and out of the various crevices, stirring a cacophony of noise that could be heard all over Berk. However now, with the colder times approaching, the cliff remained silent, save for the ominous, low rumble of snores.
"Why can't we go now?" Proposed Grasshog. "I'm ready."
"Yeah!" Agreed the rest of them, pumping their scrawny fists into the air. "We want to fight!"
Gobber scoffed. "Fight? By Odin's beard you can't even hold a fork properly yet! Yet alone a sword or an axe! Last thing I need is for one of ya' to get blasted to Valhalla before ya' can even straddle a yak."
"Like Hiccup?"
At the mere mention of the name, Gobber felt his internals twist into a knot. He lowered his gaze at Dogsbreath,
"No, not like Hiccup."
An uneasy silence lingered for a second too long, before Gobber continued. Albeit, more unfocused than before.
"You all are not ready, not yet."
The disappointment was evident in their naive faces, but that was good. It meant they were hungry, and if there was anything Berk needed more of, it was hungry youth.
"First thing you all will need is your own Dragon Training Manual!" Gobber said as he handed one out to each of them. "Written by yours truly, you must remember every single detail within these pages! Everything there is to know about dragons, resides within these covers."
"But I don't like reading." Chirped one of the younglings.
"Well ya' better take a liking to it quickly." Gobber said with a playful grin. "Because if I ask ya' a question, 'n you get it wrong? You'll be sweeping Stinky-Gro's floors for the rest of the day."
The collective moan that followed only made his heartfelt smile wider.
-Ω-
"Is it impossible for you to chew with your mouth shut?" Snotlout snorted.
The cooling shade of the hall provided the vikings a needed respite as they sat around the long table, devouring their lunch after a long morning of sparring, shooting, and running.
"Sorry," Fishlegs muttered sheepishly, doing his best to rub the grub from his large chin. "Can't help it."
Snotlout let out an extended groan before returning to his meat.
"Give him a break," Astrid chided, shooting Snotlout a glare. "You act like you're not just as sloppy."
"What?" Snotlout raised his hands, which were dripping in grease. "Odin didn't give us hands for nothing!"
Tuffnut, sitting next to Snotlout and opposite Astrid and Fishlegs, chuckled. "Be careful, you might end up like Gobber talking about Odin like that."
Astrid let out a sigh as she blew a blonde strand from her forehead. Already sixteen going on seventeen winters, she had no idea how she had been able to put up with these fools for this long.
"Whatever," Snotlout groveled, licking his thumbs for added effect, "Gobber ain't that bad. At least he's not one of those bumblin' Romans. Gods they're such pompous yakholes."
Now that was something they could all agree on. Despite never having encountered one in person, they had heard many a tale of the Golden Empire. Rumors had it that their legions were starting to expand more northwards, but the Hairy Hooligans had yet to come across any solid evidence. Not that it mattered.
Sympathetic, Astrid's attention turned back to Fishlegs, or more accurately, what was next to Fishlegs.
"The Dragon Manual? Why are you still reading that?" She asked curiously, eyeing the weathered leather book sitting between them.
Fishlegs gave an unabashed shrug, which looked adorable coming from his large frame. "Gotta keep sharp, you never know when the stuff might come in handy."
"Yeah right," Snotlout snarked, "It's the same damn thing every time, kill this and kill that."
"Except for the Night Fury." Fishlegs corrected. "The manual says to run and hide. Not kill."
Snotlout flexed his biceps obnoxiously. "Yeah, yeah, that too."
"Then why didn't you say it?" Tuffnut asked with a mischievous look in his eyes.
If it had been any other day, Astrid would have put an end to the gaslighting, but for once she was enjoying the banter. Anything to wipe the smug from Snotlout's face.
"Because." Snotlout answered, his smile slowly receding.
"Because what?" Astrid asked, tucking her hands beneath her chin.
She knew that Snotlout fancied her, that much had been obvious since they were ten. And much to his chagrin, she had dismissed his every attempt at wooing.
Snotlout, in turn, itched his brow with his middle finger, "Because… Whatever, I remember enough."
"Oh really," Astrid grinned. "What's the best way to attack a Zippleback?"
"Chop off its left head first." Snotlout responded confidently. "Come on, give me something harder than that."
"A Stormcutter? What about that?"
Snotlout's brow creased. "You… go for its wings."
"Which ones?" Probed Astrid intently.
"The–er, the big ones."
"Actually, it's the tail fins." Fishlegs corrected, flipping open his book to the dragon in question. "And if you can't, then your next option is using Deathgripper venom."
"Yeah, yeah, I remember, just warming up." Snotlout muttered. "Another one."
"How do you avoid being tracked by a Rumblehorn?"
"What?" Snotlout exclaimed. "We never learned that! That's not in the book!"
Astrid and Fishlegs shared a playful shrug, much to Tuffnut's delight.
"Might have to do some more reading there, Snotty." Tuffnut laughed. "All that muscle of yours has gone to your brain."
"Eat some grass, Tuffnut." Snotlout grumbled, his cheeks darkening ever so slightly. "Where's your sister anyways?"
Tuffnut plucked a strand of meat from his teeth. "Ruffnut? I think she's helping Gobber with some of the little ones. Just for the week. She was talking to me last night about how Gobber was saying that we might have to do the test again. Or a different one."
"What? Why?" Astrid's own brow creased. "Nobody's ever had to do it twice, before."
Tuffnut raised his long arms defensively. "Hey, that's just what I heard. Reckon that he wants to make sure that we're still on our toes. I doubt it's actually a real thing, just to scare us."
Fishlegs tapped the cover of his book nervously. "Hope so, I'd almost rather clean the bottoms of the Sea-Steeds instead of climbing that cliff again."
"Sucks for you guys," Snotlout said with no actual remorse, "I won't have to do it, because I'll be Gobbers assistant. Full-time."
Fishlegs chuckled, a warm sound which made her smile, "Gobber would never let you be his assistant."
"Not after that performance." Astrid agreed.
Snotlout's chin stuck out in a pout as he crossed his arms. "What? I think I could teach the younglings a thing or two. Am I not the only one here that's killed a Screaming Death?"
Astrid ignored him, not because he was wrong, but because it was the only way to throw water on the fire that was his ego. There was little in the living world that could match his, and she doubted there was any down in Helheim that could either. As good of a warrior as he admittingly was, she barfed at the prospect of him grooming the next generation.
"Astrid, maybe you can be my assistant." Snotlout, who was regrettably still speaking, dared to say. "I'll be needing somebody to clean the arena, and you're almost as good as I am at fighting."
Astrid moved to uproot him, but thankfully Fishlegs stepped in before she could, "You're so funny, Snotlout." He giggled.
"You think I'm trying to be funny?" Snotlout squawked, getting all worked up. "I'm being serious, you know! Only truths! Like—Like if your aunt had balls she'd be your uncle, but she doesn't, so she's not. You get what I'm tryin' to say?"
"I'd say, you've had one too many conversations with Njorun." Astrid laughed, not caring to contain it. "If you want to help, what we do need is more people helping Fishlegs with the charts. I'm sure Gobber can more than handle himself without you."
Their big friend nodded his head viscously. "Could always use more help. You'know, according to the dragons' patterns, I think there might be an attack coming within the week."
The tone at the table quickly shifted to something duller.
"Already?" Tuffnut said. "We just had one last week."
"Are you sure?" Astrid too asked worriedly.
Fishlegs nodded his head again. "It's that time of the year. End of summer, they start getting real hungry. More so than before."
Snotlout, more than mildly disgruntled, wiped his hands on the bench. "Well, let's hope they don't bring Night Fury's this time. Took forever to rebuild those bloody barns."
"Maybe this time we could try to set a trap using the barns," Astrid suggested. "Gobber said that's what Hiccup used to do."
"Why you always talking about Hiccup?" Snotlout spoke jealously.
"Because he was our greatest warrior." Astrid answered defensively.
"And if he was so great, then why'd he die before we were even born?" Snotlout countered as he leaned back. "Nothing more than a myth to me."
"Watch your mouth." Hissed Fishlegs, nervously looking around the gathering hall. "You never know if the Chief's around."
All together their eyes turned to the outside, where a lonely hall by the waterfront could be seen. Their elders often spoke about how majestic and noble it was, but for as long as Astrid had lived, she had only known it to be marred by scorch marks, and weighted down by a contagious sadness.
"Wonder how he's doing anyways," Snotlout said. "Haven't seen him in damn near a month."
Astrid worried the same. Often it felt like Gobber was their Chief. And with the dragon attacks escalating, winter on the horizon, and rumors of Romans approaching, the Chief's presence was desperately needed. Maybe now, more than ever.
-Ω-
Berk's chieftain lived alone.
It had not always been that way. There had been a time when Haddock Hall was the busiest of them all, overflowing with lager and laughter, but that was no longer the case. Not after what had transpired many winters ago.
Alone Stoick sat by the firelight, lazily stoking the flame as he hummed a long forgotten tune. The logs around him, thick and heavy, were perhaps the only form of structure he had left in his life. That and the framework of his bed, which for now remained half empty.
In the firelight, his permanent scowl shone, remembering the night the Gods deemed him unworthy of happiness. The night in which the flame of his soul had been snuffed out by the demons that haunted Berk still to this day. Above all, a Chief protects his own. And on that night in particular, he failed to save what mattered most. And if failure was worthy of scorn, there existed no greater one.
From the cracks and holes in his walls, moonlight slipped in, dancing through the fire before him.
The majority of his life he had spent believing that he was invincible. That Stoick the Vast was everything others had put him up to be. That he possessed prowess, unbelievable strength and never ending charisma. Now however, his mind was infatuated with the empty spaces around him. Where once, the entire world sat.
Like whirlwinds conjured by Aegir himself, the emptiness pulled at Stoick, weightier than anything he had burdened before. As the fire ate away at the kindle, its sparks landing on the floor boards just before his feet, his attention remained on the emptiness around him. His life barely felt like living, if only to exist within this solitude. It was only during this, that he felt closest to them. Only then, could he truly remember them.
He was growing old, a secret to none. And as the end of his journey approached, he found himself wallowing in memories of times gone past. He wondered if he would be happier now, if he had known what was to come. Would things have been different? What could he, if anything, had done to change it? Had it really been the will of Freya that wrought him this way? Or was it something far simpler, that kicked his stone down the mountaintop?
Grained teeth gnawed at his chapped lips as his mind ate away at these thoughts. Outside, the air slowly grew colder and the ground coarser, but he remained where he sat. Inside here there was emptiness and only emptiness, and that was where his thoughts would continue to linger.
"Milord!"
A sharp-pitched voice sliced through the silent refuge, jarring him from his pondering. Urgent bangs against his large oaken doors followed suit, reverberating across the bareness of his abode.
A great shaggy, mountain of a man, Stoick rose from his seat by the fire and approached the doors. Upon opening, his weathered eyes looked down upon a young boy he recognized as Dogsbreath, who stood panting on his front steps.
"What's the matter?" He grumbled.
"Gobber!" The boy managed after a pained breath.
A familiar, crashing wave of panic sprang up in Stoick's massive chest.
"What? Speak clearly my boy!"
"Somebody's washed ashore, milord." Dogsbreath spat rapidly. "A boy. Gobber found him."
The panic still resided within Stoick as he tightened the straps of his large fur coat.
"Who?" He asked.
Dogsbreath gave him a look of unknowing,
"Not one of ours."
Stoick's beard grew irritated. "Well, who could it be then?"
"We think he's a Roman, milord."
Author's Note:
Hope you enjoyed this one! Thanks for the positive feedback on the first chapter :)