First, thanks to everyone for the reviews. Didn't seem to find one snicker among them, which is quite surprising.
Unfortunately, it seems I've somehow accidentally raised expectations. My magic-8 ball still says the story will stink, so be prepared to have your hopes dashed with the next few chapters. Seriously, I wasn't kidding... I stink, and you are about to bear witness to that fact.
If my English profs assessment of my writing skills was any indication of future chapters - i.e. me having the creativity of a sea sponge, and doubting English was indeed my first language - then there is nowhere to go but down!
Hell, y'all been warned... so my conscience is clear.
This chapter will be horribly boring and dull. Since DreamWorks and Cowell did the hard work by creating the environment and characters, this exercise in writing just gives me the opportunity to learn to setup a known story and lay out some characters. Hopefully, I'll be able to do this and still keep things interesting - but the jury is still out on that one.
The chapter should come across similarly to the first few minutes of the HTTYD movie where Hiccup describes Berk, and their life on the Island - with my story spin, of course.
You'll notice Hiccup's character is especially pathetic. This is done on purpose so that you can see a strong character development throughout the story - we need this because as the story gets darker, the main character has to grow and develop properly, otherwise the ending won't have y'all shocked and horrified, grabbing for your tissues and dabbing your eyes in despair.
Hopefully, I don't make the main character too much of a lame loser initially, but after my second read, Hiccup is pretty pathetic; maybe too much so for a proper character evolution. For me, the chapter is long, dense, and too pedantic to hold great appeal, but I've re-written it several times and it doesn't seem to improve. Ah, newbie plotting and writing errors manifesting already.
Again, all criticism is welcomed - the good, bad, and the ugly. If the situational and character setup missed the mark, or the intro is too short, too long, too boring, too lame, I'd appreciate my sorry ass being told. Please, rip it apart and tell me what I need to do better.
So, without further ado, it's time for us all to enjoy, and deride, my spelling and grammatical errors, as I put y'all to sleep with this snore of a background chapter; hoorah!
Last Warning: Buckle up, Buttercup... Like the sign says, blasting zone ahead, and the road ain't closed...
BTW, Happy Thanksgiving folks!
Chapter 1
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The Isle of Berk was one of the smallest Midgardian islands in the Barbaric Archipelago. Possessing a frigid climate, it had been described as being located twelve degrees north of Hopeless and just a few degrees south of Freezing to Death; lying solidly on the Meridian of Misery. It snowed nine months of the year and hailed the other three, as winter hung on with both hands and refused to let go.
The island's sole human inhabitants were a small tribe of unruly Vikings known as the Hairy Hooligans who were nearly as unpleasant as the island's weather. They were a tough and sturdy people who had lived and thrived on the island for seven generations, well adapted to surviving the brutal and unforgiving climate.
During the warm summer periods the Hooligans would ready themselves for their annual battles with the surrounding tribes, and the almost nightly onslaught of dragons who would besiege the island to hunt the Vikings' livestock. Out of necessity, the Hooligans became fierce and fearless warriors capable of defeating many types of foe.
In their world, devoted training and unrivaled bravery in battle were essential for survival. Of highest importance was to live, fight and die with honor, thereby preserving the prowess and glory of the tribe. Their traditions honored valiant and brave personalities and the training of younglings to be fearless fighters.
Progeny born into the tribe tended to be strong and healthy, and grew into fierce Viking warriors highly skilled in the use of the sword, spear, and battle-axe. They learned hand-to-hand combat and how to navigate ships using the stars and coastal landmarks as their guides. They were taught what a Viking could do; crush mountains, level forests, and tame seas. Boldness and courage were instilled in the young, and members of the clan who continued to grow in strength and fortitude with age were treated with reverence. Those who didn't were treated with disdain.
On rare occasions, infants were born who were small, underweight, weak, and fragile. These runts were believed to be bad luck, their presence in the tribe a disease that would weaken the next generation of Vikings, threatening the survival of all. Since Viking custom mandated that only the strong could belong, these "hiccups" were placed at the bottom of a low oceanic cliff where they were left to the mercy of Odin and the angry tide of the sea.
This story is about the birth of one such hiccup. Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III, the only child of Hooligan Chief Stoick the Vast and his wife Valhallarama the Brave.
Fate had never been more of a cruel mistress than in the lives of Stoick and Valhallarama. The question as to why Hiccup was born to a fierce and fearless Viking chief, when he clearly wasn't Viking material, remains unknown. It also remains unclear as to why Stoick disregarded the tribe's longstanding custom, vehemently refusing to abandon his infant son to the endless ocean to become just another forgotten soul whose existence was erased from Viking folklore.
Many speculated that Stoick couldn't bring himself to sever his only connection to Valhallarama, since he tragically lost his beloved wife shortly after child birth. Other's believed the curse of the runt had corrupted his soul and turned him soft. One thing almost all villagers agreed upon was that the small, premature infant was a curse and would never be accepted.
Stoick's perceived dishonor devastated his brother, Spitelout (the beerbelly) Jorgenson. Being the younger of the two, Spitelout's ascension to chief could only be accomplished through Stoick's untimely death. Now that Stoick had an heir, his aspirations of becoming chief dwindled to all but nothing; he felt robbed and cheated. His only consolation lay in the hope that Stoick's embarrassing runt would die in a training or hunting accident, fall fatally ill, or be killed in an attack, thus allowing his own son, Snotlout, to become the next chief of the Hooligans.
The idea of Hiccup becoming the next chief sent a collective shudder through the village. His shy and intellectual nature led him to be both kind and caring, not violent or aggressive in any way; the antithesis of what it meant to be a Viking. When he spoke it was with soft tones, his voice stuttering slightly due to his nervous and timid nature. The dark auburn-haired boy with innocent, emerald-green eyes was small and skinny, incapable of lifting a hammer or swinging an axe. His limbs were fragile little twigs and every rib on his chest could be easily counted under pale, freckled skin which stretched taut over his thin protruding bones.
From birth Stoick knew his son was "different": too clever to be a chief who respected tradition, too interested in books to be normal, and too curious to have the good common sense needed to protect himself from dangerous things like the ocean, cliffs, dragons, dangerous flora, sharp objects, or the fire pit in their home. Stoick feared that short of chaining the child to a wall, there would never be an adequate way to protect him from himself.
The child always seemed in imminent danger of dying, either by accident or illness, and to Spitelout's continued disappointment, neither type of tragedy seemed sufficient to summon the appropriate hellhound to drag the child kicking and screaming into the afterlife.
In stark contrast, his obnoxious, black-haired, black-eyed cousin grew into a strong hulking brute whose skilled fighting techniques were the envy of his peers. Snotlout towered over the other children, his arms like tree trunks, his muscle strength formidable, his barreled chest and broad shoulders rivaling any adult male in the village. In other words, the pure personification of everything it meant to be a Viking.
Although dull-witted, aggressive, and lacking many of the attributes needed to be a wise and effective leader, Snotlout's unrivaled fighting skills easily elevated him to a position of respect within the tribe far above Hiccup.
In a village full of Vikings, Hiccup was clearly an outsider, a freak of nature, isolated and unwanted, trapped in a village where nobody was like him or understood him; least of all his father. In the eyes of the village he was an outcast, and thus was branded with the stigma of being a social misfit, and an utter failure. He was alone amongst many who wouldn't think twice if he'd suddenly collapsed and died where he stood. On the contrary, his death seemed to be the secret desire of many whom still harbored resentment, refusing to acknowledge his existence for not being dealt with properly as an infant.
This seemed especially true of his uncle and cousin. Many a cruel night had been spent at their mercy, his cries of pain eliciting only laughter from his cold and vicious uncle. The child's ever-growing unVikingness seemed to stoke a cruel ember in Spitelout's heart, each day intensifying, temporarily squelched only by the smaller boy's torment at the hands of his older, more aggressive son.
Stoick would notice the varied injuries, some severe, when Hiccup would return home after visits with his uncle, but the injuries were always explained away by his brother as resulting from "rough play" with his cousin. A tale would be spun that portrayed Snotlout as only trying to help toughen and strengthen the younger lad, so ultimately, it was for Hiccup's own good.
Stoick found it difficult to believe ill of his only sibling, so accepted the explanations without question. With no rein on Snotlout's hand, the abuse only intensified over the years. Hiccup, too ashamed to appear weak in the eyes of his father, said nothing and accepted the physical abuse without complaint. Even when other children joined in the taunts and beatings, he suffered in silence. The parentally imposed mantra his father taught - Vikings are tough, strong, fearless, they laugh at pain, they never cry - repeatedly played in his mind while being beaten.
To Hiccup, his Dad's attempts to mold him into a true Viking simply came across as a father's disappointment in his son. Unfortunately, the more Stoick criticized his young son for his screw-ups, the louder the village chorus of complaints grew. The child was labeled and treated as the tribe pest by nearly everyone, except for the village blacksmith Gobber the Belch, Stoick's best friend and battle-brother.
In a desperate attempt to provide some kind of skill for the lad, as well as squash the growing unrest bubbling within the tribe, Stoick called upon Gobber to skill his young son in the art of smithing. Stoick reasoned that at the age of six the work would build strength and stamina in his tiny son, completely oblivious to the fact that the child arrived home nightly completely exhausted, too tired to eat, and covered in new scars and burns from the razor-sharp blades and molten metal that would ravish his little body.
As the apprentice's skills blossomed, his unrivaled gift for working with steel, iron, and leather, seemed matched only by his propensity for starting fires and disasters in the forge. On occasion, Hiccup's little inventions were extremely useful to the tribe, but in the eyes of the villagers, not worth the cost of his constant disobedience due to his overall lack of Vikingness.
As the downtrodden boy grew into a young teen, he remained shy and timid, his nervous stutter replaced by ironic sarcasm and self-deprecating humor. The change seemed to infuriate many in the village still determined to harass the child with taunts, their efforts proving less effective as he aged. The change in the boy brought about one unintended consequence for the Chief; his son withdrew almost completely, preferring to remain almost completely isolated in the safety of the forge, and in the company of his blacksmith mentor.
After a particularly difficult day spent surreptitiously avoiding Snotlout and his throng of sycophants, determined to mete out punishment for some imaginary trespass, Hiccup found himself seeking solace in the forge. As he pounded the metal of his latest invention into an intricate shape, beads of sweat ran down his face and back wetting his hair and clothes. His overheated and achy body gently soothed by the cool fall air which slowly crept into the forge which mixed deliciously with stifling heat radiated by the pit fire.
Completely immersed in his current project, Hiccup had lost track of the hour, not realizing the sun had long since set. His focus was abruptly broken when a unusually loud crack of thunder roared overhead. Startled by the noise, he instinctively dropped his hammer, rushed to the armory wall, and grabbed a small dagger before coming to a halt in front of the large forge door. As his heart pounded in his throat and his body shook with fear, he readied himself for another dragon raid. Collecting his courage, he threw open the door and yelled, "I'm coming Dad!", only to be immediately smacked in the face with a rush of frigidly cold air causing him to stagger back, reminding him that the unseasonably cold fall had put the dragons into their winter slumber cycle early.
As Hiccup stood in the doorway slightly dazed, another crack of thunder boomed overhead. As the rumble echoed away, he blinked his eyes rapidly and looked up into the menacing sky, watching as lightning streaks danced above. As if on cue, small droplets of icy rain began striking his face. He closed his eyes and allowed cool water to run down his cheeks, waking his drowsy mind before finally lowering his head and trudging back into the forge.
A rumble in Hiccups stomach, almost as loud as the thunder, stopped him in his tracks. Feeling empty and weak, Hiccup moved his hand to his stomach, with hunched shoulders he squeezed the fabric of his tunic, scrunching his nose in discomfort. In his determination to avoid Snotlout's gang, he realized he hadn't eaten all day - again. At this point, his only options were to either wait until morning to get a meal at the Great Hall, or head home and brave the latest concoction his father called 'dinner', while simultaneously being subjected to another unending litany - which could be extended indefinitely - of his failings as a Viking, and a son.
Neither choice seemed especially appealing since each involved the critical and disappointed look of either the entire village, or his father. With a pained look on his face, he decided secret option number three was the best choice; get some sleep at the forge, and at dawn head out into the forest to hopefully find something edible. As another loud rumble shook his abdomen, Hiccup thought with discomfort, 'Morning can't come soon enough.'
Hiccup sighed and walked toward the back of the forge, entering a small work room given to him by Gobber. Pulling a chair to his desk, he opened a leather bound notebook littered with drawings, scribbles and calculations. He turned to a well-worn page which detailed a complicated cable and pulley system that appeared to launch a net. Hiccup frowned at the open page before him, unconsciously running his hand through his damp, tousled hair and down the back of his neck, rubbing slowly as he mentally struggled to integrate all the complicated moving parts into a coherent structure. "I know I can get this to work...", he mumbled, "... no more disappointed scowls. No more Hiccup the Useless."
Feeling light-headed and weak from the lack of food, Hiccup's exhaustion became more pronounced, making it even more difficult to concentrate on the work. He rubbed his eyes, stretched, rose from his seat, and made his way over to the window to take in some fresh cool air to clear his foggy mind.
Propping up his elbows on the window sill, he rested his chin in his palms. Even in the rainy, murky darkness of the night, he could make out the beginning preparations for the upcoming Winterfyllith ceremony taking place on the next full moon. The celebration, which was one of the tribes most important yearly traditions, was held in honor their ancestral spirits. It was a time to pay tribute to those brave and courageous souls who lost their lives in battle. It was also a time for promoting kinship and friendship among tribe members, and for Hiccup, it was also the loneliest time of the year.
He had no siblings, his mother had died when he was an infant, and during the festival his father led the ceremony and mingled with the villagers, leaving precious little time for Hiccup. Left alone to wander the celebration, it was painful for Hiccup to hear all the mirthful laughter and see the comradery, knowing he wasn't welcomed anywhere. There was no home he could visit; no friend with whom to share a laugh. 'Just another time of the year to get ignored and be invisible... or worse.' he thought.
Looking out into the square Hiccup's mind wandered to several past celebrations which were particularly painful. He recalled for a few years, when he was very small, Annar and Hilda Hofferson had welcomed him into their home. He cracked a small half-smile remembering some happier times, and how he had started to become their blonde, blue-eye daughter Astrid's favorite playmate. His smile slowly faded, and his brow furrowed, as the bitter-sweet memory swept through his mind like a whirlwind.
Even after all these years, he could still feel Annar's painfully tight grip on his arm as he was unceremoniously dragged home from the Hoffersons. He could still see the large man's hairy knuckles angrily pounding on the door, and still hear the loud knocks reverberating into his otherwise quiet house, only to be echoed back by the lone, heavy footsteps of the sole occupant.
Hiccup's eyes began to tear as he pictured the door swinging open, and the face of his father as he was thrown inside, landing painfully on his hands and knees. He could still feel the heavy hand on the back of his tunic yanking him off the floor, as the accompanying gruff voice filled his ears, yelling at him to go to his room.
Hiccup never knew why the they didn't want him around anymore. All he knew was that his one and only friend was ripped from him, and afterward Astrid started avoiding him like all the other children in his village. Although she never teased or hit him, she refused to ever look at him, which in Hiccup's mind was far worse. At least when the kids were
hitting and teasing him, they acknowledged his existence, she, however, treated him as if he were dead, unworthy of notice, simply beneath contempt.
After the Hofferson debacle, Hiccup recalled how overjoyed his Dad was when Spitelout had come forward on his on volition and magnanimously offered to take him for every holiday. Hiccup remembered being told that the clout Spitelout wielded within the tribe wasn't trivial, especially with the elders, and this gesture surely meant he was starting to become accepted as a member of the village. Hiccup couldn't help but let out a soft sarcastic snort at the irony, his mind' eye immediately transporting him to when he was eight years old.
During his first Winterfyllith celebration at his uncle's, he spent the entire night sitting in a chair completely ignored. As the house slowly emptied before dawn, he remembered how his cousin lured him outside with a tale of how the magic of Winterfyllith had brought his dead mother back from Valhalla, and she was waiting for him outside with open arms. A look of great sadness crossed Hiccup's face as he recalled the heartbreaking memory.
Hiccup closed his eyes as the vision flashed before him. He remembered the heart-wrenching excitement that flooded through his body as he hurriedly rushed to follow his cousin outside, the feeling of Snotlout's hand on his small back pushing him roughly to the ground, his cousin's foot angrily stomping on his shoulder trapping it under his immense weight, and finally the feeling of the larger boy's hand on his wrist as he pulled his struggling arm taught.
The hateful look in his cousin's eyes as he twisted the twig-like arm until his wrist made a cracking sound was etched in Hiccup's memory. Hiccup's body tensed as he recalled how he screamed and writhed in pain on the ground, tears streaking his face, only to be silenced by a kick to the ribs so forceful it rolled him onto his stomach. He shivered as he remembered curling in on himself and cradling his broken wrist, eyes blurred with tears, begging the pain to stop. He could still smell Snotlout's breath as the large boy triumphantly dropped to his knee, poked him in his sore ribs, and chortled in his face, "Thanks for the fun, Useless".
Absentmindedly, Hiccup rubbed his right wrist in remembrance of the pain. He wasn't sure what had hurt more that night; the broken wrist or the broken heart.
Hiccup opened his eyes and gave a sad chuckle thinking about how hard he had worked to invent a story explaining away the injury as a clumsy accident at the forge when, after five days of hiding the fracture, Gobber eventually noticed the boy's work was more pitiful than usual. With a shiver he remembered the disappointed look on his father's face when Gobber told him about the broken wrist; a pain far worse than what he experienced at the healer's hut when the bones needed to be refractured, carefully reset, and splinted.
The small boy sighed sadly as all the past celebrations seemed to flash through his mind. The same basic scenario occurred every year thereafter. By the end of the night, Snotlout would always trick Hiccup and find a way to isolate him from others. With fists or weapons, Hiccup would be beaten and tortured until he cried and fell unconscious. Afterward, Hiccup would make up some excuse to his father as to why he was bruised, bloodied, or broken. Each year's celebration always ending with his father's disappointed scowl and Hiccup's humiliation.
'Still,' Hiccup thought, 'the lies were worth it. Better to be seen as a clumsy oaf than a useless weakling.'
This year's celebration promised to break the cycle of Snotlout's rein of terror. Since Hiccup was now thirteen, he would be expected to attend the festival and make a one time offering to show his respect. He knew he had to present something that showed veneration, awe, and respect for a family member who had passed. This year's celebration was special because he would finally be able to present a gift in remembrance of his mother. At this thought he dropped his hands and let them fall on the sill, lowered his head, and sighed. The event was now only four days away and he still had no idea what to bring. Not a clue. Nadda. Nix. Nothing. 'Great,' he thought drily, 'Hiccup the clueless strikes again!'.
Hoping to gain some kind of inspiration for his gift, Hiccup gazed back into the darkness of the town square. He could see that many tables and benches had already been arranged, and a significant number of the bright colored decorations hung. The falling rain distorted the scene, but Hiccup swore it looked as though shadowy people were picking their way between the tables and the carts, giving the ghostly illusion that the festival had already begun. His unfocused mind wandered to thoughts about all the delicious food that would soon be set on those tables and his stomach erupted with another angry rumble.
Finally overwhelmed by tiredness, Hiccup straightened and shuffled to the back corner of his room to lie down, his feet feeling far too heavy to lift. As he settled onto the floor, a strong draft of cold air rushed across his body causing him to pull his vest tightly around his thin frame. The soft rhythmic patter of rain on the ground, and the wind rustling through the leaves of the trees, sung a delightful lullaby to Hiccup's tired mind and exhausted body.
Succumbing to the tranquil and soothing sounds from the dying storm echoing in the forge like a lyrical melody, Hiccup finally closed his eyes and exhaled a sigh of contentment. A sudden dread flooding his exhausted body caused his eyes to snap open as he recalled that during the Winterfyllith ceremony the village seer would use divination to foretell the fates of all first year participants. Since this same seer predicted only pain and misery, for his family and the village, if he were allowed to live, he feared what might be hiding in his future; more pain and misery he suspected.
Deciding that contemplating his impending doom would have to wait until morning, he thought darkly before falling into a fretful sleep, 'I have all the luck... unfortunately I know it will be all bad.'