Hi folks,
Sorry for the long delay for another chapter. Life has a way of taking us on side streets and down back allies that are unexpected.
I've been on quite the journey over the last couple years but I need to put aside some of my troubles and focus on things I enjoy. I'm hoping to get back to this story and finish it up.
Just a couple comments:
HighKingsRuin: Are you planning to add Hiccstrid in to this story in later chapters?
Hiccup and Astrid will definitely interact more in the story. Since this story takes place before the first HTTYD movie, their interactions will continue to be an awkward relationship with seeds of attraction; but that's all.
Guest Reviewer: Comments left on multiple chapters.
Thank you for the critique of my writing. The comments were thoughtful and I took it as constructive criticism. I'm hoping to apply your suggestions as I move forward with my story.
Anyway, thanks to everyone for hanging in there with this story. I know its been slow going. I'm finding that I have immense respect for writers. Plotting out stories is very difficult, and staring at a blank editor page is depressing.
This chapter is dedicated to Noctus Fury for helping me to get excited about writing again. I'm forever in your debt.
I've been using iBooks to put this story in a pdf form. I'll make it available when the story is completed.
I'm determined to finish the story, but work, school, life has limited my time so it's really hard to write. I'll do my best. I'm thinking for my first writing experience I should have stuck to a much shorter story! LOL!
Buckle up Buttercup:
"No matter the cost, a Chief protects his own."
Update: Sorry, had to correct some words since this editor didn't see them correctly.
Chapter 16 - The Council of Elders
As the warm orange sunset fell slowly into twilight, relief from the scorching Autumn sun arrived in the form of brewing storm clouds rising ominously over the small Isle of Berk. The once glassy sea surrounding the small island now churned and bubbled angrily, signaling an approaching gale. Angry white toped waves crashed onto the sandy brown shores, ripping at its smooth surface like invisible claws, dragging any captured items or poor unsuspecting creatures back into the dark depths of the endless sea.
The swirling edges of the inky grey storm clouds stretched outward, reaching like long slender fingers to extinguish the light of the setting sun. A bone-chilling wind swept across the churning sea, howling it's anger as it whipped through the small Berkian village, rattling the wooden shutters of a small cluster of huts nestled at the base of a large hill.
The icy sea wind wound its way up the carved stone stairs of the hillside like a venomous snake seeking prey. It's biting cold rushed toward the Berkian leader's home, shaking the boughs of trees in it's path, demanding they surrender their crisp golden leaves. The dried crumpled leaves ripped from their owner's branches swirled through the air, as if dancing to some unheard music before fluttering down and landing quietly on the barren dirt road, creating a crunchy fiery blanket of reds and oranges in the wake of the angry wind.
Finding the home cold and empty, the chilled autumn wind seemed to change direction and race through the streets of the small Hooligan village, whorling the fallen brittle leaves into frenzied tornadoes, lifting the discarded flora high into the air in an elegant, pirouetting dance. With screaming anger, the wild wind pushed the discarded flora like tumbleweeds toward the long, stacked stone steps of the Great Hall, depositing them at the base of the giant double doors as if making an offering of salvation to the Norse Gods themselves.
As the decaying autumnal leaves laid like multi-colored confetti on the darkened threshold, huge jagged bolts of white hot lightning branched through the inky sky high above the giant wood and stone structure. The bright flash illuminated two giant Viking statues, each mounted on a dragon and holding a torch aloft, tirelessly guarding the entrance to the building. Normally the Guardian torches were lit at dusk, welcoming all villagers into the Great Hall, but tonight was different. The great building lay in darkness; a warning to all that only the invited may enter...
Immediately following the dazzling light show, a strong gust of unwelcomed wind slammed against the large mahogany doors forcing them to crash open, sweeping in the doorstep tribute. The rustling, crackling leaves swirled like dancers into the air before coming to rest in cozy places around the base of several huge tribal Viking statues which stood like quiet sentinels just inside the large double doors.
The heavy double doors concealed a cavernous room which had been painstakingly carved into the side of a enormous rocky hill. The room's high stone walls and granite grey floor held a unfeeling coldness despite the warmth from the raging fire confined within the huge central stone fire pit. Swinging methodically over the pit was the golden figure of a Grapple Grounder dragon impaled by a sword. The shiny gold of the statue reflected the light of the the fire into thousands of small sparkling rays of light that filled the large room like the rays of the rising sun.
Wide wooden pillars, extending from floor to ceiling, had been placed in a Valknut pattern as a homage to Odin and slain Hooligans. Each pillar was encircled with criss-cross patterns of metal bands and were ornately decorated with carvings of Viking and Dragon battles. As the moving rays of light danced upon the pillars, the carvings appeared to come to life and relive legendary battles.
Old, faded tapestries depicting great historical dragon battles of old, festooned the cold, grey walls of the Great Hall. Their once vibrant colors long since washed away by the cruel passage of time. They clung to the walls like ghostly reminders of past glories, whispering a chant of Hooligan victories to all who entered.
Scattered throughout the large space were small, wooden tables and benches for eating and general communing. Torches had been placed periodically along the walls to illuminate every angle of the intricate carvings which covered every post, pole, wall, and surface in the large room.
The sense of grandeur and intimidation culminated with a single, huge wooden table supported by four, huge tree stumps for legs. The ancient furniture sat upon a raised stone platform at the far end of the Hall, behind which hung a deerskin map of the known Barbaric world. At the very center of the skin, outlined in gold, was the Isle of Berk surrounded by many smaller islands. Under each isle was a label written in charcoal ash from the fire pit; Meathead Islands, Isle of Skullions, Hysteria, Lava-Lout Island, Berserk, Ugli-thug Slavelands, the Island of Tomorrow, and so on for about fifty small smudges littered haphazardly around Berk. On the remaining portion of the skin, a large land mass labeled "MAINLAND" was written on the Eastern side of the Barbaric Archipelago, in bold, red runes. At a point along the long shoreline where the land suddenly jutted into the sea, the name "Skoro" had been poorly scrubbed out, it's dark smudge standing out like a beacon against against the light tan of the animal skin.
The gigantic gathering room was typically used to impress tribal Chieftains, plan for attacks, hold communal meals, dragon training study, sheltering from bad weather, or for celebration. However, today's occupants discussed something far more serious; the Einvigi.
This no-holds barred duel was used only to redress extreme dishonor within the ruling bloodlines of Viking tribes. The combatants fought a single, unregulated duel which had no judge or officiator. They relied only on their raw strength and personal "luck", given by the the divine favor of the God Ullr, to decide the matter by defeat or death. The loser, should he survive, was stripped of his birthright, shunned from the tribe, and obliged to ransom himself in the slave auctions on the Mainland; his title and possessions passing to the Einvigi victor.
Like a timeless monument frozen for a thousand years, Spitelout stood proud and silent before the old, marred table, his hands clasp tightly behind his back. An air of undeserved arrogance wafted about him, spreading into the room like an unseen mist. The large, black-haired Viking was dressed in the traditional Berkian tunic of green and gold, representing Berk's ruling house. The addition of a long, pristine white sash, secured tightly around his waist, had been added to the official attire along with a flowing, white fur-trimmed red cape draped ceremonially over one of his massive shoulders.
With a small, almost imperceptible facial twitch, his cold black eyes scanned the seven seated figures before him, their greying heads gathered low in murmured conversation. With amused interest, certain that what was sought wouldn't be found, he watched gnarled fingers gingerly run over the faded runic passages scrawled on the yellowing parchment of an ancient, tattered book. The elder's mutterings rising and falling in frantic crescendos as they read, and reread their forbearer's writings, trying to infer hidden messages from the flaking ink.
The Elder's weathered and scarred faces were contemplative as they drank in the rules laid out in the medieval Icelandic lawbook. The Grágás was quite clear in its teachings; it permitted a relative of the ruling bloodline to challenge the current leadership if their house could be spoken of with scorn. Even if the law forbade vengeance, public opinion could demand it.
The elders looked up slowly and warily into the smugly-triumphant face of Berk's second in command, his nostrils flaring wildly, confirming he was victorious. His longtime grievance would finally be addressed. His son deserved to be the future Chief of the Hooligans. He knew it to be true. There was no doubt in his mind.
Snotlout's birthright was cruelly stolen from him by the ill winds of fate. He had a right to demand justice! The village would come to accept this change. They would know his line was the rightful leaders of Berk. "Yes," he said to himself before smiling, "They will be grateful... They will follow and obey without question... We both know this is the best for the Hooligan tribe..."
While patiently waiting for the Elder's inevitable response, Spitelout's eyes occasionally flicked upward, scanning the wall behind the table. Arched above the Archipelago deerskin map like a broken halo, hung intricately detailed portraits of Berk's historical line of chiefs with their first born sons, all smiling down as if bestowing their wisdom and good fortune on the hall occupants. The picture of the current Chief's family had been placed in the center of the collage, in a position of extreme honor, its lines of blacks and blood reds still fresh and glistening.
Staring angrily at the central picture of the Stoick and his small, scrawny son, his gut suddenly clenched, and hot, coppery bile filled his mouth. A wave of nausea swept over his body as a soft voice hissed in his head like a serpent...
"You know you should have been chief... Your son is the true heir of the tribe... His boy is weak, useless, pathetic, not a true leader like yours..."
Spitelout swayed with the intensity of the hatred, his anger escalating and building like a storm as the head voice grew louder. Grimacing, he bit down hard on his lip. A small, deep red bubble of blood bloomed at the corner of his mouth, trickling down his chin, creating a thin, bright red line which oddly mirrored the colored hair strokes in Hiccup's portrait.
With narrowing eyes, the Chieftain's brother fixated on his nephew's painted face, the hissing voice now escalating to a scream.
"This wasn't suppose to happen!
"It's not right!"
"He wasn't suppose to be born!"
"He's the reason your son won't be chief... He's the cause of all the village disasters... He's the reason the spirits will seek revenge... You know what you have to do..." the shrill voice barked furiously.
The words echoed in his head as electrifying pain shot through his body causing it to jerk as if suddenly awakened. Slowly, involuntarily, Spitelout's right hand moved to slowly stroke the strange scaring on the back of his left hand.
Startled by the sudden motion, the murmuring men straightened and stared at the motion's source with wide, surprised eyes. A well-practiced smile slowly broke across Spitelout's rugged face, his eyes remaining cold and shadowy, behind which lay dark secrets. Raising his arms to either side as if imploring to the heavens, he began speaking authoritatively, his voice booming in the large room.
"We all know why I'm here." He said coolly.
"You have been reading the Grágás for nigh on 20 minutes. I am well within my rights as part of the ruling family line."
Dropping his hands, the facade of friendliness evaporated. Spitelout's voice lowered into a dangerous growl. "My request is simple. You know the law."
His black eyes sparkled as they darted between the elder's faces. "I cannot be refused," he said silky, the taste of victory sweet on his tongue.
Casually turning his back toward the table occupants he waved his hand airily, acting as if their decision was a foregone conclusion. "And yet you delay the inevitable, looking for some small reason to deny my birth right."
A tall thin man pushed back his chair and slowly rose. "You come here, in front of this council, making demands, showing no respect... and, and ... dressed like that?" Waving a wrinkled hand at Spitelout's garb, the elder's voice cracked and shook with age and rage.
"You make a mockery of the meeting by not abiding by the royal dress!"
Spitelout's lips split into a sneer. "I just thought that since my line will be moving forward as the new ruling house, I might as well add some," he paused dramatically for affect before sneering, "... updates."
"You have no respect for the house of Stoick the Vast!" Spat the elder.
Charging forward, Spitelout slammed his palms down hard onto the wooden table, shaking it so violently the old, tattered book was thrown unceremoniously to the floor. Stretching forward to push his sweating face mere inches from the elder's, he leered, locking their cold eyes in silent combat.
Collecting himself, Stoick's younger brother stepped back, his body language calmer as he broke his gaze with the elder. Glancing at each man individually and noting the fear in their eyes, he said softly, "You've all known this would eventually happen."
"From the time of the runt's birth it was clear Stoick's son wasn't a suitable chief for the Hooligan tribe. The bloodline is damaged and weak." Spitlout's voice lowering with anger as each sentence was uttered.
Stepping back he threw his arms into the air as if making the demand to Thor himself. "I'm hear to demand an Einvigi! It is my right!" His voice raising into a fevered pitch as he screamed his demand.
As the last sentence finished, a blinding flash of light flooded the hall and in the distance, a low roll of thunder moaned like a slowly dying soul.
The elder wrinkled his nose in disgust, inhaling a deep deliberate breath before reseating. "You realize you bind your son to the conditions of the Einvigi? It is a formal contract that cannot be broken."
"The victor is our future Chief, the loser, should he survive, will be exiled and sold into slavery."
Spitelout grinned nastily before speaking. "I'm well aware of the conditions of the duel..." His lip curled into a snarl, "I would not have asked for it otherwise," he added condescendingly.
The heavy mahogany double doors of the great hall suddenly burst open and a rush of damp, frigid air flooded over the room occupants. Highlighted in the doorway, face drenched in sweat, stood Stoick the vast, his chest heaving as he gasped to catch his breath. Face flushed with fury, his eyes glinted with unconcealed dislike as they focused on his younger brother, his knuckles turning white from their iron grip on the edges of the large doors.
The younger, dark haired Viking nonchalantly glanced over his shoulder, "Ah, you've finally arrived. Good."
"Do come in, dear brother", he greeted in a voice artificially pleasant with faked affection, waving his hand in a vague enter gesture.
"We were just discussing..." But before he could finish, Stoick boomed in a deep threatening voice, "I know what you were discussing!"
"Good... Good..." Spitelout cooed softly in a sickly sweet tone, as if speaking to a child.
Storming into the hall with Chiefly authority, Stoick headed straight toward the large gnarled table. His bootsteps echoed off the cavernous walls of stone like crashes of thunder, the blonde smithy trailing close on his heals.
As the two large Hairy Hooligans marched in sync across the hall, a strong, cold wind gust slammed against the heavy mahogany doors, slowing their closure. In the shadows of the doorway, three young, curious faces leered into the large room straining to hear the conversation before the final thud of the closing doors.
Almost immediately, the flushed faces of the twins and Fishlegs appeared in a small neighboring window to watch the events unfold. Their eyes fixed on the Hooligan Chief as he moved across the room, the howling wind barely covering the raised, heated voices buried deep within the chamber.
Almost in sync with his long angry strides the leader of the Hairy Hooligans bellowed, "I'm sure it was a simply oversight that I was not informed of change in the time and place of the meeting... Brother." His voice poignant with accusation.
Close on his heals followed Gobber, twirling a axe meaningfully in his hand. "Glad to be on the guest list, folks. I never know what kind of gift to bring to these formal things... so I'm just bringing my bad attitude."
Spitelout rolled his eyes. "I don't believe you were invited, nor is your presence required here, Gobber the Belch." His voice full of loathing.
"What?" Gobber responded in mocked shock, placing his hand on his chest as if wounded. "Ye don't want mah pretty face here? Snorted the large blond smithy sarcastically. "Aam devastated."
Looking toward the elders he added. "No, seriously, I am. I'll be cryin' aw night tonight," the smithy sniffed as if holding back tears.
"If it wasn't for the Mighty Vast Chief here telling me to follow your lying, cheating, no good for nothin'... er..." Gobber coughed into his balled fist, clearing his throat unconvincingly.
"... I mean to say, to keep a watchful eye on the village oh-so-important second in command right over here," waving a large calloused hand at Spitelout.
"Then our Head Hooligan over there," jabbing his thumb in Stoick's direction, "... might have missed this oh-so-important meeting altogether."
"So... I've decided to invite meself," the Smithy chirped light heartedly, his eyes flashing angrily as he scanned the seated elders.
Spitelout cast the Smithy a scathing glance before turning and raising his arms wide open in a welcoming gesture to the elders. "Well, all parties appear to be present so let's continue our discussion of the details of the duel and weapons of choice."
Moving slowly to position himself in front of Stoick, he locked eyes with his brother and smirked. "I'm partial to the sword, but seeing as your lad can't lift one," he pouted mockingly, "we might have to modify the use of the weapons for the sake of... fairness." He half-smiled at the Chief before turning and faced the elders.
Casually Spitelout looked down at his right hand nails and chided, "Not that it will do any good. My son is skilled with all types of blades while yours, shall we say, is only good at writing or reading about them in books." A snort of derision followed as the elders shot each other concerned glances.
"I suppose," he sighed deeply, feigned boredom in his voice, "we could let him use a pencil in the duel. Rumor is he's good with very small tools. Perhaps could scrawl out the word 'help' before Snotlout takes him down." The laugh the escaped Spitelout's lips was maniacal. For a second Stoick swore he recognized the laugh, but that was ridiculous, crazy, impossible... That person was long dead.
Stoick's face flushed dark purple with rage. His nails digging into his palms until small lines of blood trickled through his fingers.
Gobber's eyes narrowed. He knew Spitelout was a skilled artisan in the dark teachings of lies, deception, and manipulation and had been circulating lies amongst the tribe; whispering in the shadows and back alleyways that Stoick's weakness for not banishing his runt son put their own livelihoods and children in peril. He had been claiming that the spirits will rise from their graves on Winterfyllith and take vengeance on the village for the betrayal of their most sacred belief that "only the strong can belong".
The Smithy was angry with himself for not being forceful with Stoick. He silently cursed himself for not demanding his best friend take notice of Spitelout's forked tongue and how he was using Hiccup as a weapon of dishonor against Stoick's bloodline. And now, because of inaction and foolishness, it was too late. The boy was now in peril and it was all his fault.
The blonde smithy's gut wrenched with guilt and concern for his pseudo-son. Fear gripped the large man like a vice, squeezing sanity from his mind as he focused on the cold, calculating eyes of the cruel, snake-tongued brute standing before him.
The dark Viking knew as part of the ruling bloodline, he was within his rights to demand the Evingi. Val's death due to the birth of the cursed runt meant that he, with a son destined for leadership and glory, should have been made the rightful leader of the Hooligans. Stoick's stubbornness at not acknowledging his blood line's curse needed to be corrected... for the good of the tribe. This dual was long overdue and would correct an ancient wrong.
Without warning, Spitelout suddenly barked at the elders, "Your decision! Now!"
Before the sentence finished, fear gripped Spitlout's gut like a vice. A torrent of emotion pushed its way to the surface before being quickly swept under years of practiced calm.
The nagging voice in his head rose in volume, "He is smart. He has the mind to break barriers and change worlds. Not a physical strength like the rest of the tribe, but one found in the heart and soul. He is resourceful. He is tricky. In a fight can Snotlout beat all that with simple brawn?"
Gobber caught Spitelout's momentary flash of fear: well-hidden, but unmistakable. There was something else present too, something the Smithy couldn't quite identify.
Spitelout spoke again, breaking Gobber's concentration. "For the weapons, I fancy the the hólmgang," Spitelout said casually. "And as you know, the mark of a true Viking chief is to be able to swing the heavy blade."
"The hólmgang?" questioned Stoick, his voice laced with concern as he marched to the table to stand beside Spitelout, refusing to meet his younger brother's eyes.
Stoick visibly tensed, deep concern growing on the large Viking's face. He knew Hiccup was no match for Snotlout physically and another five years was unlikely to change that. His boy just didn't have the heart to take another's life, but Stoick had no doubt his nephew didn't suffer from the same moral affliction.
Speaking directly to the council Stoick boomed with chiefly authority. "A chief's son's birthright has never been challenged before! Let alone with an Evingi! This is outrageous!" The mighty Hooligan chief seemed to visibly age several years after each spoken line.
"This fool," Stoick threw out his hand toward his younger brother, "is making a mockery of our customs and laws."
"I demand the request for an Evingi be denied!" punctuating his sentence by slamming his clenched fist onto the top of Elder's table, the force of the strike causing the Grágás to fly off the table's edge and drop into the elder's lap.
Spitelout turned slowly toward Stoick. "Brother, we are here because your son is a failure as a Viking and as a leader. Even *you* have to admit that." The accusation that came with the emphasis on the word *you* mad Stoick stiffen.
"We need a future leader. A role your runt can't possibly fulfill. He will most likely die horribly by trying to make you proud. But..." Spitelout sighed dismissively, "... that might be his only redeeming quality. At least in the end, he'll have done something Viking-like."
"We both know there's no way he'd survive the battle and you have no other heir to appoint in his stead. Even if by some miracle he survives, a life of slavery on the mainland is worse than being dead." There was an odd pleading in Spitelout's voice, as if some sincerity had accidently broken through the harsh emotional surface.
As if reading Stoick's mind, and verbalizing his worse fears, Spitelout articulated the fear that had been building in the large Chief's chest since the Einvigi was mentioned.
"Renounce your thrown now," he urged, "or suffer the inevitable consequences". A sad smile broke across Spitelout's face which didn't match his triumphant tone.
Stoick's eyes flashed dangerously as he swung his head quickly toward Spitelout. Before he could respond the younger Viking spoke again.
"Your runt son can't live and die with honor like a true Viking leader should."
"He's weak, useless, and irresponsible..."
"He puts himself and the tribe in jeopardy. He's a disgrace to long line of Hooligan leaders." Dark growling undertones entered his voice as he continued berating Hiccup, hoping to force his brother into a rash response in front of the elders.
Swallowing hard to keep his chiefly composure, Stoick quickly tried to invent believable responses to Spitelout's accusations which could convince the Elders to dismiss the request for a duel, putting an end to this foolishness.
The moment of hesitation was all Spitelout needed. Sensing his brother's vulnerability, he stepped within inches of the Viking leader's face and locked eyes.
He spat out harshly, his breath hot in the leader's face, making Stoick react in an almost imperceptible flinch. "My son will be chief one day. What I have set into motion cannot be undone. Even by the great Stoick the Vast, Terror of the Seas, Most High Ruler of the Hooligans, O Hear His Name and Tremble, Ugh, Ugh..."
"Even if you choose the weaponry, pick the location of the blood-battle, and wait until your boy is in his eighteenth year, my son will still be victorious."
"Snotlout has the blessing of luck from Ullr who will grant him divine favor in the fight. The God shows no such favors for weakling Vikings like your son."
Spitelout stepped back and now spoke to the entire room, his voice booming with authority. "All tribes in the archipelago will finally know who is the rightful heir to the Hairy Hooligans..." His attention suddenly focused on his brother like a laserbeam, "And there's nothing you can do..." The last part of the sentence spoken mockingly in a sad child's voice.
Stoick's eyes widened. He did not recognize the person in front to him. It was if a demon had presented itself in his brother's form.
Scanning the worry lines on his older brother's face Spitelout whispered, "You know that already, don't you."
"For Thor's sake, brother..." Spitelout urged in near desperation, "Preserve the last piece of Val that you still have. Don't let your only child die like this."
Before Stoick could respond, Estrid the Strong - leader of the Elder's council and grandfather to Astrid Hofferson, for whom she was named - pushed back his chair and slowly rose, as if the effort strained every muscle in his body.
Placing the ancient book back onto the table, he raised his wrinkled hand to silence the room. With a commanding air of a much younger man, the elder barked, "Silence! We have never had to adjudicate such a request, but it is the duty of this council to hear the grievances brought before us. Spitelout has the right to question the ruling bloodline since he is of that line.."
Estrid moved his hand and pointed to an empty seat behind Stoick. "Sit," he directed.
Looking as if he had been punched in the gut, Stoick hesitated before stiffly moving toward the chair. A sudden shout froze him before sitting.
"This is wrong and you know it!" Shouted Gobber from just outside the firelight, his voice sounding as if had come from a disembodied ghost of one of the Viking ancestor murals, screaming their outrage.
Emerging into the light thrown by the fire pit, the smithy angrily approached the long wooden table. "We all know Spitelout has had it in for the lad since forever and has been looking for any reason to put that pig of an offspring of his in charge!" He spat with vengeance.
"Silence!" Estrid commanded, throwing both hands onto the table. Leaning forward he shouted into Gobber's face, "You will be silent during the deliberations!"
At that moment the sound of shattering glass erupted from the far side of the darkened room as the weight from the three interlopers broke the small window aside the Great hall doors. The unexpected noise brought with it three smallish figures tumbling into the room, landing in a tangled heap on the stone floor.
"What? What is this!" sputtered Estrid. "How dare you eavesdrop on these proceedings!" Pointing a old and gnarled finger toward the door, Estrid shouted "OUT!".
Upon issuing the command, Ruffnut, Tuffnut and Fishlegs fled the hall, tripping over each other as they bolted through the large front doors. As the trio partially ran and stumbled down the stone stairs, Ruffnut murmured, "I had no idea scrawny jerk was up against this kind of stuff. Wow, just wow."
After reaching midway on the stair, the nosy teens looked back at the Hall still determined to listened to the muffled shouts of the adults within. The voices were reaching a fevered pitch before the door burst open and Stoick and Gobber emerged.
Slamming the large double doors behind them, the large men stormed down the stairs past the shocked youths as if they were invisible. When Stoick reached the bottom of the stairs he halted abruptly. His large hand flew automatically to grasp the arm of his blonde companion. The smithy looked at his friend who appeared staring at something unknown.
Stoick's hand began to shake before Gobber realized what he was now seeing. Placed in the center of the last stair was a very small, fragile looking item; it was Val's favorite tankard. In it had been placed a Meadowrue flower, dry and dying. Stoick's gut clenched. He had seen this in the Seer's tent too, it couldn't be a coincidence. It was a warning.
A shiver crawled up and down the Chief's spine, like ice cold claw scraping against delicate flesh. The tankard... the flower... how could they be here! Stoick's mind raced, he turned to face his battle brother, his mouth agape.
Before Gobber could respond, the sound of running footsteps from behind grew closer. Out of the darkness three young faces came into view.
Fishlegs swallowed hard, "Um, Sir? Mr. Chief sir... the seer... she came why you were in the hall and told us we had to relay a message..."
The look of terror on the youth's face was unmistakable. His eyes darted between the faces of the adult Vikings as he licked his lips nervously.
"Well?" Gobber spat out annoyed. "Spit it out lad, we ain't got all night!"
"She told me to relay a message..." Fishlegs repeated, his voice now markedly higher with growing panic.
"We got that part of the story already!" Shouted Gobber angrily, causing the boy to flinch in fear. "And...?" The blonde Hooligan continued agitated, waving his hand in a 'go-on" motion, begging for more information.
Fishlegs sputtered quickly, "She said...
I see for thee, pain and misery.
A battle to the death with family.
Blood and chains; Surrender and death.
The loss of a son, and regret.
Before the end, pain and misery is what I see for thee."
Looking as if he was about to be sick, the large blonde boy absentmindedly scratched the few new hairs on his chin and looked crestfallen... "Um, that was all... I think."
"You think!" Stoick bellowed, his face contorted with fear and anger as he stormed past the trio of kids, knocking Ruffnut and Tuffnut to the ground.
Stoick had one thought running through his mind, 'Will I lose Hiccup like I lost Val... No, it has to be wrong... The seer has to be wrong."
But the hard truth was he couldn't deny was that the seer had foretold of Val's death and a curse that would befall the village.
Stoick suddenly began marching toward his hut, desperately hoping to find Hiccup doing some very "Hiccup-like" task which made no sense to the large Viking. Before taking his fifth step, a large heavy hand was suddenly on the Chief's shoulder pulling him to a stop.
Without looking into his companion's face, Stoick whispered, "It's like before. It's like when I lost Val..."
"She was so full of life until the boy came early... What if they're right. What if I was wrong to save him. What if..."
But before Stoick could finish his sentence Gobber barked. "We both know that's Troll shit! Hiccup is the best thing that ever happened to you but sometimes you're just too damn stupid to see it. He has pushed you to be a better Chief, a better Viking, and a better man."
"Don't let the rantings of your fool brother shake your belief in the lad."
"I know you far to well to believe any of the crap you just said..." Remember, I've been there since day one. I was there during the endless nights when you nursed the sickly, newborn boy and kept him alive. I was there for every cut, every burn, and every wound."
"I know who you are Stoick the Vast..."
"What I see right now, is that you're afraid. And I would be too if my kin turned on me and was rousing the village to be against my only son."
"We both know that your brother is vying for Chief, and trying to use your only son to discredit your line." Gobber paused and then said thoughtfully as he scratched his stubbled chin, " We need to prepare."
The smithy slowly shook his head and sighed, "To many of the villagers believe the lies of that forked tongued bastard and the resentment is building."
Stoick growled in affirmation, while nodding his head. "Find Cordizar."
Before the words were fully out of the Stoick's mouth, Gobber was already running into the night.
Standing alone in the quiet darkness, a cold wind blew away a small tear trickling down his cheek. While it had never been easy having Hiccup for a son, his "difference" never brought a level of village scorn severe enough that it couldn't be assuage by the strong, practiced hand of the Hairy Hooligan Chief. After all, he was the Chief and his words held great power and influence.
But a hand of darkness, foretold by the seer, seemed to grip the Hooligan village over the past year, stirring an unexplained hatred which crushed the life and compassion from the occupants. It was clear the tribe had become increasingly hostile as the number of unexplained disasters surrounding Hiccup had increased, and no amount of chiefly placation soothed the growing wave of animus toward his only son.
The mighty chief rolled the words of his father over in his mind, "A Chief feels no pain. A Chief feels not fear. A Chief must be above mere weak, personal feelings."
Stoick knew he had failed his father. He wanted to give up everything; his position as chief, his son's birthright; all of it, just to save his son. The truth was, he saved his son out of love, not grief or pity. In his heart though, he knew he would never forgive himself if he abandoned his people to what would be a tyrannical rule under Spitelout.
"Oh Hiccup... I'm sorry... for everything..." the chief whispered sadly.