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Chapter 07: Being Stoic

(Stoick)

For the second time in his life, Stoick the Vast was assaulted by an excruciating sense of powerlessness as he watched a dragon fly away with yet another member of his miserably small family. He had never forgotten what it felt like to see his wife being taken from him, and he prayed every night never to relive the experience. Despite all his efforts, however, here he was again, leaning dangerously close to a steep cliff, looking as another dragon took away his son.

The circumstances were different this time, but the dreadful feeling of loss and defeat was the same. Actually, it was much worse. All of Stoick's struggles to protect his son and give him a future as a respected chief had failed. All of his measures, which even he was willing to admit were sometimes overly forceful or drastic, had ultimately backfired in the worst imaginable way. Hiccup hated him now, he was leaving of his own accord. He had embraced exile, for a dragon's sake, no less.

I did everything for his own good! Why couldn't he just listen?! Stoick asked himself, not for the first time.

When Valka had died, he had vowed to the gods to protect his son from all fire-breathing creatures. He had promised never to let a dragon even so much as glance at Hiccup, before ripping the beast to pieces. Alas, most youths were expected to know how to fight after their fourteenth winter, and the chief's offspring was no exception.

Stoick had planned for one to be made in Hiccup's case, but when the boy had turned thirteen, Stoick had yielded to his best friend's advice, despite his many reservations. He had made Hiccup join dragon-training with the other thirteen-year-olds, those who that winter had the honor to train under Gobber's supervision. Stoick had understood Gobber's reasoning: the boy needed to learn how to defend himself from the dragons. He had never expected things to turn out the way they had.

This isn't how it was supposed to go! The Night Fury's head should be on a spike. Hiccup should be on Berk, getting over this whole debacle, and preparing to one day become chief! Gobber was supposed to…

The image of Gobber unmuzzling the beast flashed into Stoick's mind. Gobber had helped the dragon free itself. He had helped Hiccup flee. His best and closest friend had betrayed him. Before Stoick could fully consider all that had taken place inside the pit, a spark of smoldering anger drowned all his thoughts. Only one idea survived:

It's all Gobber's fault.

"GOBBEEEER!" Stoick screamed, imbuing all his wrath into that name.

If human shouts could kill, like a Thunderdrum's roar, then his cry would have taken a heavy toll on the number of people surrounding him. The voice was that of a man who had lost everything, a man who solely craved the sweet taste of vengeance. Nothing else mattered.

The Vikings around him flinched at the sound, and scuttled away from Stoick, who was then able to spot Gobber. As if of its own accord, his heavy, muscular body charged towards the blacksmith, whose gaze was still fixed at the sky. Employing all his strength and momentum, Stoick punched the other man's face.

The blacksmith's fake metal tooth shot off into the air. It bounced onto the wet stone floor with a chime, carrying a thick, red streak of blood, along with another tooth, a real one.

Gobber had not expected the sudden attack. He lost his balance, and fell prone to the ground. The man didn't need to look back to recognize his attacker. He had been graced by Stoick's mighty punch before in his life, and today he was bound for more. Much, much more.

Stoick lifted the blacksmith up by his clothes to face him.

"You! You did this!" He shouted. He didn't wait for an answer, and threw the burly man with a groan towards the arena's entrance. Gobber collapsed on the floor, chest first, suppressing a howl of pain at the impact.

I'll tear him apart, limbs and stumps and all!

There would be no trial for this kind of treason. The only currency with which to repay this betrayal was pain, and death.

Gobber was of course an excellent fighter, but an angry Stoick packed the strength of ten men.

Meanwhile, the whole tribe watched, mute with expectation. Nobody dared to speak, even to remind Stoick that murder was against their laws. No one would have dared to confront him in this state, and, after all that had occurred before their eyes, probably no one was even going to blame him for killing the culprit. In fact, Stoick could feel some of his fellow villagers' eyes following the confrontation with the typical Viking eagerness for violence. Some looked thrilled to enjoy a good fight, but this was going to be no fight. This was going to be a bloody execution.

"Leave! All of ya!" Stoick roared. "To the village! NOW!"

The chances that Hiccup would still be in the village when the people got there were slim, but that was not the reason behind Stoick's command.

This does not concern them.

Without delay, the crowd dissolved. Some didn't look happy to miss a good show, but most were satisfied with the prospect of finding relief from the harsh rainfall. The raindrops had turned large and heavy, and, although Berk's Vikings were tough, a summer rain with no summer warmth could make even the sturdiest Berkian shiver.

When the unwelcome spectators left, Gobber got to his feet. He spat the accumulated blood in his mouth, and groaned.

"Stoick, I-"

Before the blacksmith could go on, Stoick charged. He punched the other man in the stomach, making him bend over, then picked him up from the back of his tunic, and dragged him inside the arena with a single hand. His muscles hardened with rage, the same way they did when he needed to tear the wings off dragons, or crush their reptilian skulls. No weapon was necessary to the mightiest warrior on Berk.

Gobber stood again, though his balance dwindled.

"Stoick... I had to," he said, backing away from Stock. "Hiccup could never survive exile alone. He'd die out there in the winter by 'imself."

He was not fast enough, and Stoick grabbed him from his tunic with both hands.

"You piece of yak-shit!" Stoick shouted, spitting on Gobber's face as he spewed those boiling words. "Do you think I would have sent my only son into exile alone?!"

The notion warranted another punch on the face, then Stoick added one more fist to the man's lower ribs; there was a tangible crack.

Gobber fell on the floor, trying to suppress a cry of pain with a few agonizing groans. He curled in on himself, holding his side.

It didn't matter. He deserved this and more for what he had done.

"One summer at the most!" Stoick went on. "Somewhere safe from the raids! He'd have sailed with an escort! I could have even sent you along! You think I'm fuckin' insane!? I'm the chief! You really think I'd send my only son to die in the winter?!" He lifted the man from his clothes to yell once more at his face. "My boy!"

Stoick threw him again like a bundle of hay towards the wall of the pit. This time, Gobber cried in agony when he touched the hard floor. The blacksmith coughed up blood, but that did not deter Stoick. He closed the distance, but, before he could do anything, a memory barged into his mind:

'...if you don't kill that fuckin' beast, you are no longer my son!'

He had said those words. Had he really meant them? Had he truly hoped such threat was going to work? His son was a Viking. No. He had to take those words back, but there was no chance of that. Not now that Hiccup was gone, and that...

...that is Gobber's fault!

Gobber spat another mouthful of red saliva. "But ya told him that-"

"I don't give two shits about what I said!" Stoick shot back. "It was to make him cooperate, and you went and fucked it up!"

"Why…" Gobber began, but coughed again, producing an unsettling gurgle, and regurgitating some more. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Stoick glared at him. Had Gobber always been so stupid? "I didn't tell you because you are a soft idiot! You would have told him! You would have ruined the plan. But instead you went on and ruined my life!" Stoick crawled over the blacksmith and delivered the rest of his desperate speech with his fists.

Truth be told, Stoick was lying. He had not expected Hiccup to defy him until the last moment. He had not expected to need to consider exile for his son. He had never planned for those circumstances.

But that's what I'd have done, if Gobber hadn't ruined everything!

He deserves this. Stoick chanted inside his mind to justify each blow. His life was ruined; it was only fair that the culprit's life met the same fate.

Even if he is my best friend.

Gobber tried to defend himself with his forearms, but when his hook came off, exposing the scarred stump underneath, he gave up.

Before striking the final blow, Stoick stopped, panting. He grabbed the blacksmith's vest once more.

"Why would you let him go!?" Stoick croaked the empty question. Tears fell from his eyes, mingling with the heavy rain.

I'll never see him again. I'll never see my son again!

That realization sapped his strength.

"Ya would have killed Toothless," Gobber replied weakly.

"The dragon?!"

"He cares about 'im, Stoick," Gobber murmured. "I know it's unheard of, but if ya killed the Night Fury ya'd lose Hiccup too." He coughed. "It's the first thing the lad's truly cared about since Val died."

"Don't you dare!" At the mention of Valka, Stoick saw red again. Nobody could talk about his wife's death, and, today, even his best friend had lost that privilege. He picked the crippled man up with one hand and pinned him to the wall between the gates of two dragon-pens. With the other hand, he unbuckled his great, double-headed axe, and pointed one of the ornate blades at Gobber's throat. He had to kill him; it was only fair.

"Go ahead, do it," Gobber said calmly, looking at him with one eye half-open; the other was swollen shut.

"Oh, I will! You think I'll go easy on you?!"

"No." Gobber was quick to answer, his voice a broken whisper. "I know ya Stoick, ya're my best friend. Ya'd never go easy on me... ya never have. Even after I lost me arm and leg, ya never pitied me in a bout." The blacksmith tried to smile, exposing two rows of bloodied teeth. He was soon seized by another coughing fit, which he forcefully repressed. "That's the reason we became friends in the first place, remember?" He turned his head and spat blood again. "Go on, I'm ready." He let out another pained cough, followed by ragged breathing. "Ya have to kill me. Need to maintain a reputation, chief. Can't have traitors roam yer village now, can ya?"

Gobber was serious. He was willing to forfeit his life to protect his Stoick's honor. Had he foreseen death as a possible outcome of his treacherous act? Was that how far he was willing to go for Hiccup's sake?

Is he prepared to die for my son?

Stoick tightened the grip on his weapon, harder and harder, knuckles white and wet, hesitating. He imagined how his life was going to play out tomorrow, with Gobber dead, and immediately knew the outcome.

One more thing to regret.

Sometimes, his biggest regret of all was actually becoming the chief. Too many things were expected of him, and too many were the things he had ended up sacrificing, the latest of which was one he had mistakenly taken for granted, the most precious thing he had: his son. Was he to sacrifice his best friend as well?

Stoick's axe quivered against the blacksmith's neck.

"If ya're goin' to do it, do it!" Gobber's tried to shout. His breathing hastened. No amount of courage and determination could overcome the fear of dying, especially when death was caressing one's throat. "Be quick about it… please. Strike true. Ya know how." He steeled his voice: "DO IT!"

Stoick raised his axe, mustering all the remaining strands of his anger, and lodged the blade in the stone wall beside Gobber. He let go of the man, who plopped in a crimson puddle, a mixture of blood and rainwater. Stoick felt dizzy. He took a huge breath, and let it out slowly, trying not to throw up. He had almost murdered his closest friend.

For what reason again? For a moment, he could not remember. He turned away from Gobber's miserable state.

He helped Hiccup escape. He allowed my son to abandon me. My Hiccup… But why? Am I the kind of monster who'd kill a friend? Did he try to save Hiccup from me?! No. No, that doesn't make sense. I just tried to protect him. I did my best. This is not my doing!

Uncertainty crept inside of him, like a chill between his ribs. He had been about to kill his friend for the sake of honor and justice, the very thing Hiccup had refused to do to the dragon.

What is going on?

Gobber's voice interrupted his spiraling thoughts. Remarkably, the man was still conscious. "Aaaah, the great Stoick the Vast... can't kill a man with half his limbs?" He tried to laugh, but coughed instead. "This can't be good for yer reputation."

Gobber would never allow himself to miss the occasion for a bold taunt, even in near-death situations. In fact, near-death situations seemed to be his favorite times for jeers and jokes.

"You weren't holding a weapon," Stoick murmured, his back still turned to the blacksmith. It was a good excuse. "You can't enter Valhalla if you die unarmed."

Gobber managed a chuckle. "Ah… The gods don't favor men like me, ya know that. Besides, I wasn't planning on feasting at Odin's table. I'm not very hungry anymore."

Stoick turned to face his friend. The man was a wreck, bruised, swollen, and bloody all over.

"I'll spare you, Gobber, but this doesn't mean I can forgive you."

"Don't ya trouble yerself." Gobber coughed. "I'm not sorry."

Despite the blacksmith's insolent honesty, Stoick did not feel his rage return. His blood had all boiled out. He felt cold now, his clothes heavy with rainwater, his hands trembling.

"You should be sorry. You let my only son leave on a dragon's back to Thor knows where."

"I prefer to think I rescued 'im."

"Rescued him? From me?!" Stoick's tried to shout, but his voice did not obey him. It came out guilty instead. He cleared his throat.

"From all of us, Stoick," Gobber said. "I know ya love the boy, but d'ya really think the others would accept him after this? His only safety now lays away from Berk. He wouldn't be safe here after what he did, no matter what punishment you give him. Someone might see a chance for glory, and put a blade in his throat. I've told ya before: ya can't always be there to protect 'im."

"And a dragon can?" Stoick's question was not rhetorical, but he was never going to acknowledge it.

"It... He already has." The blacksmith replied softly, closing his only open eye. "Toothless will protect him."

Stoick groaned, dismissing the notion. His mind would not accept it. "You betrayed me, Gobber," he said. "You'll still have to pay for this."

"Aye, aye... I know..."

With those words, Gobber's consciousness finally ebbed away.

Stoick stared at the man on the ground for a while. He decided to look for Gothi, the healer, but he quickly found there was no need.

As he made his way to the exit of the arena, Stoick found the old woman waiting right in the middle of the threshold. She had been standing there, watching, scowling, disobeying his orders. Stoick thanked the gods for her vow of silence. He did not wish to hear what she was thinking of him.

The bony woman was dripping-wet from the rain, her grey hair stuck to her face, but her light-blue eyes were as if glued open, like an owl's. It was a ghastly sight. She wasn't moving or blinking, yet her intense glare followed Stoick's eyes, saying both too much and too little. Was she condemning him? Or was that just how the old crone looked under the rain?

"Gobber is wounded," Stoick said nervously, "he needs your care."

How much did she hear? He wondered.

Gothi stood still as a statue, not even a shiver under the rain.

Who cares what she thinks! I'm the chief!

Stoick walked outside, bypassing the elder woman who stubbornly occupied the center of the passage, making him trail the wall like a frightened child, trying not to jostle her. At least there was no one else there to see him.

Leaving Gothi to her job, Stoick trudged back to the village in a daze, feeling more lost than he ever had in his life.

Could he still be considered a good chief after today? Though he had been disobeyed before, never had someone so close to him defied him in such an outrageous way. Maybe it was bound to happen.

Why are the people closest to me the ones I can control the least?

First, in his youth, it had been his cousin Spitelout, who had regularly challenged Stoick's position as chief. Stoick was thankful that at least those issues were forgotten, and his relationship with his cousin was now one of trust.

Later in life, Valka, his own wife, had often advocated a different approach to the war, sometimes even behind his back. Stoick had always loved her, but he had never understood her motives for wanting to change things.

Now, it was Hiccup, who, for all his unvikingness, had ended up going against him before the whole village. And, finally, Gobber too, his last true friend.

Is this what it means to be a chief? To be a stranger to your own family, otherwise the village will stop respecting you?

Stoick sighed, disappointment weighing heavily in his chest.

If it's for the sake of the village, then so be it.

He crossed the bridge that led home, lost in thought, when a black dot in the sky to his left caught his attention. The rain had eased by then, and some of the clouds had begun to tear, letting rays of afternoon sunlight pierce through, making the sea glimmer like gold. It was an inappropriate spectacle for such an awful day.

The black dot was getting smaller in the distance, and, for a while, Stoick did not allow his eyes to blink for fear of losing it.

It was Hiccup and the dragon. His boy was flying. Flying! He was headed south. A smart choice. South of Berk was where most of the Archipelago's islands were located. Hiccup was going to be hard to find. Stoick tried to memorize the direction of the dot, before he lost sight of it within the clouds.

Straight south is Thor Rock, then Boar Head… He recalled. Then it's the Meatheads. And then… anywhere.

Stoick tried to calculate where Hiccup would go, but it was impossible. A dragon's flight was not bound by currents or winds. He could fly anywhere, anytime. Stoick would have to search the whole archipelago to find his son. The thought poured in him a great sense of frustration, which was nonetheless accompanied by a new determination, of the kind that sparked in most Vikings' hearts at the mention of an impossible task.

Suddenly, Stoick knew what he was going to do. He was going to find his son, and he was going to bring him home. Most importantly, he was going to kill the devious Night Fury that had somehow bewitched the boy. Only then would their lives be back on track.

Let Hiccup hate me after that; I'll embrace his spite. At least he'll be home where he belongs. Yes. Yes! That's the plan.

He was going to engage his problem head on, as he always had: the Viking way. He would not waste time moping.

Stoick quickened his pace towards the plaza. Despite the whispers and sideways glances, most villagers had returned to their daily activities. The relatively ordinary air in the village reinforced his resolve. Only one person approached him in a hurry.

"Stoick! We couldn't catch 'im." Spitelout reported. "The boy left before anyone could get 'ere. Nothing's been destroyed by the Night Fury at least."

Stoick waved a dismissive hand. He had not expected Hiccup to be caught in the first place. "Of course you couldn't catch him," he replied, displaying the usual eagerness he radiated whenever he gave orders, trying his best to keep up appearances. "He's on a Night Fury. Can't catch him as he's flying. We need to find him when the beast is on the ground. Now gather the council."

"On the ground? Ya can't mean..."

"That's exactly what I mean, cousin," Stoick said. "And there ain't no better hunter than you on the island, so I'm putting you in charge of the search party. Choose six good Vikings, and sail south with the fastest ship. You'll have to find Hiccup and bring him home safe, before the ice sets in."

"But Stoick, summer is upon us! Dragons will begin raiding soon. Surely there's some other man who'd be willing to leave the field of battle for some scavenger hunt!"

"I trust no one else but you anymore, Spitelout." Stoick placed a heavy hand on his cousin's shoulder. "You are the only one left."

"So, ya'd have your cousin miss a chance for glory?" Spitelout complained.

"How 'bout killing a Night Fury and bringing its head home on a spike? Ain't that glory enough for you?" Stoick wore a challenging frown on his face. As Berk's chief, he had mastered the tricks of persuasion well. None of those tricks had ever worked on Hiccup unfortunately. They did however work on other Vikings yearning for an honorable passage to Valhalla, and, as expected, Stoick caught a tiny smile on his cousin's face.

Was there something strange behind that smile? Stoick considered it, but only fleetingly. He was not going to look a gift yak in the mouth. Not today. He had many other matters he would have to attend to before this horrible day was over.

"But first: council meeting," he instructed, and left towards the great hall.


The meeting was over by sunset. Stoick was the only one left at the large, oval table, around which most of the village's issues were discussed. He was still pinching the bridge of his nose when he decided it was finally time to go home.

He walked out, closing the immense gate behind him. Then, with the same spirit of a defeated man, he plodded down the steps of the great hall, replaying in his mind all that had occurred during the meeting. He tried to think of ways it could have gone better, but the decisions were now final.

He had tried to convince the council to have Hiccup pay with a sentence of less than a year of exile. Unfortunately, Mildew had pointed out that the gods would never accept such a meager punishment for the outrageous act of befriending a dragon. All the other people had unanimously agreed with the sour old man, and, by the end, Stoick had to settle for two years of exile for his son. From now on, he was always going to be in the strictest minority when it came to decisions concerning Hiccup.

Further discussions had added additional stipulations to Hiccup's eventual acceptance back to Berk. When the boy's sentence was finally served, he would then need to prove himself in the name of the gods. He would most likely have to challenge the best candidate for becoming the future chief. Probably Snotlout, considering he was a close relative of the current chief, though there were certainly other valiant and more experienced young men in the village. Only if Hiccup could somehow prove to be better than his rival, would he then be deemed worthy of regaining his status as Viking, along with his birthright.

Considering the scrawny boy's brawn, or lack thereof, this last condition was going to be problematic, especially in the likely case of a challenge by combat, which was often customary.

A problem for another day.

Stoick was glad enough that his idea of sending Spitelout on an expedition to retrieve his son and kill the Night Fury had been readily approved by everyone, probably in the hope of making Berk the sole Viking village that could secure the claim of slaying the rarest of dragons. After all, matters of pride and image were very much an interest of all council members, especially when it came to competitions between the different villages of the Archipelago.

Last, it was decided that only once Hiccup was retrieved, assuming he did not return of his own accord first, would he then be officially sent off into exile on the council's terms. Stoick had somewhat different plans for how or when Hiccup was going to serve his sentence, but he postponed that discussion to a later date as well.

The last order of the day had been Gobber the Belch. All council members were still convinced the man had been killed by Stoick, so they had all been unprepared to discuss the matter of his future punishment. Some had dismissively proposed his outlawry, others imprisonment. They had all seemed indifferent to the man's fate, so, in the end, Stoick made the decision himself.

After informing the council that his reason for not killing the man had not been a personal one (a necessary lie), he had reasoned that, with Gobber being the only truly seasoned weaponsmith in the village, his services were going to be much too valuable during the impending summer raids. He therefore stipulated that Gobber would only need to spend three months in the prison cells, to pay for his betrayal. This way, he was going to be freed in July, just before the dragons stroke hardest.

All council members had quickly agreed to the reasonable arguments, too bored to discuss Gobber's sentence after the much more interesting subject of a Night Fury.

Not entirely of his own accord, Stoick reached the door of the chief's house, his and Hiccup's home. The larger-than-average abode stood proudly at the top of a small hill, offering a comprehensive view of the sea, the docks, the village, and its people. Every morning, a single glance out of that door revealed the full scale of the chief's responsibilities, which, at the moment, seemed all so very trivial.

Stoick indulged in one last glance towards the warm shades cast by the setting sun on the horizon. Maybe he would see the black dot in the sky again, maybe he would see it getting closer this time. Hopefully he would have his son back sooner than expected. All he could see, however, was the glowing sunset.

With renewed disappointment, Stoick opened his door and stepped inside. He nearly tripped on a metallic object on the floor. He picked it up and observed it, exploiting the last few rays of sunlight that accompanied him inside his dark home. The cold, concave object was still wet from the previous rainfall, and it glimmered in his hands.

The finish was polished, almost a mirror, yet, try as he might, Stoick couldn't make out his own full reflection on the metallic surface, for the image became more distorted and blurred the more he looked at it. He tried to adjust its symmetry, twisting the two protruding horns on each side, but it was to no avail. It was the moisture in his eyes that blurred the image.

When he couldn't bear to look at Hiccup's horned helmet any longer, he pressed it to his chest with one large hand, and closed the door behind him with the other. He imagined his son taking the time to leave his helmet on his doorway, before flying away from Berk on the back of the black dragon.

Hugging his son's prize in his hand, in relative darkness, Stoick climbed the stairs to Hiccup's bedroom, a place he hardly ever visited.

Hiccup's space was orderly. Despite the dimness of the room, a narrow strip of parchment stood out on the boy's otherwise empty desk. Stoick picked it up, smearing blood on its smooth surface. His knuckles were peeled off and bleeding, likely from punching Gobber a few too many times. Stoick had ignored the familiar injury.

'I can't kill dragons. I have no choice but to leave Berk. I'm sorry I couldn't make you proud of me. Goodbye.'

The runes were written by calm and careful hands, and their calligraphy, unlike their meaning, was clean and beautiful. Stoick read those words over and over again as he sat on Hiccup's small wooden bed.

'...Goodbye.' the letter's ending read.

Astrid had been telling the truth. She had actually thwarted Hiccup's plan to leave unnoticed. Alas, in the end, she had only delayed his escape.

After reading his son's note for what could have been a hundred times, Stoick let the piece of parchment fall from his hands. He focused on Hiccup's ceremonial helmet again, one of many pieces of Gobber's handiwork, fashioned from half of his late wife's breastplate. The object, Stoick realized, had just become a symbol of all that he had lost, for it connected the three people in his life who he cherished the most, and who could not be by his side anymore. Eventually, as he sat on his son's bed, alone in Hiccup's dark room, Stoick failed to suppress his emotion.

"I tried to protect him, Val," he whispered. "I tried to do the right thing. I even threatened the council. I tried to talk to him. He wouldn't listen. He never listens to me. Only you, Val. He'd always listen to you. My sweet... sweet Valka."

Stoick looked up, through and beyond the planks of wood of the ceiling, raising his voice. "I'm sorry for what I said to him. I know you heard me even there in Valhalla. Please don't hate me, Val. I will make this right. I'll bring him back. I promise. But… if you are there with Odin, or even if you're with Freya, tell them… I could use their help."

He sighed and cleared his throat.

I will make this right.

He had to handle the situation with the very stoicism he was famed for, and, once his son was home, he'd pay better attention to him. He'd train Hiccup personally. He'd teach him how to be a good chief. He'd help disillusion the boy's distorted ideas about dragons, for which Stoick now blamed himself.

I'll make a man out of him yet. A true Viking. Even if I have to swim across the archipelago myself!

He got up, wiping his tears and gazing one more time upon the reflective surface of the boy's helmet.

The day would surely come, Stoick could somehow feel it in his bones, when, one way or another, he was going to be proud of his son.