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Chapter 23: The Last Southern Wind
(Stoick)
A sickly sun dawned on Berk, washing the island's cliffs with pale winter light. Thin was the warmth it provided, a mockery to all those who dared to venture out of their homes this early in the morning, trudging through knee-high snow to reach the great hall, where the council was holding its open discussion. Clearly, even the mighty sun was no match for Berkian winters. Were Berkian folk at least a match for Berkian summers? Not for long perhaps. Not like this.
"…as Horik said, there must be less than five hundred of us left on the island! The village's gettin' smaller every year!"
For quite a while now, Spitelout Jorgenson had been presenting his concerns regarding the village's welfare. From the tone of his voice, he was finally wrapping up.
"And I'm sorry, Stoick, but I must agree with Mildew: yer decision to look for the nest a third time in one summer did not help one bit."
Aside from a beam of pale daylight seeping in through the half-open gate at the far end of the cavernous hall, there were only five fires lifting the darkness; darkness which kept swallowing the distant ceiling. Only one of the fires was a hearth, the biggest one, at the center of the oval table, while the others were mere torches. There were only a dozen people after all, most of them members of the Berkian council, all sitting at the great table, plus a few extra listeners around them: some farmers, fishermen, yawning young men, a few concerned mothers, and two shield-maidens (both apprentices to Gothi).
Some of the spectators were nodding, mumbling concerned agreement.
"Helped not. One. Bit." Echoed Mildew Arvidson, the words rasping out his rotting cave of a mouth.
One man cleared his throat, and a couple more shifted awkwardly in their seats.
It was all true, of course. Stoick had commanded a third nest-hunt that summer, driven by rage, determined to find the so-called Gate to Helheim. Perhaps part of him had thought it a not-so-remote possibility that Hiccup would be there, though most of him was satisfied with the prospect of vengeance. After his son had left, Stoick had stayed on Berk like a proper chief, but he could not stand to remain idle.
Alas, not only had all three of the hunts failed, as was always the case, but the last one had also gone very badly, as his cousin Spitelout had discovered after his return.
Now, at the end of November, with Spitelout back home from his own failed hunt, and with winter finally upon them, information on Hiccup's whereabouts remained awfully scarce, as, most pressingly, were Berk's supplies. The last summer raids had been harsh, and Stoick's reckless decisions had only made things worse. He was the one to blame for the current situation, and he knew it; most likely, everyone else on Berk knew it, or at least suspected it. The council surely knew it, and not all of them were reluctant to say it in today's gathering.
This would be a small price to pay, had Spitelout returned with Hiccup! Stoick would often think. Of course, that had not been the case.
The very day of his cousin's emptyhanded return, Stoick had decided that, yes, the time had finally come for him to search for Hiccup himself, despite the winter's menace, accompanied by a much larger crew. He had waited, he had delegated, he had been sensible, and he had been left with no other choice. His people would understand, or so he had thought.
The mere suggestion of yet another hopeless expedition, even one in the warmer seas south, had been received with the strongest disapproval. No one was willing to risk a mid-winter sail for their chief's son, not after three failed nest-hunts in the same summer. Not one had supported him. Not even his most loyal friends had agreed to follow him. Not his admirers. Even Gobber had remained silent.
And now, here I am once again, chained by duty, pretending to be a good chief, failing at being a father, while my son is in Thor-knows what kind of danger. Alone. Helpless!
But what else can I do?! Even if they did approve, and even if I didn't care about Berk, how can I leave? Can I just abandon the village and set sail by myself? I promised I would do it. But how can I sail frozen seas? Would I be able to find Hiccup? Would he even listen to me then? Would I still be chief when I returned?
None of those questions seemed to hold promising answers.
Or should I just wait, and pray the cold winds will force him back home? No Viking will ever accept him in their village with a dragon at his side, that much is sure, even in the south. And he cannot hide the beast for long like he did here; not now that Spitelout has spread the word. Will this be enough to convince him that he must come back? Does he truly think he can survive the whole winter alone in the wild, with no shelter, no hearth?
Maybe his son had managed to hunt or even buy food with the silver Gobber had confessed to giving him, but the coin couldn't last forever, and it was winter now; Stoick could not see how a wimpy boy like Hiccup could hunt, or even keep warm, when the snows started piling up as high as any man, like they did every year in the Archipelago.
And yet, Hiccup had not returned. Eight months had passed since he had left, and there had been no sign of him for the last six, nor had there been any progress with his search. In fact, it looked like many months were still destined to go by before his son could be pursued again, and, assuming he was still alive, even more would have to pass until he was eventually brought back.
With or without his pet Night Fury! I don't care!
Stoick was not sure when he had changed his mind, but he was now willing to consider keeping that dragon alive, if it helped him persuade Hiccup to come back home, and, most importantly, to stay home, so that the boy could one day become chief.
What have I come to? He would often think. But Odin knows, there's just no other way.
As he saw it, becoming chief was the only way for Hiccup to ever see some lasting respect and safety. In such times of constant war against the dragons, this was the only solution Stoick could think of, to ensure that his son would lead a happy life, with hopefully plenty of children. A weak boy like Hiccup could hardly hope for better chances at success in the Viking Archipelago. Stoick's honor mattered little before that prospect.
Sadly, his honor was not the only thing at stake here: there were also the lives of Berk's people to protect. To say Stoick the Vast felt torn on the matter would have been a fantastic understatement.
"We are left so few," Spitelout continued for his final comment, now with a more humorous tone, "that, next year, instead of dragon fightin', we'll have to start teaching our teens how to plough like rabbits, if we don't want us Hooligans to go extinct!" He gave the other men and women a knowing smirk. "And I'm not sure our Gobber would be the best choice for the job."
A few men held back a muffled chuckle. Some hid their grins behind a fist, pretending to cough.
"Are ya sure ya got the right to call for more breedin', eh Jorgenson?" Gobber shot back, feigning amusement to disguise an obvious anger.
Though not a formal member of the council, the one-legged blacksmith was nonetheless slouched unceremoniously into one of the empty seats at their table, using the armrest to support his mutilated leg. Warriors crippled in battle could always count on such small privileges on Berk, and the blacksmith was not known for being polite.
"Ya do still have a wife as I recall," Gobber continued, "but only one son. Can't help but wonder sometimes: has yer cock gone limp?"
Spitelout visibly struggled not to scowl, but his mouth was already twisted with venom. "Interested in me cock now, are ya? Ya fuckin' pillowbi-"
"That's enough!" Stoick roared abruptly, his voice echoing back and forth inside the huge columned cavern, silencing all further comments.
I should have intervened sooner, Stoick thought. He knew Spitelout was never very patient with cheeky repartees, especially when his virility was involved. Few things sparked the man's anger more than being reminded that his wife had not given him any other children after Snotlout. Making his temper worse about the matter were the rumors, claiming it was probably not his wife's fault.
No one really knew the full truth of course, not even Stoick, and, honestly, he did not care. He had plenty else to worry about. Besides, with his wife dead, making more children was no longer something he considered. He occasionally did think about finding a new wife, maybe some prominent daughter from another village, to reinforce some useful alliance. It was the proper thing to do after so many years, especially for a chief with only one heir, but he could never contemplate the idea for very long. He surely would have liked more children, but he could never even listen to anyone suggesting he replaced Valka, the bravest, most beautiful woman he had ever known; not without wanting to punch them. And punched them he often had. He had even punched Gobber for the same reason a few years past; so hard in fact, that the topic had never been brought up again by anyone.
Gobber had probably been right of course, as he often was. And he was probably right today as well, regarding Spitelout's situation, but his jab had still been an unfair one. On the other hand, so had been Spitelout's remark.
In any case, Stoick had shut them up just in time, avoiding any additional and unproductive exchange of insults.
Thank Thor my voice can still command some respect, he thought, feeling grateful. He could not afford to have Gothi publicly scowl at him again for allowing another fistfight during a meeting. The old bag had always hated patching up those pointless injuries, and, even as a mute, she would always make sure everyone knew how she felt about it, with special vehemence towards both the injured and, unfair as it was, even the chief, whether he was a bystander or not.
Fortunately, the silence in the hall held. Stoick sighed. He pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes tightly shut, hoping to avert the rise of what he knew was going to be an annoying headache. He cleared his throat, and spoke as reassuringly as he could manage:
"Thank you all for your counsel, friends. Regardless of how things are with our search for Hiccup, my duties have not changed. Like last year, and the year before, and the one before that, I assure you, no Hooligan will starve this winter. Berk is still my top priority. Given the situation, I'll need some more time to figure out what to do. Until then…" He rose, dragging his heavy seat out of the way, wood grating noisily against the stone floor.
Promptly, the others rose as well, and, one after the other, they left the great hall, muttering to each other all the while.
Mildew, leaning on his staff, was the last to exit the hall. The hunched old man did not even attempt to restore the gate in its semi-shut position. He left it wide open, allowing the freezing air to leak inside faster, letting it wash over Stoick's ankles, even though he was so far away at the other end of the cavern.
Had it been a show of disrespect? Or did the old man lack the strength to move the huge gate? Stoick tried not to think too hard on the possible answer. His headache was getting worse even without such trifling preoccupations.
Gobber the Belch was the only one who had not gotten up from his seat. He was still there, picking the nails of his good hand with his hook, his face as calm and unconcerned as ever.
Stoick paced back and forth, trying to think, trying to figure out a plan, trying to find a way to keep looking for Hiccup during the winter, whilst keeping everyone else happy, and, most importantly, fed. When he couldn't quickly think of one, he glared towards the blacksmith.
"Must you do this now?" He barked.
"I like to keep me nails clean," Gobber replied matter-of-factly.
Stoick glared harder, both hands on his hips. He wasn't so much offended by the activity, but rather by the blacksmith's utter nonchalance. He knew Gobber was not indifferent to the matters they had just discussed, but the man's easy-going attitude bothered him no less because of it. Maybe he was just jealous. Part of him wished he could have been half as carefree as his friend.
Friend? Stoick considered the strange notion for a while. He deserved every drop of my wrath that day, he accepted it all willingly, and now stands by me once again, so can he be anything else? This mad cripple. He's still my closest friend, isn't he?
Stoick started pacing along the huge oval table again.
"Ya know I love ya Stoick," Gobber began, "like a brother if nothin' else. That's why I'll keep telling ya: stop bringing up Hiccup every time. Let the boy go for a while. Isn't that a father's job? He's turned fourteen by now, almost a man grown. He's even managed to outrun Spitelout and 'is crew. Remember how he used to run when he was little?" The man chuckled fondly. "As if he had 'is breeches 'round his ankles! Now he can beat Spitelout in a race? To me, this can only mean he's doin' fine enough by 'imself."
"Fine?!" Stoick shot back. "You think he's doin' fine?! In the summer, might be he could survive. But it's winter now, Gobber! A 'man grown'?! Have you met Hiccup? Maybe he can run a bit, with that Night Fury he can even fly! But he's not tough enough to camp out the winter, pet dragon or not. There's some weathered men I know who would die trying! And, yes, might be that's my fault; I didn't train him, didn't harden him as I should 'ave when he was younger. Always let him do as he pleased. Always…-"
"I may not have any of my own," Gobber cut in softly, "but I've trained quite a few kids in the past years, and if there's one thing I've learned, is that a child is like a blade: one must be shaped, before it can be hardened." The blacksmith recited his lesson confidently.
He was done cleaning his nails, and finally met Stoick's eyes. "Hiccup is not like most Vikings. Pound 'im too hard, and ya might break 'im. Even you realized as much. That's why ya had to be lenient." He sighed. "Let 'im find his own shape, Stoick. Strange as it may be, that Night Fury is protecting 'im, so try not to fret. Give 'im time, and I'm sure he'll turn up again somewhere. He might even come back on 'is own, once he's ready for yer… 'hard lessons'." He filled the last two words with mockery, before adding: "I doubt he'll stay gone forever."
Stoick grunted. "How could you possibly know that? Did he tell you that?"
"No, no... nothing like that." The blacksmith grinned. "Call it… a strong hunch."
"A hunch?!" Stoick yelled, his voice echoing once again between the stone columns. "You'll have me forget about bringing my son back on a hunch?!"
Gobber shook his head, his lips stretched with a sad, disapproving smile.
How dare he! Maybe I shouldn't have intervened before. Maybe I should have let Spitelout give him a few good punches. Maybe I should punch him again myself!
"Just don't forget the village, Stoick. There's little else ya can do 'bout Hiccup, and ya know it. Everyone on Berk knows it! If ya keep making everything about one boy for much longer, they'll believe ya're abandoning the rest of them, no matter how reassuring ya sound with yer fancy words."
There was a pause. Stoick thought he had been quite convincing with his speech, before dismissing the council. Had Gobber seen through him? More importantly, had the others? Stoick feared he already knew the answers to those questions.
At least they left without arguing this time. That's a good thing, right?
"Berk still needs ya," the blacksmith went on. "As much as it pains me to admit it, Spitelout is right about our situation; that arrogant prick. Berk needs the great 'Stoick the Vast' more than ever. Despite it all, most of 'em haven't forgotten what ya've achieved. Most of 'em still respect ya."
Stoick scoffed at that. "Most of them? I'm not so sure. Doubt those in the council do." He hadn't meant to admit it so openly, but confessing his preoccupations to Gobber had always come too easy for some arcane reason.
"Can ya blame them? Ya did threaten them after Hiccup left. Or so I hear."
"I didn't 'threaten them'," Stoick explained defensively, "just…" he made a small, vague gesture in the air, "their arms and legs."
Gobber let out a short but hearty laugh, and only then Stoick realized what he'd just said. He hadn't meant it as a joke, but even he had to exhale with a smirk as he sat back at the large table, on the opposite side to the blacksmith, shaking his head, feeling guilty for daring to be amused.
"Just arms and legs, aye?" Gobber said playfully. "Well, in that case they're just being unreasonable."
"Oh, shut up." Stoick mumbled, almost too softly to hear, fighting off his own smile. He then pinched the bridge of his nose again, his headache was getting worse.
"In any case," Gobber continued, "I thought diplomacy was more yer thing."
Stoick replied to that as if reciting some ancestral lesson: "When it works, it is. But if there's one thing I've learnt… if there's one thing… that Valka taught me," he paused to subdue an abrupt sadness from his voice, "is that diplomacy doesn't always work with this lot. Sometimes you have to be hard, or they'll take advantage of it. Sometimes you just have to remind them who the chief is. Sometimes, they must think they have no choice."
Stoick knew Valka's lesson to be accurate. It had worked for him so far, after all.
Truth was, if Stoick had managed to become such a renowned chief, he had to thank his late wife's insight as much as his own strength. Valka was the one who had taught him how to channel his natural brawn and stubbornness. She had always been the wilder of the two. Stoick had always had a good mind for managing a village, its supplies, its warriors, he had always been good with numbers, but it was Valka who knew how to command; it was Valka who was good with managing Vikings, and a Viking chief had to do all those things equally well.
Somehow, Valka knew all the secrets on how to deal with stubborn people, and she had passed them all onto him. After his first and only son, this was the most valuable gift she had ever given him, the most precious dowry a chief could ever hope for in a marriage.
Too bad Hiccup could never be handled with those methods. It was to be expected though. The boy had inherited Stoick's stubbornness and brain, alongside Valka's blood and wit: a wildly unmanageable combination. Had the boy been any stronger, and perhaps more violent, he would have certainly taken over Berk by now, deposing his father, and, by age twenty, he would have probably made himself jarl of the Northern Alliance, or even king of the Archipelago.
It was partly a scary thought, yet the fantasy made Stoick's heart swell with pride. Sadly, Hiccup was not only awfully weak, but he also possessed the mildest demeanor in the whole of the nine realms. Mild to the point of thinking friends of his enemies. To think he could have been destined for greatness…
He did come first at dragon-training though, and he tamed an actual Night Fury.
The unwelcome thought sprouted in his mind like a nasty weed, its roots a filthy insult. Stoick shook his head to dismiss it. He looked back at the blacksmith.
Gobber was nodding to himself, agreeing with Valka's recited lesson; a wistful smile was on his mouth, as if he somehow shared in Stoick's dejection about his late wife.
"Still," Gobber said, "ya really shouldn't be opposing them so much, not while so many of 'em still want to support ya. No use in pushing their patience further. I say ya got maybe till next summer to prove they still need ya, before they start really fightin' back."
"I'm their chief, Gobber." Stoick replied sternly. "I've vowed to take care of them, and I will, but I'm not going to bow to them. I'm not going to live in fear of my own people."
Gobber let out something between a sigh and a chuckle. "You? Fearing someone? Odin forbid. Who would believe such a thing! No, no. There's only one thing in Midgard the mighty Stoick the Vast does fear, isn't there?"
Stoick shot the man another glare; it seemed he was going for the record today. "Is that so?" He asked, still scowling. "And I suppose you are going to tell me what it is."
"Being a father," was Gobber's curt reply, tossed there like a treat to a clueless dog, given away effortlessly, like the most obvious thing in the world, like an inside joke, the punchline of which was known to all but the dog. All but Stoick.
Oh, how he wanted to punch him again. How sweet it would have been to knock a few more of his teeth out. His friend seemed to be asking for it lately, with his humbly smug face, his noncommittal little comments, sharp as his quality knives.
Oh, but it was also true. Gobber was not wrong. Gobber was never wrong about such things. To Stoick, being a father had been (and still very much was) the most frightening thing in the world. He'd been feeling that fear ever since the day of Hiccup's birth, and the fear had only increased tenfold after Valka's death.
Every day, being a father had been like seeing his own heart running around in someone else's body, and, in his son's case, a very fragile body at that. Every time Hiccup would run, every time Hiccup would stumble, Stoick felt like it was he who was going to die, not someone else. He cringed. He hurt. Stoick had always been a fighter, a killer all his life, he still was, yet his breath would always catch at the sight of his son bleeding, even from the tiniest cut on the tip of his littlest finger.
That's why he could never watch. That's why he could not be there during Hiccup's training. That's why he had sent him to apprentice at Gobber's, the only man he could trust with his son's life, as he trusted him with his own. And even then, every time Hiccup boyishly flaunted a new wound, (something he had done admittedly much less after Valka's death) hoping it would leave a scar, hoping perhaps he'd become a warrior like the others, Stoick would look away. He had always been quick to dismiss, and scowl, and wince.
Perhaps that had been a mistake, like many more he had made. Perhaps that was why Hiccup had never grown up a Viking like the others. Stoick had been a cowardly father. He still was a cowardly father, but he only had one child. He would always have one child.
Maybe if I had more...
But no. He knew it wouldn't have changed anything. It would have probably made things even harder. To have his heart split so many ways. It was a terrifying thought, yet part of him would have loved to have more children regardless. A daughter perhaps.
Yes, a daughter wouldn't be so bad. A sister for Hiccup. And he would love her too, and then he'd have no choice but to stay close. And her name would be something lovely, like Helga, or Aslaug, or Astrid. And maybe she'd be more like me than Val…
But Valka was dead, and that's when Stoick realized he was daydreaming.
Gobber had noticed. "Thinking of fatherhood?" He said. "Might it be our chief has finally decided to gift the village with some more of his noble offspring?"
Stoick glared at the other man once more. This was getting ridiculous, but it seemed today was a day for glaring. His headache was keeping him from doing anything else. Anything violent.
"I'm not having that discussion again," he grumbled. He did not shout; he only tried to make his words sound final.
Gobber ignored his tone with merry disregard: "Ya know, I've been thinking…-"
"Gobber." Stoick warned, but the blacksmith went on smoothly:
"I'm not sayin' ya should marry again, and ya don't have to forget about Hiccup either. Just hear me out. How 'bout ya foster a kid, eh? Seems about time. Thor knows the Arvidsons have spawned plenty, some say too many to feed. I'm just sayin'… I don't think it'd be such a bad idea. Ya could groom the kid for chiefdom. The village would finally have an heir again, and ya would stop looking so desperate in yer search for Hiccup, at least in the people's eyes. Berk is moving on; ya need to look like ya're moving on with it. It'd make ya look stronger, and Berk needs a strong chief. I'm not sayin' ya should stop searching for Hiccup entirely, but… ya know…"
There was a pause. Stoick did not intervene. To his own surprise, he let the other man finish.
"There's no sayin' what will happen if… when, Hiccup is back. It'll be hard for Berk to accept him after what's happened, 'specially as their future chief. Ya have to be realistic, Stoick."
"Hiccup will be chief," Stoick declared, inflexible. It was probably a testament to his legendary stubbornness that he could still believe there was a chance. An outstanding exercise in self-deceit, for the tiniest sliver of hope. Hence, for that hope's sake, the topic of Hiccup becoming chief was no longer open to debate, not since the day the council had agreed to the conditions for reinstating Hiccup as heir, the very same day when Hiccup had left.
It has been decided. Time changes nothing! Stoick growled in his mind. Nonetheless, he had to admit that not everything in Gobber's words was senseless.
"Stoick, I know this might come as a bit of a shock: but, what if he doesn't want to be chief? Ever thought of that?"
One more glare it was, harsher this time.
"Fine. Fine." Gobber partly relented, never losing his lightheartedness. "Then do it just for appearances, aye? A chief with no apparent heir, even a loved one like yerself, will not have supporters for very long. Ya'll end up with just me by yer side, and I'm half a man already." He waved his hook and raised his leg-stump for emphasis.
Stoick looked away. He did not disagree. Not really. In fact, that was the one part he was finding most sensible from the entirety of this morning's conversations, yet he couldn't bring himself to admit it. Could he really foster a child? It was an uncomfortable thing to consider, even if it was for mere appearances. Hiccup was his only son, and Valka would always be his only wife. They were the only two people he had ever truly loved, and the only two people he could ever admit to loving.
Stoick remained silent, staring blankly at the carvings in the stone columns, the fire's shadows dancing on their cold surface.
"No offense, Stoick, but even I have taken a new apprentice. A cripple can't be a smithy without one, ya know. Not unlike a chief without an heir."
"Gustav, was it?" Stoick asked, glad for the chance to change topic of conversation. "The Larson boy, how is he doing in the forge?"
"Ehhh..." Gobber shrugged, "he's… learnin'. Not nearly as bright as Hiccup at that age, but he'll do. There's still hope. He's quite eager at least. I once caught him looking at some of Hiccup's old drawings, though I doubt he'll ever understand them. He's no Hiccup, no. Can't yet figure out how to work a grinding wheel properly. He still ends up dulling more blades than he sharpens... But we were talking about yer problems, not mine."
Stoick almost pouted at that. He began smoothing his braided beard with both hands to cover up the childish expression. He hadn't managed to change the topic after all, yet he kept sitting there anyway, listening. Truth was, it was still too cold outside, his headache was not improving, and, this early in the morning, many Vikings were not even up yet. Staying in the great hall was the most effortless thing for him to do, despite Gobber's uncomfortable words coming down on him like arrows.
"Listen, I know ya don't like it when I press on too much," Gobber said, "but I really think ya should do something about the heir's position, if only to reassure the villagers. Have ya noticed how Spitelout keeps boasting about Snotlout helping his other uncle kill that Zippleback? I'm not the only one who saw that the boy was mostly standing there, shield up, but Spitelout keeps bragging around, and that can only mean one thing."
"Spitelout wasn't here," Stoick re-joined dismissively. "When he came back from the south and heard the story, he believed it and became proud. So what? Besides, he can hardly take it back now. Can you blame him?"
"Are ya a fool? Or are ya just pretending?"
Stoick was prepared to glare at the other man one more time, but his face took that 'what are you talking about?' look, without realizing it.
Gobber rolled his eyes. "Spitelout is no idiot. Why else would he keep spreading that rumor?"
"He's just proud, Gobber. I was doing the same thing when I thought Hic-"
"Proud my hairy bottom," Gobber cut in. "He wants to promise the boy as soon as he can! Can't ya see?"
"Snotlout? For marriage? He's still a child, Gobber."
"He'll be fifteen in three months," the blacksmith pointed out. "And he only needs to promise him, doesn't have to marry him yet."
"So let the boy marry if he wants! Why is that my problem?" Stoick asked irritably. Unlike before however, this time he was only pretending not to understand what his friend was suggesting.
"Come on, Stoick. He's got 'is own ships, 'is own gold, good reputation, a strong son who's said to have drawn his first summer blood, and if his son is also promised to marry..." Gobber paused, implying the rest. "Most people still support ya, but if ya keep being like that… well… things might change quick. And we know who'll have the means to replace ya. He already looks like he can offer more stability. And those in the council seem to like him more with every passin' day."
"Ugh! Enough with your whining," Stoick groaned. "For the last time: he risked his life and crew at sea for half a year, instead of in battle beside his family, all for my son's sake. I know we've had our differences me and my cousin, we were young boys, but I won't have you question his loyalty to me anymore. If you've got a problem with him, then go ahead and pick a fight. Just don't do it when I'm looking. Or Gothi. Especially Gothi."
Silence fell for a while between them. Still slouched in the heavy wooden chair, Gobber had lost some of his overly sunny disposition, and was now looking rather pensive. He was making no move to get up and get to work though. Neither of them was.
Before too long, with his cheery attitude partly recovered, Gobber shrugged to himself and sad: "Perhaps ya might not need to foster too young a child, ya know. With the family's and Gothi's approval, ya could just choose one of the older teens to take in and groom for chiefdom. Sven's second-born seems like a promising lad, just shy of seventeen. The people will approve of him. There's also young Bard; he might be a good choice, more level-headed than most, trained him myself two winters ago. And, actually, why not, even Astrid."
Stoick looked up, "Hofferson's daughter?" he asked, hoping to finally change the subject for good. Sure, it was better to discuss possible kids to foster, rather than talking about Spitelout, but not by much. "I remember she came to talk to me when Brunson's boy was fading. Kept saying it was her fault. How's the lass doing?"
"She's doin' well, I s'pose," Gobber said vaguely. "At least, unlike Snotlout, she did actually kill 'er first dragon this summer. By 'erself too. So, there's that."
"Really? First time I'm hearing about it."
"Yeah, well… It was in the last raid. There wasn't much celebratin' though."
"How come I'm only hearing about this after so long?" Stoick complained. "Don't usually hear much from the Hoffersons, they are not the kind to complain or boast too much about anything, but still…" He frowned. Perhaps it had just been a small Terror. "What dragon was it?"
"Deadly Nadder," Gobber replied, his voice a pensive mutter.
"A Nadder!" Stoick exclaimed, as if it had been his own triumph. "Good! Very good! All by herself too?"
"Hm? Oh… Yes. Asmund and Brenna said so. And Astrid's little cousin, Bjorn, said he saw her while helping put out a fire. A clean kill, Asmund told me himself, axe in the throat, very quick. Doubt they'd have reason to lie 'bout it. Others saw the dragon afterwards. No one else claimed the kill, I think."
"But this should have been great news!" Stoick complained again. "Why was there no celebration? As her teacher, you should have made her a new shield, at least! The girl deserves it. Thor knows we need Vikings like her."
Stoick was overjoyed. He thought he had just heard the first piece of pleasant news for his village in a very long while. It was small of course, a tiny speck of satisfaction in a sea of gloom, but he was going to savor it as much as possible. His heart had for too long been starved of joy.
"That's the thing," Gobber began, "I made a dagger for 'er. But…"
"What?"
"Well… she refused it."
"Refused it?" Stoick asked, thoroughly perplexed. He was about to ask how bad that knife had been for the girl to decline the gift, but he knew for a fact that Gobber's knives were always exceptional.
"Yes. She refuses to speak to anyone 'bout her kill too. Not that she denies it, but… she's acting as if nothin' happened. If Asmund and Brenna hadn't seen 'er, might be no one would know. The way Asmund said it, there was no chasing, no torturing, no bathin' in its blood after. One might say she took pity on the beast." Gobber scratched his freshly-shaved chin with his hook, as he did whenever he was mulling over something serious. "Still, they did see her," he added quickly, "she did kill it."
Stoick said nothing for a while, waiting to hear the blacksmith's full theory on the matter (assuming he had one), before he could devise his own. Truth was, he just wanted to be reassured that this was, in fact, very good news.
"Ya know how some kids feel after their first kill," Gobber finally said, as if hearing Stoick's secret wish. "It's probably just that. Thought little Alvin's death had broken her, but her Viking blood is strong, of that I'm sure as I can be. Might also be it's her Hofferson blood that's keepin' her from boasting in the streets. She's probably just bein' humble about it. An underappreciated quality, if ya ask me."
Stoick nodded, agreeing. "Good. That's good," he said absently, wondering why the young girl, whom he remembered to be fierce and rather proud-looking, would refuse to celebrate her great accomplishment. A Nadder wasn't just any Viking's first kill.
Pity a dragon? Nonsense!
Humble? Maybe, though still a little strange.
First kills did affect some kids worse than others of course, Stoick had seen it happen many times, but what if it was something else? What if Hiccup's stupidity had somehow gotten into her mind?
No, Stoick shook his head, if she managed to kill her first dragon on her first year, and by herself at that, then she's a Viking through and through, he decided.
Astrid Hofferson. No… Astrid Haddock. Stoick tested the sound of it in his mind.
If he truly had to take someone in, to reassure his people, even if it was only to give Hiccup more time to be found, then Astrid was probably the best choice. Young, but not too young, and level-headed for her age. Fierce, but also honorable. Brave, but also humble. She was everything a Viking ought to be. Everyone on Berk respected her. And Hiccup liked her too; Stoick knew the rumors were true.
Perhaps… Stoick found his mind opening to another possibility. Perhaps I can foster her, grooming her as my heir to keep Berk satisfied, only to have her marry Hiccup when I bring him back… Yes. He will be safer as chief then. The people will be less likely to challenge his authority with Astrid by his side. Berk trusts her. If she becomes his wife, the other people will find it easier to accept him, won't they? She will surely like the idea of being chief herself, but she will have to accept Hiccup as her husband when he returns. I can make it part of the agreement. Hiccup will not mind, he likes her already, and Astrid will certainly not mind being the chief's wife instead, will she?
Stoick was sure she would agree. Becoming chief, or the chief's wife; both options were beyond any prospect for the Hofferson family. The offer would be too good to refuse.
The only real problem was that she was Haldor Hofferson's only child, and most likely would always be. His wife Aslaug had become barren after a bad injury during a raid, right after Astrid was born. Few people knew this. Would Haldor and Aslaug agree to let go of their only child?
Of course they will, Stoick thought, nodding to himself. She won't be leaving the village. She'll still be free to spend as much time as she wants with her family. Besides, they'll get a chief's bride price. Everybody wins.
He hummed thoughtfully with a hint of satisfaction, just like he did whenever he found himself drinking some of that rare mead from the southern islands.
I must think on this some more before I make any rash decisions. One cannot be too careful with these things. There's still time.
Stoick took a deep breath, feeling a glimmer of hope for the first time in many months.
Astrid Haddock… the Nadderslayer.
Everything was slower on the island of Berk, just as it was during every winter. People walked slower, worked slower, ate slower. There wasn't much to do in a village half-buried in snow aside from chopping wood, fishing (for as long as the sea was not frozen at least), and keeping warm, and perhaps, on occasion, gathering in the great hall to drink some ale, always mindful of the village's ever-dwindling reserves of food.
Stoick hated this season. He didn't hate the cold, as some did, he was used to that. He didn't hate the snow. He didn't even mind eating a little less. He only hated not having any urgent work to do. He hated staying home, this year more than ever.
He had not always hated staying home. When Valka and he were newly married, Stoick loved spending time in their house. He could still remember, as if it had been yesterday, how lovely, how warm, how exciting it was to stay beside his wife under the wools and pelts, naked, their loins burning with pleasure for as many times as the night would let them, and as late in the mornings as his duties allowed. Sleepless nights were not a bad thing back then, and most times they were not even enough to satiate their appetite for each other. That's why, during winters, they would even spend whole afternoons underneath those covers, riding and loving each other, as if it was the day before Ragnarok, or merely talking softly to one another, waiting for a child to fill their lives with even more happiness.
Getting out of his house was as painful back then, as going inside it was now. After Valka's death, the emptiness of Stoick's spacious abode had been merely painful. Now, with Hiccup gone as well, it was overwhelming.
It was the silence which made everything sound painfully hollow. At night, when Stoick was in his bed, whenever the house, settling, produced its random wooden creaks, he would always find himself jumping up, believing that it was his son making those noises, finally returning, trying to sneak back into his room unnoticed, as he often did to avoid a scolding. Although prepared for disappointment, Stoick would sometimes get up to check, secretly hoping, thinking: This time. This time it was louder. I think it was the stairs. The boy is light, wouldn't make much noise. But Hiccup's room was always empty.
This day, at sunset, like every other day at sunset, despite the cold biting harder, Stoick was still looking for something else to do, something to occupy himself, before finally relenting, and crawling back into his empty home.
He had just heard that a yak had escaped, and had found its way to the docks. A small matter perhaps, but a chief shouldn't always delegate, and Stoick was known for always being first where help was needed.
He arrived by the cliffs. Before taking the steep path down to the docks, he quickly scanned the horizon. He squinted at the sky in the distance. There was no black speck today either.
It had become a habit of his, to see if Hiccup was coming back the same way he had left, to seek the black speck in the sky as it grew bigger, as the Night Fury flew closer.
Nothing. The sky was spotless, bathed in the smooth, pale oranges of this winter sunset.
Then, suddenly, instead of a black speck on the horizon, instead of Hiccup and the Night Fury, Stoick did notice something unusual.
There was a ship at sea. One ship of average size, like those used for trading between villages, not big enough to be Johan's, or that of any other independent crew.
Stoick wasn't the first who had noticed it as it approached from Thor Rock, sailing straight towards Berk. Why had nobody rushed to tell him? A ship this time of year? It was highly uncommon. After all, the sea was not yet frozen solid, but it was soon going to be.
"Meatheads?" He muttered to himself. It was the most reasonable answer. Chief Mogadon was likely sending an envoy to ask if they had some supplies to spare. Grain perhaps? No, a single ship was not enough to carry a significant amount. Dry meats then, or, most likely, a few milk yaks, always in exchange for metals, or leather, or wool… or a promise of either. The summer raids had clearly been bad for them too. Unfortunately, Berk had nothing to spare, and, worse still, sending their allies back emptyhanded was not going to improve their relations.
Stoick was already preparing excuses in his head. Despite his negligence, or, more accurately, his recklessness, Berk had managed to save just enough food and cattle to live through the season. It wasn't really enough, some people were going to eat a bit less than usual, but Stoick had found a way to make the villagers accept it. He had seen to the fair distribution of their supplies, making fair promises and payments with his own coin, so that nobody would come close to starving.
Still, if he had managed to find a way with so little to work with, it was not just because he had a good mind for these things. The other reason was much more depressing: if everyone could count on enough food for this winter, it was also because there were fewer heads to feed than ever.
Spitelout had been right. In fact, everyone had been right at the last council meeting. They could not go on like this. Maybe they had just enough food for this year, but if their village became any smaller, the dragons would end up killing them faster than they could reproduce. For the Hairy Hooligan tribe, extinction was not a distant nightmare anymore.
What am I to do? Stoick wondered desperately, not for the first time. What else can a chief do? Will I ever be able to leave Berk to find Hiccup? How can I leave the village in this state, and hope to be chief when I return?!
Just before nightfall, as the cold tinges of twilight washed over Berk's snowy cliffs, the lone ship came finally close enough for its sail to be visible to all the Vikings who had gathered near the docks, bearing the cold for the sake of their curiosity.
"Ill tidings, most likely," said the voice of Spitelout Jorgenson, who had also come to see their approaching guests, and whose eyesight was slightly better than Stoick's.
Stoick squinted, and, finally, he too could make out the figure painted on the sail.
It was not a Meathead ship. The sailors were not Meathead envoys. Their crest was clear now, even in the twilight: a black, spiked dragon, coiled around itself. It was the Skrill.
Stoick's heart skipped with unease.
Berserkers.
