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Chapter 24: Renegade

(Stoick)

By the time the Berserker ship was finally moored in Berk's docks, night had fallen on the island. Some of the villagers had gone down to welcome their unexpected guests, holding torches, asking for news, asking about the health of distant friends and acquaintances, about daughters they had married off.

The Berserkers had been led up the steep path to the village center, and then, according to their orders, into the great hall. Stoick had not gone to greet them down at the docks. As soon as he had realized it was not just the usual Meathead ship, but actually a small party of their allies from much further south, he had started organizing a small feast. A very small one, alas, for Berk could not afford extravagances this year. However, while not their closest neighbors in the Archipelago, the Berserkers were still very important allies, and Oswald, their chief, was a friend to Stoick. Berk had to keep up appearances.

If Berk had been in a better situation, Stoick would have rejoiced at meeting the Berserker chief. This evening, he was more worried than anything else. Fortunately, he realized that Oswald could not possibly be among their guests, otherwise more ships would have come. After all, ships were one of the assets Berserkers had in huge quantities. Their tribe possessed the largest fleet of the Northern Alliance. Today, only one ship had come though, and it did not look to have gone through any recent battles. Besides, dragons hardly ever attacked during the winter, and outcasts were not stupid enough to do so either. Why had they come? It was all very strange.

Rising from his central seat, spreading his thick arms and wearing his best smile, Stoick thundered: "Welcome, friends. Welcome, to Berk," as five Berserker men and one woman entered the great hall, glancing occasionally up, trying to hide the wonder from their faces as they walked along the two main rows of columns, which sustained the immense nave above. That enormous chamber had always been Berk's greatest architectural jewel, the proof of their might, their pride, and any visitor's source of amazement, no matter how smug, or how regular.

To Stoick's surprise, there was nobody he knew in that small party. He thought he could perhaps recognize the faces of one, maybe two of the six sailors, but he could not recall their names. He was expecting to receive at least one person from Oswald's trusted, or even from his family. Instead, there seemed to be nobody of real import in this crew. This was highly unusual, suspicious even.

At least, the two faces Stoick did recognize reassured him that these were indeed true Berserkers, and not mere outcasts on a stolen ship, or with stolen sails. Besides, other Berkians had seemed already acquainted to some of them, so he was safe in the assumption that they weren't welcoming any liars or traitors in their village for the night.

Stoick greeted their leader, showing that he recognized him from somewhere. It was by no means a warm reunion, however. Stoick made it clear he did not know the man's name, and that it was not due to lack of memory.

The Berserker did not seem troubled. In fact, he did look smart enough to understand the awkwardness of the situation. He had come prepared. This was clearly not the case of a ship lost at sea, nor the case of an urgent call for help. These Berserkers were capable sailors, selected to deliver a message, and it could not be a good one. Oswald would have never sent nameless men to deliver pleasant news, or, in fact, any news, unless something horrible had happened. Yet, just by looking at their faces, Stoick could tell their visit was not the result of any emergency.

A disturbing thought occurred to him: What if Oswald did not send them at all?

The Berserker leader greeted back, showing an appropriate, though slightly oily reverence to "the famous Stoick the Vast! Always an honor meetin' such a great man. An honor!"

He was black-haired, and wore his beard divided into three small braids, held by little iron rings. He was carrying a great-axe across his back, a fine weapon, hard to go unnoticed; a dragon-killing weapon. The name he gave was Ragnvald.

"Ragnvald…?" Stoick repeated, waiting for more than just a name.

"Just Ragnvald."

Of course, Stoick thought, nearly grunting aloud. He was careful not to roll his eyes.

Ragnvald explained that he was an experienced sailor and dragon slayer who was close to his chief's firstborn son, Dagur, and who was often sent on trading expeditions by him.

Not on Berk, apparently, thought Stoick.

After they had dispensed with the introductions, they all sat, occupying the largest table, the oval one with the fireplace in the middle, plus two smaller ones at the sides. Ragnvald was sitting exactly opposite Stoick, at the other end of the table, the hearth's low fire making the air dance with heat between them.

All hearths had been lit that night, with plenty of torches besides. Aside from Petra, Helga, and her three daughters tending the tables and filling up mugs, there was a total of thirty people, including their guests, all the members of Berk's council, their closest families, and a few of Stoick's trusted, among which was of course Gobber, who was however at one of the side-tables, sitting between young Snotlout, who had been brought along by his father, and Finna, one of Gothi's apprentices, and, for that reason, also a shieldmaiden. She, like Gobber, was one of the few Berkians who could interpret the mute healer's scribbles in the dirt. That was all the two had in common though, aside from being both brightly blond, and also unmarried, the last of which, according to what Valka had once said, was probably for very similar reasons.

Stoick had arranged this to be a small, private feast. He had even placed guards at the gates, as was expected, although he had never liked the idea of shutting the doors to the rest of his villagers.

They all ate, mostly fish, but also mutton and chicken, both stewed and roasted. And they drank, without much amusement, talking of small things, Stoick asking most of the questions, slowly shifting towards more and more pressing matters. How was the sea? The weather? Any outcast ships? What of dragons? Was their village well supplied? And, finally: "How is my friend Oswald? What words does he send?"

"Oswald is…" Ragnvald began, putting down his mug, hesitating perhaps, but anticipating the question, "not very well, I'm afraid. He has come down with a bad sickness. It is Dagur that sends us in his stead."

Stoick felt sudden worry for his distant friend. Oswald was often called by some 'the Agreeable', and Stoick knew why. The Berserker chief had always been an honorable man, smart and reasonable, his presence always welcome during the Thing, his words always balanced and useful. Stoick trusted him, as most other chiefs did. To hear he was gravely sick was not only sad, but also troublesome. The day of the man's death was bound to be a destabilizing moment in the Archipelago, a moment Stoick did not look forward to, for Oswald's firstborn son, Dagur, was known to possess a very different temperament from his father. He had been dubbed 'Dagur the Deranged' for good reason.

"This is sad news," Stoick said, meaning it, "sad news indeed. We must send our regards in some way. A present. A barrel of our finest mead to hasten his recovery." He leaned to the left, towards Hoark, to issue the order, but before he could speak, Ragnvald cut him off.

"That won't be necessary," he said, smiling an uncomfortable smile, an irksome smile, "Dagur is not very fond of such… formalities."

Stoick leaned back, sitting up straighter in his chair. "Dagur isn't chief yet," he said harshly, as if telling off a child.

A few awkward smiles started to appear on the faces of their guests. Some shifted in their seats. Nobody dared say anything.

"Dagur will surely be chief one day," Stoick continued, not sounding too apologetic, but with a calmer, more propitiating voice, "but Oswald, as we all know, is a strong man. We are all confident in his recovery. You must however accept at least one small present. If not a barrel of mead, then…" Stoick lifted his eyes to the right, searching for a face at Gobber's table. "Finna," he called.

"Yes, chief," the young shieldmaiden promptly answered.

"Ask Gothi to weave one of her talismans for chief Oswald."

It was a much cheaper gift to give than a mead-barrel, Stoick thought. Perhaps a worthless gift, even if made by Gothi herself. Such woven talismans were usually made by women in the hopes of hastening some loved one's recovery, and Berk's own völva was said to make the most powerful ones. Stoick had never been given any reason to believe that they worked, but it was still a proper gift, if a little common.

Just like our guests, he thought.

"Right away, chief," Finna replied loyally, gulped down the remaining ale from her mug, then rose to her feet and, tightening the furs around her shoulders, she jogged out of the great hall.

"Chief Oswald has always been a good friend to me and to Berk." Stoick began solemnly. "May the gods lend him strength, so that he may soon fight again beside you, to leave this realm only as a summer warrior worthy of Odin's halls." He raised his mug. "A toast. To Oswald."

Everyone's mug was lifted appropriately, as many echoed "To Oswald!" and "Skol!"

Stoick thought he could detect a few hints of hesitation on his guests' faces as they toasted to the man who was still their chief. These hints were neither strong enough to raise his worries, nor, alas, absent enough to appease them.

He cleared his throat. "Now, what brings our southern friends to our northern shores? Don't tell me you've come all the way up here, at this time of year, as the seas are about to freeze solid, only to tell us that chief Oswald has come down with a little cold." Stoick tried to sound jovial as he spoke, but he could not completely hide his unease.

An expectant silence fell as Ragnvald drank, put down his mug, and wiped his mouth and beard with the back of his hand. Then, seeming sour and solemn for the first time that evening, the Berserker man spoke:

"My ships were attacked."

Stoick frowned, taken aback. As he had already noticed, their crew did not look like it had gone through any fighting recently; a dragon attack would always leave very specific marks on a ship. A Viking attack then? Why had they come so far north to tell him? Unless… Was he implying…?

Stoick narrowed his eyes questioningly, with a little hint of threat underneath. "Are you saying you've been attacked by ships with Berk's sails? Careful now. We have a pact, and we've always-"

Ragnvald raised his hand dismissively, if a little rudely. "'Didn't say we were attacked by ships, did I?" He said.

That's when Ragnvald began to unfold the story of the newly-built hut on that deserted island, on which, as the man explained, Berserkers used to stop for fresh water every time they sailed south of Helgafell. And that's when Ragnvald spoke of the dragons that were defending the hut, and of the fight that had ensued, and of the three of his crew who had died on that beach.

Stoick's eyebrows furrowed more and more at the man's story. An empty hut? Dragons defending it? Why had they come to him? He ignored another question, which had appeared at the back of his mind: what business did Berserkers have south of Helgafell? Stoick was still trying to figure out what possible reasons could these Berserkers have to suspect Berk of such an attack. He was not even outraged by the accusation, merely dumbfounded.

"I fail to see how such matters have anything to do with us," he said. "Helgafell… That's almost two hundred leagues from our shores. Last time Berkians had any business there was when every northern and southern chief met at the Thing. There hasn't been such a historic meeting in the Archipelago for generations. What reason would we have to attack-"

"I'm not accusing anyone here of carrying out an attack against us." Ragnvald cut in.

Stoick did not like being interrupted. He took a sharp breath, then let it out as an annoyed sigh. "Then I suggest you cut to the chase," he said irately.

"Of course," said Ragnvald, offering an appeasing smile. Talking a little faster, he went on to recount the events following their looting and destruction of the hut. He talked of how they searched for its owner, who had apparently disappeared from the island, how they recovered the bodies of their dead comrades, how they left the island in the same afternoon, their three ships sailing back north, until a starry night fell.

What the Berserker man said next, made Stoick's heart skip with an unpleasant mixture of dread and exhilaration:

"That's when the owner of the hut came. That's when my ships were attacked. That's who attacked us. A dragon rider."

Suddenly, the great hall became as silent as the deepest cell of Berk's underground caverns. As if on purpose, even the many fires had temporarily stopped popping and hissing. Everyone was still as ice, not daring to move, not daring to breathe, hanging to Ragnvald's every word.

"A boy, riding on the back of, believe it or not, a Night Fury," Ragnvald continued. "A boy, rather small maybe… but cunning, I'll have to admit. Dangerous."

"A twisted little beast atop a bigger one!" Snarled the only woman of the Berserker crew. Aside from her fiery cheeks, she was pale as snow. Unlike her captain, she sounded angry, as if ready to spill some blood.

Ragnvald gave her a fleeting, compassionate smile. He went on: "The boy somehow commanded the dragon's fire and, before anyone could realize what was happenin', blue fire pierced the hulls of my other two ships, and set their sails aflame. Killed no men with the blasts, for that, as the boy told us later, was 'is purpose. He was showing us 'is strength, ya see. He then landed on our ship. Ragged clothes and furs, like some forsaken outcast. His face, I do not jest, was painted all with blood. Not his own, mind you. War paint. He had a strange, short bow in his hands, arrow nocked, aimed straight towards me heart, and not a hair askew." There was a pause. Then, the man added: "He offered us all our lives, this boy, in exchange only for the basket we had taken from 'is hut."

Ragnvald's eyes scanned the spellbound crowd, and finally settled on Stoick's. Despite the implications to what he was saying (which everyone had surely begun to pick up on), the Berserker was looking at Stoick in a surprisingly sympathetic way.

"Can't say it was an unreasonable offer," he said casually, "so I took it. Makin' choices is easy when ya're left with none. My other two ships were sinking, ya see. Some of my men were drowning, freezing to death. Two more I lost that night, taken by the sea. Good men."

A heavy silence fell again as soon as Ragnvald stopped speaking. No one was saying anything. Not a murmur. Not a breath. Stoick could feel his own people's eyes purposefully avoiding him.

After taking his time to finish his drink, the Berserker captain finally opened his mouth again. He spoke slowly, solemnly.

"We have more than enough reasons to believe, and Dagur 'imself agrees, that our attacker was none other than yer own son, whom, as we've all heard, has left yer village, and now flies with our oldest, foulest enemies."

The one Berserker woman and one of their men spat on the floor simultaneously. Stoick barely noticed, his mind in a haze, overwhelmed by both a terrible realization and utter disbelief.

No. Hiccup? No! It must be a mistake. Blood paint? Hiccup?! A bow? Attacking ships? It couldn't possibly be him. Killing men? Killing anyone?

But Ragnvald had been very specific: the boy had not killed any people himself. Not directly. That suggested it might have really been his son. Hiccup had left Berk to save the life of a mere dragon; he was not a killer. That part of his description surely fitted. Yet, Stoick did not know what to feel about it. On the one hand, it meant Hiccup had still been alive a few weeks back. Very good news. But on the other…

Should I believe this? Should I celebrate? Or should I worry even more?

Some of his disbelief, Stoick was glad to see, was shared by most of the other Berkians in the hall, who knew all about Hiccup's unusually mild demeanor. They had all seen Hiccup grow up. And, yes, they had often considered him dangerous, but only because of his legendary clumsiness. Everyone on Berk knew he was not, at heart, a violent boy. Even after his treachery with the dragon, that view of him had not changed.

It was very hard to believe the Berserker's story. Perhaps Ragnvald was exaggerating the facts. Still, Stoick could not find a way to object. His throat was too dry.

It was Gobber who finally came to his aid:

"So," the blacksmith began thoughtfully, mainly addressing his fellow Berkians, "a fearsome, dangerous young man, with real blood-paint on 'is face, holding a weapon like a proper warrior." He seemed amused. "That's our 'little Hiccup' alright," he exclaimed sarcastically.

Timid laughter rippled through the hall. It helped loosen the stiff crowd a bit; it even helped Stoick, who felt like he could finally breathe again. Nobody's chuckles lasted long, however.

It was young Snotlout, sitting beside Gobber, who had been laughing the hardest. Yet, once all the mirth had abated, Stoick noticed how the boy was staring at the blacksmith, his eyes searching for approval. 'Am I supposed to believe this story or not?' His eyes were asking. Despite the laughter, even Snotlout, much like everyone else, was still unsure what to think about all this; about his cousin.

Stoick shared his nephew's confusion. He felt disoriented, and the more he thought, the worse the feeling got. The cleansing effect of Gobber's lighthearted voice had already begun to fade. He became dizzy. Even though he was sitting in a sturdy wooden chair, Stoick could almost feel the ground slowly tilt beneath him, as if he was standing on a ship's deck. He wanted to reach out for his mug to drink, but his arm did not move. He felt cold, and… was he sweating? He could not think straight. Too many ugly notions were sprouting inside his head, like weeds.

If this man isn't lying, then what has Hiccup turned into?

'Let 'im find his own shape,' Gobber had told him.

Was this what his friend had meant? Stoick wondered nervously. Was this the shape Hiccup was taking? And what was his final shape going to be? Not a Viking? A true Viking? An outcast? Or something else entirely? Something worse.

Stoick felt his heart sink at the sudden idea that, the day he was going to see his son again, there was a chance he would be unable to recognize him.

I won't believe this! This man is lying! He must be! The hut, the attack, the bow, everything! Hiccup could barely lift a hunting bow!

That's when Stoick recalled what Spitelout had told him the day he had returned to Berk. The only time Spitelout had caught up with Hiccup, on the island of Balheim, the boy was indeed carrying a bow. That's where he had found it.

Come on! What can Hiccup even do with a bow? Can he even aim it right?

Another thought barged into his mind: He shot down a Night Fury.

Fine! Maybe he could aim with his weird contraptions, but he can't pull a bow's string anyway! The boy never could! I should have taught him how, but I never did. I should have trained him. It was my duty, I know, but I never did! And Gobber did not either! Which means he can't know how to shoot properly! He could not have learnt by himself! It doesn't fit the description. It doesn't! Of course they are all lies! Yes. All lies.

Stoick's eyes suddenly met those of the pale Berserker woman, the one who had looked furious ever since she had stepped into the great hall, the one who had spat on the floor at the mention of Hiccup's name. Her eyes were somber, angry. The eyes of a person who had recently lost someone they loved. The eyes of someone full of accusation. They were blaming him, those eyes. Him. She was blaming Hiccup for her loss, and, by extension, she was blaming Stoick too.

That's when Stoick understood it was all true. That woman's eyes were too honest, too grief-stricken. Ragnvald had not lied. Of course he hadn't. It was too specific, too elaborate a story to be a lie.

Stoick scanned the tables to see if his fellow Berkians had started accepting it as well. They were murmuring to each other. And, as he searched their faces, he noticed a strange expression form on some of them; most of them, in fact. It was a rather specific expression, and yet, not totally unexpected. They were Vikings, after all.

Underneath an appropriate amount of outrage, surprise, and compassion for their southern allies, drowned under thick layers of heavy disapproval, there was a hint of… was it admiration? For Hiccup? Stoick could barely see it, hidden behind the proper condemnation and contempt, but there it was, just the smallest trace of it.

Oh, a traitor was bad, sure. Very bad. But a formidable traitor? A fearsome traitor? A capable traitor? Those were clearly redeeming qualities among Vikings, weren't they? Strong, feared, infamous men deserved respect no matter their alignment, for they were favored by the gods; was that it?

Idiots! Stoick wanted to shout at his people.

Was imagining Hiccup as a dangerous renegade, on some level, improving the boy's reputation? Were Berkians enjoying the idea of sharing a home-village with someone who sounded so fearsome, so capable?

Look at them! They are secretly proud! They care nothing about Hiccup's safety! (And that, Stoick knew, was not entirely surprising.) But they also care nothing about diplomacy, about what this might mean for our alliance!

Idiots! Stoick thought again. Fucking idiots!

Then again, had Stoick not been valuing strength and might too? Had he not respected fearsome and capable people in spite of their crimes? Had he not admired some of the men of legend, despite their rumored atrocities? Was imagining his son as a strong, assertive predator, capable of defeating three Berserker ships, making him, on some level, feel proud too?

Stoick searched within himself for the answer, and found that, fighting back against his chaotic emotions, there was indeed a tiny part of him which had swollen with pride.

Then I'm a fucking idiot too!

He forced the thought away. Reputation or not, pride or not, this was bad news for their alliance with the Berserkers, and, by extension, with all the other villages. A diplomatic incident of this sort was problematic, both for Berk's future and, most of all, for Hiccup's, if he was ever to become chief; a future about which Stoick was still very much unyielding.

Stoick was still hoping with all his heart (or, at least, most of his heart) that the boy in the story had been some other boy. Some other scrawny, Night-Fury-taming, dragon-riding boy. Maybe it was all just a mind-blowing coincidence.

"Did the boy give his name?" Stoick asked, realizing he had not said anything for an awkwardly long amount of time. The low murmurs in the hall stopped abruptly at the sound of his question.

Ragnvald smiled affably. "He… did not."

"Then there is no conclusive proof that it was actually my son Hiccup, is there?" Stoick suggested. It was worth a shot.

Ragnvald's grin grew wider. He was not mocking him; he was pleased. He had been expecting the question. "Dagur does not only send us with his regards," he said. "He also thought it proper that we deliver this to ya. Thought ya might want to have it." He nodded at one of his men, the youngest of the crew.

The lad got up. From behind his chair, he produced a wide, rectangular object, wrapped in a sheet of leather. He walked around the oval table and gracefully offered the object to Stoick. Most Berkians leaned to see their chief unwrap it. Some of those sitting at the side tables rose to their feet and stretched their necks to get a better look.

It was a plank of wood, rather thick and wide, not perfectly cut. It could have passed for a makeshift shield, had there been a way to hold it. Most likely, it looked like a piece of construction wood, for a ship's deck, perhaps. The only unusual feature was that it was charred black all over, and scratched, maybe clawed, to reveal lines of fresh wood underneath.

"What's this?" Stoick asked, more perplexed than ever.

"We retrieved it from the hut," Ragnvald replied. "Might be the boy forgot we had taken it, and didn't ask for it, so it remained on my ship. Was planning to use it for repairs, ya see, when our young Bard here," he nodded again towards the young lad, "noticed there was writing."

Stoick stared at the jagged lines, lost. He could see no writing.

"The other side," Bard suggested politely.

Stoick turned the plank over, and, with some difficulty, he recognized the runes for 'Hiccup' and 'Toothless'.

Stoick felt dizzy again. Chaos poured into his mind once more, but one thing was painfully clear. The Berserkers could not have known about the Night Fury's name, had they not truly met Hiccup. This was real. This was all real.

But… Stoick's thoughts went on, this cannot be Hiccup's writing.

Hiccup's runes had always been perfect, whether he was writing them on parchment or etching them in swords at the forge. Stoick knew this very well. This was not Hiccup's work. Maybe they had heard about the Night Fury's name from someone else, and they had fabricated this piece of evidence.

"So someone carved his name on this. This is no proof."

A few people were still leaning to see the plank in his arms. Some had returned to their seats, murmuring again.

"The Night Fury... was its tail whole?" Stoick asked.

Of course, deep down, he knew this was not a fabrication, but he still had to try; not just for Hiccup's sake, but for his own too. While he was very glad to find that his son was likely still alive, this was nonetheless not the kind of news he had hoped to hear about him.

Ragnvald looked confused for the first time. "Its tail?"

"Yes. Was the beast's tail whole?"

Ragnvald looked at his crew. With the slightest bit of hesitation, he said: "I suppose. Why?"

"Hiccup's Night Fury is missing a tail-fin. It wears a prosthetic made of leather. You ought to have noticed."

The Berserker captain looked at his men to see if any of them had something to say about this. When his men only shrugged, he cleared his throat. "I recall saying it was night-time, at sea," he said. "Ya can't blame us for not looking at the beast's tail. I, for one, was more concerned with its teeth."

That produced a few chuckles.

Stoick knew it had been an unreasonable demand. After all, he had failed to notice the missing tailfin too when the dragon had come to rescue Hiccup in the arena, which had also happened in plain daylight. Nonetheless, Stoick was willing to employ any excuse. He did not care how foolish he looked. He was the chief. He could always justify himself by saying he just wanted to be thorough.

"So, you have no absolute certainty that it was, in fact, Hiccup Haddock. His identity was not revealed."

Another apparently amiable but deeply irritating smile appeared on Ragnvald's face. He was pulling at his beard braids with amusement. He looked, once again, completely unflustered.

"I do have a final bit of proof, actually," he reported. "With my whole crew as witness, when I asked the boy, before he flew away, if he truly was Stoick the Vast's own son, do ya know what he replied?"

Silence filled the great hall one more time.

"He replied…" Ragnvald paused for effect, "'Not anymore'."

Although Stoick had been expecting that answer, he could not avoid wincing at the sudden, dreadful weight in his chest.

Ragnvald offered a slightly concerned look. "I am sorry," he said, "but he didn't just reply 'no'. That can only mean one thing to us."

The silence was gone. Vikings were murmuring and nodding to each other. Some had begun drinking again, arguing. The matter was settled. Everyone finally agreed. Even Stoick, who, after tossing the charred plank with Hiccup's name on the table, displacing mugs and plates and knives, slumped back into his chair, defeated.

Not a moment later, he saw Ragnvald sitting straighter in his own chair, as if ready to dodge something. The Berserker crew was shifting worriedly, and only then Stoick realized he was scowling, scowling like only he knew how. The kind of scowl that sapped the fight out of his enemies. He was famed for it. His hand had also inadvertently clenched around the leather loop by the side of his belt, where he carried his axe.

By the time Stoick collected himself, Ragnvald's amused look had been wiped away for good.

In a very cautious, diplomatic tone, the Berserker said: "Dagur has told us to remind Berk that he is an understanding man. He won't hold this attack on our ships against ya in any way. We bear no grudges with Berk." He cleared his throat uneasily now. "But Dagur also said that it would be a problem for the good relationship of our villages, if Berk happened to reconcile with the traitor, given his many crimes. The boy is dangerous, more than any of our outcasts, and an enemy to all Vikings. That's why Dagur sent us here. To make sure Berk is still… friendly to our tribe."

"Ya already had yer answer."

To Stoick's surprise, it was Spitelout who spoke.

"The boy told ya 'imself, didn't he?" The man continued. "He's Stoick's son no longer. Disowned and exiled. Ya can't blame a tribe for the actions of its outcasts. That has always been part of our pact, has it not?"

Spitelout did not mention anything about Hiccup's exile being officially set for only two years. He was also lying about Hiccup being actually disowned. A provident decision on his part, Stoick thought. It was better if the Berserkers thought so. Nonetheless, Stoick was not sure whether to feel hurt, or grateful for Spitelout's initiative, for it was bound to make things easier with the Berserkers. He chose to feel grateful, and nodded after Spitelout to show Ragnvald that he agreed with what had just been stated.

With an appreciative smile, Ragnvald looked at Stoick and nodded deeply, spreading his hands, palms facing up, in what was his most courteous gesture yet.

After that, the uneasy feast was finally over. Most people were leaving the great hall in small groups. Stoick gave instructions for their guests' accommodations, and made to leave himself, when Ragnvald approached him for one last thing.

"Chief Stoick," he began, sounding meeker than ever. "Ya've been a very generous host to my 'umble crew, and I don't mean to sour the mood again. Please take no offense, but I must inform ya that there's two more ships of mine waitin' for us on Thor Rock no later than sundown tomorrow. Wasn't sure how ya'd take our little news and, ya know… even lowly messengers have to take precautions."

Stoick was not stupid enough to feel insulted. In fact, had he been in a better mood, he would have laughed. The thought of killing his guests in their sleep for bringing him uncomfortable news (along with what had surely been a veiled threat) had never crossed his mind. Besides, it was a smart precaution, and he secretly approved of it.

However, he was done being pleasant. He was done pretending that he liked this nameless man, that he wasn't offended by receiving one of Dagur's people, as if the young brat was chief already, as if the great Oswald mattered nothing anymore. He was in a black temper, tired, sick, and miserable. Even if he was not planning any murder, now that almost everyone was gone, he had nothing to lose by being a little hostile.

With the coldest, most unsettling voice he could muster, Stoick only replied: "Sleep well, just Ragnvald."

Then, he turned his back to the man, and, finally, he went home.


The same night, Stoick had lit the fireplace in his own house, and was now sitting in his usual chair, mug of ale twice emptied, thrice refilled, contemplating the blackened plank of wood, the one that, to an educated eye, displayed the runes for 'Hiccup' and 'Toothless'. Two names that now seemed bound together by some godly will. One of Loki's tasteless jokes, most likely.

Gobber had also showed up, mug-attachment fastened on his stump. Stoick had not sent him away; he knew he was not going to sleep tonight, and he could use his friend's company, no matter how irritating the blacksmith could be at times.

"So... who do ya reckon made this?" Gobber asked after a while, pointing towards the plank, which was occupying one of the seats, as if perched atop a pedestal. He too was sure it was not Hiccup's handiwork; if there was anyone who knew about Hiccup's crafting skills, it was Gobber.

"I don't know," Stoick sighed. "Who else would do this for him? Makes no sense. He has clearly been avoiding all people, and the Berserkers never mentioned anyone else. It must be his work."

Gobber scoffed. "Ya don't believe that. The lad could already etch perfect lines on hardened steel when he was ten. He has always been an artist when it comes to such things."

"Who else might have drawn this then? The dragon?!"

Stoick meant it as a rhetorical question, yet Gobber did not chuckle. He took the plank in his one hand to study it, turned it around to reveal the meaningless scratches on the back, sniffed it, then set it back down. He looked as if he was he seriously considering the possibility.

"Oh, yak shit," Stoick grunted. "You can't be serious."

"I'm just sayin'." Gobber shrugged, pointing with his mug-attachment at the plank, the current side of which bore merely random lines, and no discernible runes whatsoever. "It says 'Hiccup' and 'Toothless' on the one side, and there's a drawing of a Night Fury with a boy on its back on this side. If the Berserkers didn't do this, must have been someone who knew them both from up close. Slim pickin's there."

Stoick flinched. "What are you talking about?" He asked nervously. "What drawing?"

"Right here, can't ya see? This is the dragon, wings and tail and all. And this…" Gobber pointed at a curly doodle above, "I s'pose this is Hiccup, ridin' on its back. And the round thing up 'ere must be the sun, or might be the moon, since everthin' else is blackened."

Stoick leaned forward. He squinted at the drawing, believing not a word at first, until, with a huge effort of imagination, the jagged lines started making sense, the irregular shapes resembling Gobber's interpretation.

No way, he thought, sure that his own imagination was just being influenced. Gobber was obviously insane. But, wasn't he also known for being one of the very few Berkians capable of interpreting Gothi's absurd scribbles in the dirt?

Stoick remained silent. Neither denying he was seeing it too, nor agreeing.

"Besides," Gobber went on, "the burnt wood still smells of dragon fire. Can't say our southern friends could not have used one of their captive dragons for that part, but the drawing, the writing… well… if they wanted to fake Hiccup's work, they could have done a better job. Even little Gustav can carve better than this."

"So, dragons can write now? Is this what you are saying?!" Stoick brought his hand down on the armrest of his chair. "There's grown people on this island who've yet to read a second page of the dragon manual, not to mention a second book! But dragons writing? Dragons drawing?! Oh, that's ENTIRELY possible!" He yelled with exasperated sarcasm, spilling mead on the floor with his outraged waving.

Gobber lifted his arms in surrender. "Don't blame me," he said. "I'm just statin' the facts. T'is not like I find it easy to believe meself. But ya must agree, that Night Fury ain't behaving like most dragons. Seems like Hiccup really has a way with the beasts. Didn't Ragnvald say five more of 'em were defending the lad's home? They gave their lives for an empty hut. That's, well… unusual."

Stoick sighed, but did not reply. Could Hiccup really command the beasts?

No. Not exactly. He had said so himself. He was taming them. Befriending them. That's what Hiccup was doing. He had said the Night Fury was his best friend, hadn't he? He had gone to befriend five more, apparently, though they were now dead, killed by Berserkers. Hiccup, his own little Hiccup, had even sought revenge after that. It had been, according to Ragnvald's account, a rather mild kind of revenge, but that was all the more reason to believe that it was true.

Now, after attacking the Berserkers, after being discovered for a second time, after nearly every Viking chief had been informed of his existence, after having his house destroyed, after having some of his friends killed, what was Hiccup going to do? Was he going to fly to some other island? Was he going to befriend new dragons? Contemptible as it might have been, Stoick had to admit, it was still an extraordinary feat; sadly, one that could get his boy killed on almost every island of the archipelago.

Suddenly, the most pressing question in Stoick's mind became: What island will Hiccup end up on?

It was a very different question from the ones Stoick had been asking himself for the last eight months (questions like: when will Hiccup decide to come back?) because it implied that Berk was not going to be that island. Such painful implication was the result of a new, strangely unpleasant truth: Hiccup was capable of taking care of himself.

His son was clearly not as helpless as Stoick had thought, and secretly hoped. It was not that Stoick wanted Hiccup to be in danger. Quite to the contrary, a massive weight had been lifted after hearing that his son was alive. Stoick had also started feeling an uneasy sort of pride in some small part of himself. But was that really a reason to rejoice, if it meant the harshness of the winter could no longer persuade Hiccup to come back?

Ever since the summer had ended, Stoick's only source of comfort had been the hope that Hiccup would be forced to return. He had prayed to never actually need to set sail himself to find him; it was far too problematic, as all his people would regularly point out. Now, if Hiccup had built a hut, if he had managed to make himself a home, he could do all those things again somewhere else, even further away. And if Hiccup could survive out there, there was no need for him to return.

What am I to do now? What is a father to do? Do I set sail when spring comes again? Do I stay here and wait? Do I do nothing? Do I let go?

With the pressing fear for Hiccup's life now strangely mollified, without that constant panic, the feeling of urgency, the perpetual restlessness, Stoick felt suddenly deflated, uncertain. What little resolve he had mustered in the last few months was quickly being replaced by a tepid, inexorable void.

'Hiccup is fine. Hiccup doesn't need you,' the charred board seemed to be saying.

Stoick closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

Gobber had fallen asleep in his chair, drooling over his shoulder.

Stoick looked at the drawing again. He tried to see the boy in it, his auburn hair, frail neck, lanky limbs, mounted on the dragon's back, up into the sky.

Where are you going? Stoick asked the boy in the picture.

But the boy did not reply. He was smiling, spreading his arms like wings, laughing. No matter how Stoick looked at it, that picture spoke only of a joyful freedom. It did not matter who had made it, or for what reason. Whether he liked it or not, that drawing was evidence that his son had spent at least one happy day away from Berk, and that realization was both soothing, and heartbreaking.

Stoick kept looking at the plank; he could not stop. He became absorbed by it, consumed by it.

He stared and gazed and glared at it. The jagged picture, a tiny window into Hiccup's life, Stoick's only future. He shook his head.

He stared and gazed and glared once more. That scorched piece of wood, his only reason to believe his son was still alive, the icon of Stoick's hope. He finally rose, and walked away from it.

But he would regularly find his way back there, and he'd stare and gaze and glare, and stare again, and again, and again, for days, for weeks, for months, throughout the winter. And, every time, that purposeful look in his eyes, a prelude to tears. Tears would no longer fall on the chief's face though; he could only lose himself in that picture, forlorn, suspended from a cliff of doubt, adrift in a sea of loss, his eyes every day more grim, every day more old.

'Are those white hairs near his temples?' The villagers would sometimes ask each other in hushed tones.

He hadn't noticed. He didn't care. He only waited for spring to come, and, at either that plank of wood, or the horizon, every day, sullenly, Stoick stared, and stared, and stared.

END OF ACT II


AN: Forgive my rather melodramatic ending. I couldn't help it! Act 2 is finally complete! :D [Cue in confetti rain] Keep in mind that Act 3 will not be the final act.

Until next time!