Chapter 1: Of Valka

20 Years Later…

"Eh, Stoick, things could be worse. At least she doesn't breathe fire." The messy-mustachioed Viking leaned back against a beam that was just behind his bench. He knew his friend was in no mood to be joked with, but he couldn't help but make one all the same.

Stock sighed, rubbing his temples as he sat on his throne. "I know, Gobber, but she's never here. She's always off searching for some blasted nest or other, sailing off the gods-forsaken corners of the map to find even a flock of dragons. It's not exactly like that's the life I wanted for us." Stoick absently ran his fingers through his tangled hair. These long absences weren't even the worst part. He sighed again, sounding like an ever-deflating sail. "It's not like I mind her fighting the beasts. Ever since your lessons, I know she can handle them. Eh, she's even more skilled than some of the men!" This truth was something that was hardly ever spoken about, unless to tease or enrage a fellow Viking. It was the quickest way to get under someone's skin- 'Hey, even the dragon-lover fights better than you!' -and hardly easy to amend.

"You knew she was a stubborn girl going into this. It's one of the things you always liked about her- headstrong enough to match even you!" Gobber chuckled, thinking of some of the shouting matches and shenanigans there had been when they were all youngsters. "When you were the one hiding sheep, she couldn't be outdone and would be found painting the shields with flowers!" Those two had always been the leaders of the pack, and so them marrying had been one prediction they hadn't needed Gothi to toss the bones for. Everyone had seen it coming. The chief gave a sad half-smile at the memory.

"I know that, but I want her here, Gobber! I want her where I can see her, and sing to her; where I can hold her close, and tell her things will be alright… because I love her, and I would do anything for her…" The great chief's voice ended with a hoarse whisper. His life-long friend could just see a small sparkle under the edge of his helm. He didn't say a word; vikings were tough, and they never cried. He wouldn't be one to contradict this statement by telling others their mighty and fearless chief was weeping.

Stoick lamented thoughts of the past. The initial change had been almost instant- like flipping a switch. She had stopped telling people to spare the beasts. She stayed away, watching from inside the forge, where she helped Gobber to sharpen the blades. She became more withdrawn. Other women would been seen whispering about it- the worst case of baby blues they had ever seen, they would say. But of course none blamed her. She had lost her child entirely. She moped about, trying to reconcile a reason for why he would get taken. She still insisted on trying to see the dragons as inherently good. But as time moved on without another trace of the four-winged creature, or her son, her hope turned to doubt. She saw the destruction that the raids were reaping. The funerals, the thin, dirty children, the shattered homes. Homes that now included her own, as well as her heart. Her viewpoint changed to despair. But a Viking doesn't live long in the world when powered by tears. She finally picked herself up, her resolve smelted into something tougher, more unyielding. Heated and forged by the fire of dragons, her temperament became one of hate. A deep, smoldering resolve to protect her family at all cost against those that had harmed her so deeply.

After that first week, she had started training combat with Gobber, trying to fill the empty void left from no longer caring for a little one. Two years later- at this point, she once again was a mother- this time to a daughter she named Snorri. Stoick had hoped that this would brighten his anger-bent wife, but it had the opposite effect. Every time she saw the young child, she saw Hiccup being carried off. She saw the fear of losing another of her children to the beasts. And so, on this fear the flames of her vengeance burned, shining in her hotter than any nightmare's fire. His beloved Valka had gone from trying to save dragons to vehemently opposing them. As Snorri grew older, and Valka grew in skill and strength, so did her resolve. She had originally been content to wreak her hatred on the dragons that came in the raids. With each wave, a small flock would fall around her. With each swing of her sword, she saw one less threat to her daughter. But as Snorri grew, and was less reliant on her mother, Valka decided it wasn't enough. The flames of her vengeance needed more fuel- the blood of the dragon who stole her Hiccup. She first started going on the sailing parties to find the nest near Helheim's Gate when Snorri was six. When those proved unsuccessful, she moved on, taking long voyages of her own to try and discover another nest. Each time she returned, frustrated by the lack of evidence of the four-winged dragon. Slowly, she was being consumed with the need to destroy the dragon that had destroyed her son, leaving her husband and daughter farther behind her.

Then there was the fighting. As she grew more distant, both physically and emotionally, her family struggled to close the gap. This caused many fights among the two parents. Vikings are a naturally rowdy lot, so fighting is far from uncommon, but this was of a different caliber. Both would end up thoroughly frustrated, and at odds with their spouse, convinced their path was the right one, and the only right one.

With a slow shake of his mane-like beard, the great viking finally sat up straight again. He would put last night's fight behind him, just as he had the other hundred. It wasn't worth it. The time that she was here, he would always treasure before she disappeared for another month. Even when she yelled in his face, and slayed dragons without batting an eye, and left for indefinite amounts of time, he would always put it all behind him. She would always be as beautiful to him as the day she had first agreed to be his wife. She would always be his beloved Val. And he would never change that view.

Without warning, Snotlout's face peered around the door to the Great Hall. "Good evening, Chief, Sir." He nodded respectfully to each.

"Is something the matter Snotlout?" Gobber asked, his eyebrows knitting as he tried to think of the possibilities.

He shook his head. "No sir, other than Fishlegs is asking for more iron for his dragon-bows." Gobber sighed.

"Oi, that boy and his inventions. Head on back to the forge, and tell him I'll get to him in a few minutes." Snotlout nodded, and walked off.

"You know, you done right by that boy, Gobber. I know you really weren't thinking that he would be a good apprentice originally, but I think that he's proven himself."

"Aye. He was so cocky. But days on end working with sharp blades and molten steel, pumping the bellows in the heat really put the humility into him."

Stoick laughed. "And here I thought it was just that he was able to get away from Spitelout all the time!"

"Oh, ha ha. Very funny. I need to go talk to Fishlegs." Gobber drained the dregs of his mug with a final gulp, and hobbled out. Alone, Stoick's fingers absently brushed over his scars as he thought. Up, down, up down they went, over the large, uneven, white patches that covered his left arm. That day had affected him in more ways than one. While Valka had grown bitter, he had grown more thoughtful. Spitelout often jeered that his patience was cowardice. Everyone else retorted that Spitelout only said this because he was afraid that Stoick was trying to steal his son. Spitelout's words did carry a small air of truth, though. The only thing that he needed to amend was that it was Snorri, and not Stoick, who was trying to steal Snotlout. Stoick wouldn't be surprised if Snotlout became chief. He had spoken the truth to Gobber- Snotlout had become quite the respectable young man. And if Snorri had her way, then Snotlout would become his son-in-law, and heir to Berk.