Chapter 2: Of Snotlout
Chatting merrily with a few passersby, Snotlout's form could be dimly viewed from his position inside the forge. There was hardly a time that you couldn't find him there. Being of a stockier build, hefting heavy metal and building tools for death suited him. And it clearly showed. Sometimes when he was building a particularly intricate piece of weaponry, people would stop to watch. This large, brawny boy would become light and lithe, almost appearing to dance through the forge. Turn, dip, pump, hammer. His hands would shape a molten lump into an axehead, or maybe a deadly mace, or an engraved spearhead. His movements were smooth; confident from endless hours working under Gobber's tutelage.
At this point, though, there was no crowd. There were no dancing movements. There was simply the figure hunched over the forge. The dull red glow contrasted against his dark silhouette. He was stirring up the coals, spreading out the heat to evenly warm the iron rods within. Turning away, he bent back over the anvil. You could just see the bright gleam of iron in his hands.
The whine of a whetstone grinding the edge filled the air, matching the dark look on the holder's face. With the reflection of the fire, it almost seemed like the metal was screaming in pain, being tortured into the shape the Viking desired. Snotlout was not an overly deep thinker. He did feel, and if forced, he could voice those feelings, but overall he was not one to ponder them. He rode them, like the Viking warships rode the storms at sea. Like the rocks resisted the battering of waves. Like the people beleaguered the many attempts of dragons to rid them of their lives. With a final loud screech! the tip snapped off the spearhead, leaving two broken pieces in his hands. The slight shock seemed to rouse him, and he unclenched his tight muscles. With a feeling of disgust, he tossed the pieces back into the coals, to join the other bits of iron. If he had happened to be of a philosophical turn of mind, he might have realized how much this spearhead was like him.
If he had wanted to, he could have seen the connections. Snotlout was not a dumb Viking. In fact, he was quite smart. For deep down he knew that if he delved any great depth into his emotions, then he would not be able to control the beast that would be summoned. And that would only bring more hardship onto him; more trouble he didn't ask for. He grumpily reached for the fire prod, about to angrily shove the ruined spear into the back of the forge. A large hand wrapped over his, gently removing the prod. Snotlout didn't fight the hand. He just went limp, looking away so he didn't have to meet his mentor's eyes.
Gobber surveyed the piece of steel that was starting to glow with a deep red light. "Ya' know, lad, I always told ya' metal had a bit o' its own mind to it." His apprentice stayed silent, watching his mentor expressionlessly. Gobber continued on, letting his charge sink onto the counter that made up the front of the forge. "Each piece is different. It is the smith's job to work with what he's got to create just the right object- whether a helmet, a shield rim- or a spear." He cocked his eyebrow, but received still no reaction. Snotlout was on that dangerous verge between riding the emotions and drowning in them. With his tongs, the old viking fished the two pieces of the spear out of the fire. "Now these, they were a beautiful spear on the outside- but look closer." He held it out. The intricate pattern carved onto the blade stood in sharp relief. "What do you see, lad?" He prompted.
"A screw-up. Too much emotion." Snotlout snorted, turning away again.
The old smith nodded. "Aye. I see that the carver was a little heavy-handed. A little overbearing." He turned the pieces, so that instead of seeing the flat spine of the blade, Snotlout could see the place where the tip broke off. "But looky there. Now what do ya' see?"
The younger viking looked up, first warily into the smith's eyes, and then at the spear. He voice came slowly. "I- I see an imperfection. The metal has a spot with too much ash. It was.. weak." He looked up at his mentor, then down to the floor. He gave a quick exhale, which though it contained no words, spoke volumes of self-loathing.
"Aye, lad. But you know what? That just means that it was never meant to be this spear. Even if it hadn't broken when you were workin' on it, it would have broke as soon as it was tested. It was better meant to be somethin' else." He looked at his still-silent charge, then back to the iron, turning it over and looking at it from various angles. "Yesss" It was a long, drawn out word. "I think that with a small tweak.." Gobber started hammering and folding, sculpting the metal with dextrous fingers and hand-tools. After a few more minutes of changing it, he plunged the still-glowing metal into a bucket of water. A billow of steam filled the hut. Gobber stepped forward, presenting the old spear to his apprentice for appraisal.
"Tongs." Snotlout's voice was flat, not betraying any of his thoughts. Indeed, the thin blade had been stretched and folded, so that it now was a thick, sturdy pair of smith's tongs.
"Aye. This be much better. It was a poor spear, but an excellent pair of tongs. And while they may not be destined for glory, they will still change the world, one sword at a time." He turned around, stoking up the fire to increase the light. Facing Snotlout again, he handed them to the boy. "See- even though they now be the proper shape, they still be changed by their time as a spear." And the old smith was right. All of the intricate carvings had been stretched and folded right along with the metal, causing the tongs to have strange dark and light streaks throughout.
A low growl built in the boy's throat, and his hand clamped tight over the tongs. "Except that he won't accept this! I need glory, I need to be the best!" He leapt up, his face twisted in anger. He walked right up to Gobber, waving a finger in his face. "And you know what, I'm not taking it anymore! I'm going to go tell that old bear that he can't make a pair of tongs be a spear!" He waved the tongs for emphasis.
"You do that, Snotlout." Gobber turned, checking on the iron rods that were still in the fire.
"You bet I will!" and he stalked out.
"Eh, where are you really going, boy?" Gobber called as he disappeared out the door.
"To Snorri's!" could faintly be heard as a reply. Gobber rolled his eyes, cleaning up the rest of his apprentice's tools. Snotlout's outbursts were common, and he threatened almost twice a week that he was finally going to stand up to his father, Spitelout. It had yet to happen.
"Snotlout!" Snorri's voice was even louder than the person whose name she'd just shouted. "You really need to actually do it! Stand up to him!" Her eyes were full of force.
"I am!" Snotlout stressed back trying to appease her.
"No, you're not. You say it all the time, and yet never do. Just take a few ounces of that strength of yours, and use it to tell him that he can't treat you like that!" He glared good-naturedly at her. They often went back and forth like this. Actually, she was probably the only one who talked like this to Snotlout that he would accept to listen to. If his father were to yell at him like this- yikes. Her intensity probably also had something to do with her knowledge of him- and his past. Everyone knew that Spitelout had always been tough on his son, but few knew to what extent. Snorri and Gobber were a few who did know.
Spitelout had always driven Snotlout to the brink, telling him that he had to be the best at everything. That he couldn't fail. In essence, that he had to be perfect. Without weakness. But, like the pair of tongs that he now sat gazing at, he wasn't. He couldn't be perfect all the time. And his father punished him sorely for it. It hadn't been as bad once Gobber had recruited him as an apprentice. He spent every waking moment in the forge, his new-found safe-haven. But his father always found something to punish him for- even if it was just the fact that he wasn't moving fast enough. He glared into space, thinking of his father's condescending tones and heavy leather belt.
"Hey!" Snorri exclaimed, snapping her fingers in his face. "Are you alright?" He shook his head, coming back into reality.
"Yes. Fine." He replied. But really, descending slightly into that deep, dangerous morass of emotions that he always avoided, he knew he wasn't fine. He gazed at the tongs riddled with scar-like streaks from the runes, and he knew he probably never would be.
^^ Hey all you readers out there! So, I finally present another chapter of Spheres of Influence. :) I am starting to get used to this site more, and as you can see I have finally figured out how to be able to have some separate author's notes. So, while I will not be putting them in every chapter, keep a look out for them! ;) The suspense drags oooonnnn... XD When will we finally see feral Hiccup? The world may never know! (Just kidding, he'll be out there soon.)