Stoick; a father and a chief.

Berkian Eddur - 1

Becoming Lífþrasir

Day 4

Morning

Stoick rubbed his eyes tiredly. Gobber had commented on the new white streak in his hair the other day, and now Astrid was looking at him worriedly; he wasn't that old yet to elicit that kind of mother-henning concern.

But he had to admit, this situation was taxing; he was not used to having his word gainsaid; this is not to say that he never listened to his council's opinion or that he did not often take someone else's suggestion when he found their opinion to be the best option.

It was just that it rankled when this happened consistently, and it didn't help that the one doing it was a foreigner who was not being subtle in his attempts to take over Berk's leadership.

"Sir, I agree that women can take care of the weaving task, but as for the riders, I don't think they should be with them and the children; the village will be better protected if they are elsewhere," Cattongue was saying, looking at the maps of the island spread on the table. The mead hall was empty except for the adults on the council and Astrid as a stand-in for his son; task for which she'd had to abandon her work with the carpenters. It was getting late into the morning, perhaps one hour before noon, and this dratted meeting had already lasted two whole hours of that. Even though the heirs to the other tribes had all gone back to gain some support for the fight that was coming to Berk, leaving Cattongue on his own, things had not gone smoothly. This damned youth could not seem to understand that, debt or not, Stoick was still the chief, and what he said goes when it came to Berk's defense.

"Aye, and I tell you that I do not think so," he growled, perhaps too violently, as the people in the room shifted uneasily. Cattongue sighed, raising a hand to rub his chin under his helmet. The spawn of the devil had not removed it even once since he'd come here.

"How do you think we can increase it, then?" Cattongue asked. His tone was even and reasonable, but there was a certain edge to it that spoke of impatience. In a way, despite it being a step back from this boy, Stoick felt dealt with. He was being allowed to expose his opinion, not having it as the last word, by a weed of a boy who thought himself a leader because he could entice a few brainless youths into following him.

Stoick could reach out and twist his neck, with one hand - snap! And there would no longer be a problem on their island. They could simply face this as they always had, like real men and women, like Vikings, and not sniveling children hiding behind plans and trickery. Smart, inventive trickery of the enemy, granted, but trickery none the less. Coward.

But Stoick also knew that was not true; neither was the boy a coward, nor was this situation something they could handle with the Viking way. They'd already tried the one, and the tribe had nearly been slaughtered, and for the other - Stoick was man enough to admit that what he'd seen with his own eyes on that island, and the way this boy had put himself in front of everyone and even his own little troupe of dragon riders on Berk during that battle did not taste of weakness and fear.

Again Stoick had to swallow his anger and comply to the boy as he steered the conversation.

"I don't think that there is enough strength with the common village people. There needs to be more warriors with the children, the old and the folk who don't fight. Otherwise, even if we vanquish the thing, we will come back to an empty victory. We fight to save the lives of our loved ones, not only for the glory."

Cattongue looked at him, eyes barely catching the torchlight through the mask's eye holes. The rafters gave a warble, and Stoick knew by now that the damned devil from Hel's realm was up there, keeping an eye on this human who had somehow turned it into a faithful friend. For all his seeming intelligence, this man was stupid enough to share his taming methods with the Viking Tribes - he had even managed to turn Astrid into a dragon sympathiser, if her interaction with that nadder said anything.

Stoick felt himself go breathless for a minute. It was as if the earth had been pulled from under him. Berk was never going to be the same after this, he could feel it in his bones; if there was a Berk left to leave for his Hiccup. Odin, he wished Hiccup were here. He had always been smarter at the mouth than anyone in the tribe, and would have had no problem keeping up with this foreigner. Ah, Hiccup…

"You said that they would be sent to the safe areas as soon as trouble starts. The sentinels should be able to warn us soon enough, and if they are far enough they should be completely out of danger." He held his hand up when Stoick rolled his shoulder. "I am not asking where it is. I understand that you cannot tell me, and I will not put your security at risk, Sir." Irrationally, Stoick felt even angrier at this show of respect. More and more, he felt that he was being manipulated into a corner with polite precision.

"The problem is that as we are now, we do not have enough mounted warriors to take it on during the fight. We have to keep it at bay - that thing's smart, smart enough to mark the ships so it could follow us. When it realizes we have trapped it, it will try to get away, and only another dragon can stop one that size; in our case, many other dragons, with Vikings leading the strategy."

Another warble from the rafters. Damned the thing for proving to be as intelligent as a man (in some Viking's case, Stoick had the distinct impression that the night fury would win a game of King's Table1, if taught the rules).

"If we had more dragons, I could train more warriors to rotate on the attack once it arrives, but we already have too few, and if you take some off the rotation …"

Stoick's face went ruddy and anger rose in one fell swoop. This was it, if it meant dishonour, it meant dishonour, but this slip of a boy was not going to tell him how to manage his defences!

"Anyway," Cattongue went on, rubbing his neck, "The people of Berk take first priority, as you say, and the women can take care of the reeds and of weaving it. We'll just have more to do." He looked up. "You up for that, bud?"

A cheeky growl and a dust ball on fire was his answer. Stoick wasn't sure if they were trusting their lives in the hands of a lunatic or not, but Astrid had actually begun to have conversations with her own damned lizard, and he knew of no one more level headed than that girl.

"Can the ones guarding the safe spot return to battle, once everyone has arrived?" he asked, addressing Stoick directly, and this time Stoick could see Cattongue's eyes very clearly. There was worry there, and a million thoughts. It wasn't the look of a man who was doing it for the thrill, or for the larks, or for the honour of saying they were the one to kill the mother of all dragons. It was the look of a man who was trying to protect people.

Stoick didn't buy it for a moment. He had not yet guessed what the motivations for this boy's actions were, but he would soon. And when he did, he and his men would nip it at the bud.

"No," he answered resolutely. He would not let him have his way in as many ways as he could get away with. His debt with the boy made it so he could not refuse everything point blank; but he wasn't going to make it easy, either. "If the fighters at the front lines fail, the people of Berk need some protection to rely on."

Cattongue rubbed his neck again. "If we fail, there will be precious little anyone can do," he replied, almost sadly. "But you're right; at least we'll have fresh reinforcements in case we need to make a last stand elsewhere."

"It's settled, then. The upper and lower defenses will take care of the machines that are being built. The new recruits will be in charge of the last minute defenses. The rest will go with the most vulnerable."

Everyone nodded. "Are all those going to Troll Peak bathing after they touch anything? It's the most important thing. If we trek the smell to the village …" Cattongue rolled his shoulders. There was an uncomfortable pause.

"Well, lost a few bets, myself," Gobber said. "But I have to say, never have the back of my ears been cleaner."

The council actually laughed, a few threw in their own joke about the smell in the smithy having nothing to do with the burning metal. For the first time, Stoick heard Cattongue laughing, if quietly. He looked at the boy sharply - he'd somehow heard that laugh before, but then again, the helmet distorted and muffled most of everything. Still, there was something alarming in that laugh, something that sent the hair on the back of his hand standing. Stoick almost smiled grimly; if it turned out that he was an Outcast sent by Alvin, Stoick would have the greatest pleasure in gutting him while he still breathed.

"We are done, then," Stoick said, cutting off any further mirth. Lightening the mood was needed with the grim prospects in the times ahead, but that didn't mean he didn't have other things to do, as did the rest of them.

"Um, almost," Cattongue interrupted. Stoick levelled him a glare, which he didn't see as he was calling the four-footed devil down.

"Come on, bud, come down - not on the table!" Too late- the dragon shook itself, and looked at Stoick specifically with narrowed eyes. For a few moments it ignored Cattongue, who was trying to get it off the mead hall council table and maps, but it looked directly at the chief instead. Stoick felt like he was looking into Hel's eyes and believed even more firmly that this creature was not only intelligent, but that it was just as tame as a Viking was tame. It was also issuing a challenge; this beast knew perhaps better than its rider the plans the village had for them, and a rapid death was not something it would give the mercy of. Good; Stoick promised pretty much the same.

Cattongue sighed.

"Not as obedient as it looks, eh boy?" Spitelout said snidely. A few men tittered. Cattongue actually didn't seem to mind.

"He's a friend, not a thrall. Has a mind of his own; a stubborn one too," he replied, folding his arms and directing the last bit towards the dragon. It dropped its lids into a half-glare, and then huffed at the man, but it submitted and came off the table, allowing Cattongue to rummage in the two considerable burlap sacks it had tied to its saddle. "And, here!" He hauled a large number of metal chains onto the table with a sound like falling coins, and then began sorting them, making Stoick realise that they were, in fact, suits of chainmail. He handed the first to Gobber, who grinned at it. Spitelout got the second; he, on the other hand, scowled.

"This would never hold up in battle," he said disdainfully, throwing it down.

"It will. Just because it's light, doesn't mean it isn't strong," was the prompt reply as the boy kept pulling one mail suit from another.

"Ah, this is made with that alloy you favour so much, isn't it boy," Gobber said with a grin, and he actually started putting it on, much to everyone's astonishment. Gobber had always been one to go into battle with whatever he had on at that moment - Stoick could remember one raid where the undies had been scarred into everyone's eyes. "You have to share this with your fellow smith someday, eh? This metal is prodigious."

"Sorry, Gobber," Cattongue returned, handing out more mails, which were being received with more favourable attitudes now that the local blacksmith had given them a tacit approval. "Once this is over, I'll have to live somehow when I leave Berk. Can't go giving my trade secrets up quite that quickly."

Gobber seemed to deflate rather significantly. That metal must really be something to look into. Stoick made a mental note to speak to him later; the interesting qualities of the metal would be another thing on their talk at the other council meeting.

"And here. Sir. Um. This one is for you."

Stoick looked down blankly for a moment as the boy held up a suit of mail towards him. Then he frowned at it angrily.

"I don't see how I would need this," he said, patting his hammer against the one he had always worn. It had grown with him, a gift from his father first, then a symbol of his chieftain duty, adding a plate of mail at a time for every inch he grew in all directions. "I have my own, and it is enough."

"Oh …" Cattongue seemed to deflate. The men around the hall stopped thumbing and wearing their own offerings, looking at him for an example. Ah, well, if his men would be protected … but if he could thwart whatever this boy's plan was a little more…

"Eh Stoick, give it a try," Gobber said with a clinking shrug, and Stoick glared at him the worse; his best friend was not going to side with this slip of a boy!

But then, Stoick knew that Gobber was on his side. He took the mail, and immediately sneered at it, throwing it onto the hall table.

"Spitelout's right, this is useless," he growled, and brought his hammer down on it. There was a silence immediately after, as the chain mail shone subtly in the firelight, undamaged.

"Odin's beard…" Stoick muttered. Then he rolled his shoulders. "Give it to one of my men. I still think my own is all I need."

"Bu-But the measurements…"

"Eh, we'll adjust it; nothing a few links off here and there won't solve," Gobber said gamely. Cattongue nodded. Stoick proceeded to dismiss the meeting, and all the men began to leave the room, all of them taking the chainmail with them.

"Sir." What did this boy want! "Sir, I am sorry to insist, but this mail will keep you safe. I can guarantee it with my life." Ah, that was a tempting option; but he had already refused, and he did not appreciate being gainsaid. "If you would only try it, in a mock fight, perhaps against" -

"Enough!" Stoick yelled, finally losing his patience. The bellow echoed through the almost empty hall. "I have already spoken, and you will not insist any further." Stoick tamped his index finger against the boy's armoured chest with satisfaction, forcing him backwards. The devil growled, but he ignored it. "Evidently, where you come from, tradition and respect of your elders aren't taught; or perhaps, you were just the unruly student, who had to leave or be driven out of class."

Cattongue's eyes through his mask went cold, and his demeanor changed completely. Stoick felt a rush of satisfaction at having touched a chord.

"Very well, sir. I will be in the forge."

He turned and left. The only people left in the hall had been Gobber and Astrid before the show of force had begun, and when he turned to them, Stoick expected the same fierce pleasure he was feeling himself.

He was disappointed.

"Stoick," Astrid said, "I'm going to speak with him. Odin above, I hope this doesn't put it into his mind to ask for another price, or let that monster burn all of Berk to a crisp." She left at a sprint. Gobber just shook his head and left, still wearing the clinking armour that made him jingle at every step, and shine mutely in the northern sun once he stepped outside.

Stoick felt the bottom fall out of his stomach. Perhaps, this was the subtle boy's strategy. Win them over with kindness and friendship, become their hero, so that by the end, they would be the ones begging him to stay, and from that, a short step would be to have them begging to lead.

He wouldn't let this nobody take his Hiccup's heritage. No matter what Gobber said, there was still a chance his son would be back. He was still alive and well out there, now they knew. And Stoick just knew that Hiccup loved him, and loved Berk. He would be back, someday, a man ready to step into his father's shoes.

And when he was back, he would have shoes to step into. Stoick would make sure of that. Even if had to kill this boy to do so.

=0=

1 King's table is a board game much like chess which used to be played during the Viking age.

=0=

Poor Stoick, how cruel I am to him. I'd like you all to remember that I love dramatic irony, and that these are short as they are all very important for the particular characters.

Many have asked me this, and I couldn't answer till now as I couldn't find conclusive evidence. From what I have managed to find, however, the sign 'þ' is pronounced in English most closely with the phoneme 'th'. So the title should read 'Becoming Lifthrasir'; anyone actually from Iceland, please let me know if my research has been accurate. I hate to misinform people.