This chapter takes place around the same time as chapter 7, meaning that both Hiccup and Astrid are around the age of eleven.
Special thanks to ChaosX97 for betaing!
The raid ended when the morning sunlight began to creep upon the horizon. The dragons paused their assault immediately, as though the blossoming rays were some unspoken signal of retreat. Together, with an alarming and uncanny uniformity, they all rose away from the burning houses and bloody streets, their scaled bodies laden with their bounty of bawling sheep and barrels of cod. As the flock of dragons began their long journey back towards their Nest in the nether regions of the sea, far out of any weapon's range, below them the Vikings of Berk gathered, tired but counting the departure as a small victory.
The Vikings were all covered in soot and blood, whether it was theirs or another's, and many of them were breathing heavily, some leaning against their comrades while others helped keep some from collapsing to the ground. Comrades clapped one another on the back, congratulating each other on their kills or wincing sympathetically at their wounds.
Amongst them, little Astrid Hofferson rushed about with her bucket of water, dousing any remaining flickers of flame. Her beloved axe, still a bit too big for a girl so young, was strapped to her back, ready for use but clean of any blood.
The grim atmosphere around her was palpable, even to someone as young as Astrid. There was a constant weariness in the faces of her people, men and women alike with worn eyes and dour frowns. Yet each held their own with the same stubborn pride that made their people infamous. Astrid could not help but compare her people to the massive stone statues that served as watchful guardians across the bay, strong and solemn-faced in their duties. So faithful and stubborn she was that Astrid would sooner die than doubt Berk's strength.
She was too young to realize that such a strong fortitude could be slowly chipped and worn away over time, until the entire foundation threatened to crumble.
But though Astrid might have been young, still considered a greenhorn by the majority and pushed back to water brigade duty, she was not innocent in the ways of war. Simply inexperienced.
She knew of death. She had seen it happen to Vikings who fell in battle, who never rose back to their feet but remained cold and still with their weapon still clenched in their fist. Dead meant they would be granted passage to Valhalla, where her parents said the great warriors would feast in Odin's Hall. Dead was like Uncle Finn, who wasn't cold and still but as good as in the merciless eyes of Berk.
"Take the rest into the Arena. We'll put them to use."
Stoick's voice, as loud and grand as a thunderclap, shook Astrid from her thoughts. Jerking her eyes away from her empty bucket, Astrid snapped her attention to her chieftain, who was lumbering through the wreckage of a broken home smashed to pieces by several Gronkles. The chieftain paused in his wandering, back straight and shoulders taut, as he became aware of eyes watching him and turned around. Immediately, Astrid looked away to avoid his gaze.
"Astrid."
Stoick's voice brought her gaze back to him, cheeks flushed with embarrassment of having been caught staring. Straightening her spine, squaring her shoulders and bowing her head ever so slightly in respect –just like her parents taught her- Astrid focused on her leader.
"Yes, chief?" She asked, no tremble in her voice despite her nervousness of having the chieftain's, whom she admired greatly, direct attention.
There was something in Stoick's eyes, some rare unknown flash of emotion that Astrid couldn't quite place, as the chieftain looked over at the young little girl. "Are you hurt?" His voice softened ever so slightly, changing from cold iron to unrelenting stone.
"Fine, sir."
Grunting gruffly, the man gave her a simple nod. "Good." He turned his attention away from the young girl, surveying the destruction around them without so much as a scowl, just a worn look in his eyes. "You should get home, Astrid. Come, I'll walk you."
Taking the hint, even if it did make her feel like a child, Astrid gave the man one last respectful bow of her head as Stoick began to walk away, his heavy gait reminiscent of a massive bear. She followed him dutifully, her head raised high by Stoick's side. He was limping slightly, and Astrid could see blood thickly trickling down his leg where it seeped into his scorched boots. Astrid knew that the wound was deep, possibly from the claws of a Deadly Nadder, and by no means pleasant. A common man would have passed out from the pain, wailing like a bawling babe, but not Chief Stoick: he hid his pain well.
Astrid had often wondered in her childhood if her leader even felt pain. She could remember being a small child and seeing Stoick lop the heads off of a Hideous Zippleback with ease, as though the deadly dragon was nothing more than a squirming eel. He was the first to leap into the fiery fray against their mortal enemies, the dragons, and was the last to leave the battlefield long after it had been scorched on a weekly basis.
Chieftain Stoick was perhaps the sole person who held Astrid's complete and utter respect. He was blunt and brutal, and was always quick to the point. After the debacle with her Uncle Finn, Stoick had begun to replace the fading memory of her warrior uncle in regards to people she respected and idolized. Stoick, to her, was the ultimate ideal and image of a warrior personified into a mortal being. He was the epitome of honor, of bravery, of power, and so much more that Astrid could go on for hours about the great qualities of the chieftain. He was the perfect Viking.
He was, is, the greatest man she had ever known.
Stoick escorted her to her house silently; he had never been one for talking and Astrid was content to simply go home. They passed by the villagers who were still running the remaining damage checks, but nobody seemed in dire need of the chieftain's guidance. Stoick dropped her off at her doorstep, and then, without a word, turned away and walked down the blood and soot-stained cobblestone path towards his own house.
Astrid watched with curiosity as Stoick paused at the doorway of his home, a massive hand palmed tentatively against the aged wood, as though Stoick didn't want to enter. But then, with a roll of his massive shoulders that almost looked like a shake, the chieftain opened the door and slammed it shut behind him.
The house was a constant puzzle to Astrid, one that she simply couldn't wrap her head around. It was big and massive, towering over the other houses, and it reminded Astrid of its sole inhabitant in that regards. But there was something eerie about the house that made the hairs on the back of her neck raise.
The house, despite its imposing stature, was in a permanent state of disrepair.
An entire section of the house was burnt to the ground, one of its sides charred a gristly black. The ground nearby was empty of vegetation, a few black wooden poles randomly poked their way out of the dirt like blooming flowers, while other charred boards were strewn about like bones against the broken skeleton of the frame. The doorway that had once led into that part of the house had been hastily boarded up, a few cracks and holes remained from the quick job that were sure to bring in the biting chill come winter.
The early morning light allowed Astrid to gaze upon the house warily, her instincts warning her against getting any closer. She tried to shoulder them aside, finding it annoying that she, a future shield maiden, could stand before a Monstrous Nightmare without blinking but was unable to stare at a house without feeling twinges of paranoia.
It was scary.
Not that she would admit it, of course. But it was unnerving in how it remained in its constant state of decay despite Berk having proficient workers to repair the damage.
The house simply stood there, broken and blackened in all its ghastly glory. Like an old scar that never faded away, Stoick's house remained the same as it had the night of that fateful raid, serving as a constant reminder to any casual observer of the horror that transpired in its halls when a Stormcutter managed to snatch away the chieftain's wife and infant heir.
Snotlout, the next in line with Hiccup dead and Stoick a stubbornly unmarried widower, had once asked Gobber why his uncle hadn't fixed up his house. Astrid had been in the smithy with the twins at the time, not initially paying that much attention as she had been trying to prevent Ruffnut from attempting to set Tuffnut on fire while also trying to stop Tuffnut from trying to stab Ruffnut with a smoldering poker. And yet, even with the twins' screaming and Fishlegs' shrieking, she could still remember hearing Gobber speak. The old smith's answer had disturbed them all, if only because of the solemn look in the smith's eyes and the scratchy sound of grief in his voice.
He doesn't want it fixed, Snotlout. Never has and never will.
Astrid could still remember the sheer amount pain in Gobber's eyes and in his voice. Despite their pestering, none of the children pressed to make Gobber say more; the crippled smith had seemingly sewn his mouth shut and refused to answer. All he did was stare off into the horizon with a wistful look, lost in memory. She had wondered what he was looking for, but hadn't dared ask.
If she had to, Astrid would guess that Gobber had been thinking about Stoick's wife and child, Valka and Hiccup.
She knew that the chieftain had lost his wife and newborn son years ago during a dragon raid. The other villagers didn't discuss them openly, but Astrid had heard brief snippets of conversation from drunk Vikings that mused on Stoick's sudden change and how the catalyst for becoming who he was today was because of the loss of his family.
Oh poor Valka and little Hiccup, eaten by dragons. People would say to one another in pitiful tones, the sorrow never reaching their eyes.
That was another thing that Astrid didn't understand: the lack of empathy directed towards Stoick's family. What they said seemed to be nothing more than repetition to console Stoick, even if he rarely heard them speak of his family, and was spoken with the same casualty as the weather or crops. There was no true sadness, only a fake shadow of pity.
She had never known Valka or Hiccup, she had only heard of them from others. She couldn't feel sad about it, even if they had once been a part of her tribe and thus family. Because she had never known them, and they were already gone so what was the point of being sad? Of course she doubted Stoick felt the same way. He had known Valka and Hiccup, had loved and cherished them. And then they were taken – gone forever in an instant.
Astrid tried to imagine Stoick as a loving husband and father. She tried to imagine the chieftain tenderly holding the hand of a wife and proudly tussling his child's hair, just like Astrid's father did. But she couldn't see it.
Oh, she knew that Stoick cared for Berk's people, in his own way. It was different from her own father, who cared for her by protecting her and showering her with all the love and adoration a father could hold for one of his own. Stoick cared, of that no one held no doubt, it was just… a different kind of caring. Colder, yes, maybe even more distant, but just as strong and fierce. Astrid didn't mind; really, she didn't. Their chieftain loved his people fiercely, even if the man himself was rarely roused into any emotional reaction.
Chief Stoick just wasn't the type of man to be emotional; at least not when all Astrid had ever seen that resembled any emotion had been the extreme protectiveness towards his people and his infamous hatred for dragons.
And Astrid certainly, in her entire lifetime, had never ever seen Stoick smile.
There had been a few ghostly smiles that looked terribly forced, as though the very thought of a smile was too much to bear, much less the act of even trying it. Even then, those smiles were a few and far between.
And sometimes Stoick did become emotional, though it was even rarer than the fake smiles. There had been times when Stoick would grow quiet around the anniversary of the dragon raid that had killed his wife and infant son. He always looked lost and confused and angry during that small span of time; his massive frame would seem to deplete to nothing more than a hunched shell while his attention became unfocused, and his eyes became dull and glassy, as though someone had replaced his always angry eyes with dull stone. It was the only time Astrid had ever seen anything akin to weakness in her chieftain. During those fleeting days of remembrance and reflection, Stoick looked vulnerable.
The villagers understood Stoick's sorrow and respected his wishes to be left alone during the small period in which Stoick shed his armor of a powerful, emotionless chief and mourned for the family he had lost. Stoick had always been a pillar of strength to the other Vikings, the only constant that remained unbent and unbroken under the life of persistent dragon raids. Whilst others crumbled under the strain, Stoick remained strong. It was understandable to everyone, especially the ever concerned Gobber, that Stoick deserved a few days where he could be a man who had lost his family in the blink of an eye, rather than their brave chief who could bare the weight of the world upon his competent shoulders.
She had never seen Stoick in pain before, but the reminder of those days made Astrid wonder if Chief Stoick was even capable of feeling anything anymore.