Special thanks to ChaosX97 for betaing!

Raids were always a tiring affair for Gobber the Belch, resident blacksmith in Berk. He didn't often partake in the fighting unless there was a good reason, because he preferred to be in the forge, ready to arm his comrades with his creations. Usually, however, his over-eager Viking comrades didn't understand the concept of 'restraint' and would reduce all his hard work to blunt edges or molten slag within the course of a single night.

Now that the raid was finally over, and everyone else had stumbled back to their beds for a well-deserved rest, Gobber doused out the fires in the smithy and pulled a tarp over his now ruined weapons, which would be nice and sharp by the next raid. Only to be broken again. And again.

Tiredly the man lurched forwards towards the large, charred house, muttering to himself as he had to climb the little hill with a bit of trouble. The ground was muddy and slick, and climbing upwards with a peg leg didn't make it easy.

Without so much as a courtesy knock, Gobber entered Stoick's home and closed the door behind him. He thought about locking it, but decided not to. Almost immediately, he sneezed as he looked around the dark entryway. The whole placed smelled musty.

Stoick really needs to open a window… he thought to himself as he headed to the next room.

Gobber found Stoick resting in his chair by the flickering firelight of the hearth, nursing a tankard of mead in his hands. He still wore his armor, though his axe was placed at the leg of his chair. The smell of ash, blood and sweat still hung around the old chief, now joined with the sharp scent of alcohol; the collective aromas of war's aftermath would have made Gobber gag had he not been used to much worse.

The perks of never bathing unless forced at sword point.

Stoick looked up when he heard Gobber's approach. His eyes were red-rimmed from exhaustion, but they still managed to burn dangerously when he saw who it was that had barged into his home. He looked more annoyed than angry, however.

"Yeh don't have to house sit me." Stock grumbled.

Gobber gave him a cheeky grin. "Now why would yeh think I would do that?" He asked, sitting down besides the chieftain and pouring himself a drink. "Can I not check in on an old friend after a raid?"

If Stoick had had the energy, his glare would have set Gobber afire. Instead, he just growled and drank deeply. Gobber took that as an invitation to sit down beside him. The chieftain didn't shove him off, so Gobber assumed that he was welcome.

"Yeh can scowl at me all yeh want, but I'm not leaving. I know how yeh get after raids." He studied the chieftain for a moment, eyes resting on the mug. Been drinkin' again, I see." Gobber noted, sounding more sad than angry.

The chieftain grunted. "Helps with the pain," Stoick gestured towards his wounded leg, which was still bleeding.

"Ouch," Gobber winced in sympathy as he looked at the nasty scratches. "Yeh really should invest in one o' these," he slapped his wooden leg fondly. "No pain. No blood. Useful to not have a real leg. It's a nightmare to walk in mud though." He murmured the last part.

The corners of Stoick's mouth quirked upwards ever so slightly. Now instead of looking perpetually angry, Stoick just looked slightly dissatisfied. Gobber wished Stoick would smile, even just once, but the man was as stubborn as Vikings come.

Taking the infantilism sign of that not-really-a-smile-but-close-enough, Gobber spoke again. "Yeh should have Gothi take a look at that. It could get infected."

Stoick's face twisted into a grimace, and Gobber knew that it wasn't from the poor quality of mead. Gobber sighed dramatically; already the man was giving him trouble…

"Don't need it." Stoick proclaimed stubbornly, clinging to his drink.

By Thor, Gobber thought with a not so subtle roll of the eyes. Yeh have to hand it to Stoick, somehow he manages to go from big, intimidating war chief to stubborn brat at the drop of a helmet…

"Yeh know, a needle and thread usually works better on bleedin' wounds than drinkin'. Gothi could probably patch that up."

Stoick took a long sip, delaying his answer for a few moments. "She wouldn't want to see me anyway." He deflected.

Gobber resisted the urge to smack himself in the face by Stoick's Thor-damned stubbornness that often made him refuse any help from others. "Well yer mug isn't the prettiest thing on this island, now is it? But," his tone softened, became a little more desperate. "Yeh should really go see her. Don' be stubborn, chief. Let her patch yeh up."

Stoick remained silent, fiddling with his cup. Gobber tried to stare him in the eyes, where Stoick could see the care and worry in his friend's eyes, but the chieftain seemed enraptured by the swirling dregs of leftover mead. "We have an unspoken agreement." He said quietly. "I leave her alone; she leaves me alone. It works."

"Avoiding the only healer in the village when we live in such troubled times really doesn't seem smart…"

"Gobber." Stoick's voice sharpened, his eyes narrowing dangerously. Gobber felt himself involuntarily switching his eyes between the chieftain and the axe resting by his chair.

Raising his hand and prosthetic in the air, Gobber said nothing in defeat.

Stoick returned his attention back to the hearth, seemingly content with staring at the flickering embers. Gobber, on the other hand, thought about Berk's healer.

After Valka's death, Gothi had retreated from public view. Much like Stoick had turned to violence and vengeance to block away the pain, Gothi placed herself under the care of the gods in her time of mourning. Not so soon after Valka and little Hiccup's funeral pyres had been set alight, the little healer had taken a vow of silence in Frejya's name. She hadn't spoken a single word since. Many of the children thought she was born mute.

While many found it admirable for the aging healer to have such devotion to the gods, Gobber found it less so simply because he had had to become the woman's unofficial translator since nobody else could read her handwriting. The problem was that Gobber could barely read it either, which lead to more than his fair share of bruises. Still… despite Stoick's stubbornness, Gobber was already thinking of ways to trick the man into getting medical aid… maybe if Gothi showed him how to apply the concoctions she uses against infection, Gobber could do it himself?

Taking a swig from his tankard, Gobber leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Humming a little tune, the blacksmith enjoyed the warm touch of the hearth. For a moment, he was content.

Stoick took another drink, swallowing the last dregs. Gobber fought back a gag.

"That stuff tastes more rotten than week old yak's milk," Gobber complained, wrinkling his nose.

The chieftain gave a small, dry chuckle at the blacksmith's disgusted face. "It looks like you're the one who drank rotten yak milk, my friend. It must be that weak stomach of yours," Stoick declared.

"How dare yeh?" Gobber cried out in mock indignation. "I'll have yeh know that my stomach is as strong as iron; many men envy my impressive feature!"

Stoick scoffed at his words. "Pah, your face betrays your lies, Gobber."

Gobber gaped at him, blue eyes growing misty with his hand clasped over his broken heart. "Betrayal at its worst. How could yeh, Stoick?"

"Are you done yet?"

"Maybe a little," Gobber sniffed out, wiping away a stray tear.

Rolling his eyes at his friend's dramatic flair, Stoick leaned back in his chair, enjoying the warmth of the hearth. It was… nice to have Gobber around. His friend was ever loyal, and his dedication humbled the warrior chieftain. And, because the chieftain was just as loyal to his friend, he could easily notice the slightly furrowed brows that signaled that his friend was worrying over something.

"Something bothering you?"

Gobber chewed on his lip thoughtfully, thinking. After a couple moments of silence, he spoke. "Caught Snotlout and the twins trying to sneak a few weapons from the forge during this night's raid."

Stoick blinked. "What did you do?"

"Threatened to throw them to the dragons. Damn kids, only tossin' wood onto their pyres. They think it's all fun and games, fightin' dragons. They don't realize the hazards," Gobber lifted his fake hand and shook his fake foot for emphasis. "Snotlout kept complainin' about water brigade, as though he has the right to complain! Kid barely reaches my elbow and he's talkin' about fightin' alongside us. I threatened to tan his hide, but he just sneered and ran off."

Silence. Stoick didn't appear to interested in the story. He was never truly interested in Snotlout, which worried Gobber greatly. A child can pick up on that and lash out. Which seemed to be exactly what Berk's heir was doing.

"Stoick, the boy's ego's gonna be the death of him. He won't listen to me, an' Spitelout won' care. Yeh need to talk some sense into him before his lack o' sense gets him an' his friends killed."

"He doesn't need me." Stoick grunted around his tankard, waving off the man's concerns. "The boy already has a father."

"A father who is Spitelout." Gobber interjected with disdain.

"-But a father nonetheless." Stoick declared, as though that settled the matter.

Gobber began to feel desperate.

"The boy needs you, Stoick. He's your heir. You're supposed to be guidin' him, preparin' him for the day you step down, but you're avoidin' him, and nothing good can come from that. By the gods, do you really want a chieftain rulin' with Spitelout whisperin' in his ear?"

Untold misfortune would come the day that Spitelout Jorgenson commanded the entirety of Berk through his meat-headed, gullible and eager to please son. Spitelout would ruin them far before the dragons killed them all.

"Bad stuff is happenin', Stoick. We can't ignore it. The raids are getting' worse, food stores are at an all-time low, and we're runnin' out of wood for fire and rebuilding. Not to mention Spitelout is turnin' the village in a tizzy… We need a plan."

There was silence. Gobber hoped it meant that Stoick was considering what he had said, but then the chieftain spoke, instantly dashing his hopes.

"We do what we have always done. Vikings follow the old way, just as our ancestors have since we first step foot on this isle. We stay strong, we fight, we survive."

"Stoick, that isn't enough anymore! There are too few of us and too many of them!" Gobber cried out desperately.

The look was a look everyone knew. The look of a stubborn man who refused change. And sure enough, Stoick began to a story that had long since bored Gobber to tears through sheer repetition.

"When I was a boy…"

"Oh boy, here we go…"

"My father told me to bang my head against a rock, and I did it. I thought I was crazy, but I didn't question him. And you know what happened?"

"You've told this story so many times. We all know what happened."

"The rock split in two!" Stock exclaimed, ignoring his friend's exasperated grumbling. He looked at his longtime friend imploringly, trying to make Gobber see his point. "It taught me what a Viking can do, Gobber, if he puts his heart to it. He… he can crush mountains, level forests, tame seas!" His voice became passionate, full of life. "Some of us will fall, aye, it's an occupational hazard, but Berk will survive. We are a capable lot."

We're all dying out there. That was the only thought that sprung to the blacksmith's mind, though he dared not say it aloud. Sooner or later, there'll be no one left to fight, and Berk will burn. There will be nothing left.

The passion in Stoick began to fade away. "… It split in two…" his voice was barely above a whisper. "At that moment, I felt like I could do anything, and for years I did, and I never wavered in that belief, but it wasn't enough in the end..."

The once amiable atmosphere suddenly turned dark and unwelcome. A creep of dread crawled up Gobber's spine, cold and dark and suffocating. Suddenly, the subject had changed. It had breached into the unspoken territory of dark nights and taken lives.

"S-Stoick?" Gobber tried to gain the man's attention.

It was as though the chieftain didn't even hear him, or maybe the man had forgotten that Gobber was even there.

Red-rimmed eyes grew misty as sorrow overcame the great chieftain. The man's very form seemed to shudder and shrink in on itself, as though Stoick was trying to hide himself away.

If I had just," Stoick stumbled over the words in his haste to say them, as though speaking them could rid himself of their burden. "If I had just… just… If I had just been enough…" Stoick looked over at his friend with eyes full of self-loathing and regret. "Would I have… could I have…?" Stoick swallowed thickly, and asked no more.

"Stoick…"

Gobber had hoped that after so many years… after a decade of mourning… the ache in Stoick's heart would have dulled. The pain of losing his family was terrible, of that there was no doubt, but its agony never seemed to lessen as time went on. Stoick still acted as though his wife and child were killed during the last raid, rather than ten years ago.

"Just… Just go, Gobber." Stoick waved him away, attention back at the hearth. One of his hands left the armrest to gently touch the head of his axe that had a healthy layer of dried blood on it.

He'll never find peace. Not when he blames himself for their deaths. Will this ever end? Or can it only end in blood and fire? Stoick… Valka wouldn't have wanted this for you…

Time heals all wounds, but apparently it couldn't fix a broken home.

With a heavy heart, Gobber got up from the table. He clasped his chieftain on the shoulder in both support and farewell; Stoick didn't even say anything. With a heavy heart, the blacksmith headed for the exit.

Once outside, Gobber leaned against a wall for support, breathing in the cold air. The village was quiet now; everyone had gone to sleep. The village was still a wreck, but it could be dealt with later.

Feeling the despair of defeat, Gobber began to trudge down the hilltop towards his own home, which was, blessedly, not burnt to cinders. When he got to the bottom of the hill, he glanced back up at the charred house with tired eyes.

"It wasn' yehr fault, Stoick…"

Stoick's words came to his mind. "If I had just been enough…"

Stoick had tried. The chieftain had done all he could in the attempt to save his family, and yet he had failed anyway. Stoick had given it his all, and yet his wife and son were gone. Somehow that made it worse. The lesson of Stoick's father had shaped the man; it had been the foundation of all of Stoick's confidence, and then, in one night, it was ripped away from him.

What does a man do when his best isn't enough?