Carried Off, a DreamWorks' How to Train Your Dragon fanfic by Raberba girl
"Finn and animals" subplot (rough draft)
The chieftain's family did not depend on animals for their living, but on Berk, bartering was more common than monetary payments. The twins were three years old the first time Astrid brought home animals that they were old enough to fall in love with, though she didn't recognize the warning signs until it was too late.
"Valka, Finn, look."
"WHAT IS THAT?!"
"Are they chickens, Mommy?!"
"IT'S SO FLUFFYYYYYYY!"
"Val, don't grab them like that!" Astrid explained that the three chickens were their responsibility now, and that the children would be expected to help take care of them every day. She made them help her clean up the chicken coop and feed the birds for the first time, and didn't think there was any harm in leaving the kids outside to play with the creatures as she went out again to return to work, since her mother was still around to do housework and be close by if something went wrong.
Nothing went wrong of the screaming-and-injuries kind. Neither of the women noticed the tender way Finn watched and petted the birds, or the names Valka enthusiastically gave them. "That one is Hilda! That one is Marigold! That one is Valka Junior!"
"I'm going to call you Cluck-Cluck," Finn murmured to the one who was submitting the most happily to his caresses, the one Valka had tried to name after herself. "Because that's the noise you make. Cluck, cluck," he imitated. "Cluck, cluck."
Valka required some extra training, since she often forgot to do chores or didn't want to work or was careless, but Finn, despite some mistakes, was faithful in his care of the birds.
Astrid tried to nip it in the bud as soon as she overheard the children addressing the chickens by name. "Finn, Val, don't name them. They're not pets."
"But they're so fluffyyyyyy!"
"They are not pets, Valka. That one is not 'Hilda,' it is Egg-Layer Number 1. This one is not 'Marigold,' it is Egg-Layer Number 2. And Finn, I'm warning you right now, don't get attached, because the one you're petting is Egg-Layer Number 3, nothing more."
"I don't like that name," he protested.
"You're not supposed to like it. It's not supposed to have a name, Finn, that's the point."
"Bucktooth's chicken has a name."
"Naming an animal 'Dinner' is a joke, Finn."
"Why is it a joke?"
Astrid reminded herself that she needed to be patient. 'He's just a child. Don't lose your temper.' Aloud, she said, "It doesn't matter what the joke is, what matters is that you don't name the animals and you don't think of them as pets. Now come inside."
Finn knew enough to be obedient when his mother and grandmother were watching, but when they couldn't see, he still petted Cluck-Cluck and spoke tenderly to her.
Then winter came, and the hens wouldn't lay, and everyone was so hungry. One afternoon, Finn dragged himself out of bed after an unrefreshing nap and followed the irresistible scent downstairs until he found his mother just starting to ladle soup into a few bowls. "Come eat, Finn."
"Fooooooood!" Val crowed in delight, rushing to the table.
Finn hurried after her, invigorated just by the scent of having something to fill his stomach, and the first several bites were pure bliss. Then Val said, "I loooooove chicken soup!"
Finn felt a stab of dread. "Mama," he asked slowly, "where did the soup come from?"
"I made it."
"No. I mean, what... Is this chicken soup?" Of course it was chicken soup, he could taste it. "Where did the chicken come from?!"
"It's ours, of course," Astrid said impatiently. "We had three of them, wasting space and feed; it was high time they started feeding us again."
Finn backed away from the table, feeling sick. "You killed one of our chickens?!"
"What did you expect, Finn?" Astrid said in exasperation. "That we'd steal someone else's?"
"Wait, you mean this is Hilda?!" Valka cried, waving a chunk of chicken in the air and sounding like she couldn't decide whether to be outraged or laugh. "Or Marigold?!" Her voice changed to indignation. "Or Val Junior, Mommy, did you kill Val Junior?!"
"Which one?!" Finn cried, more frantic than his sister. "Who did you kill?!"
"You mean the chickens? It doesn't matter; none of them were laying."
Finn rushed to the chicken coop. He stared at Hilda and Marigold as they drowsed together; he stared at Cluck-Cluck's empty roost. His stomach turned and he retched up what he had just eaten, then cried for nearly an hour.
"Finn," Astrid said as she held her sobbing child in her arms, "this is why we don't name them. They are not pets, they give us eggs and meat and that's it. This is why I told you not to name them."
"Why couldn't you have at least killed Hilda or Marigold?!" he wailed. "Why did you have to take Cluck?! Why did you have to take her?! She was my friend! Why did you have to take her?!"
"Finn, this is what chickens are for."
"No, they're not, they're for eggs!"
"They're for eggs and meat. They lay eggs until they can't anymore, and then we eat them."
"I hate you...I hate you, she was the only one who loved me and you killed her, I hate you...!"
When the twins were four and their family obtained a couple of sheep, Astrid was very stern with the children right from the beginning, and expressly forbid them to name the animals. Valka, once her mother was out of earshot, named them anyway, and Finn silently thought of the sheep by their names in his mind, because there were two of them and he had to distinguish between them, didn't he?
Still, he tried not to get attached to them, but when his mother served mutton during the worst of that winter and there was only one sheep left, Finn could see nothing but warm eyes and curly wool and that funny bouncing tail, and he could hardly bring himself to eat. He felt more tired after that meal than he'd felt when he'd been lethargic from hunger before it.
Astrid made her children take on more responsibility as they got older. Valka, despite her initial protests, could soon help with most of the butchering process expertly and without balking.
Finn managed to put it off until he was on the late side of six years old and Astrid forced him to learn this basic skill. He cried and begged, but she was merciless, and he was so upset that even though he had watched the process many times, his hands were unsteady and it took him two tries, the chicken screaming before he managed to silence it, still flapping wildly even after he had, frantically, sawed off its whole head in an effort to end its pain and distress.
When the bird finally went still, Finn threw down the knife and fled, screaming again in horrified fury when he started to lift his hands and saw them covered with blood.
He vowed to never eat meat again and stubbornly stuck to his resolution until the next winter, when he nearly died of starvation. He found, then, that he could tolerate jerky if he was desperate; he also found that he could eat fish if he had to, since it bothered him less than the flesh of warm-blooded animals. Still, he preferred a meatless diet, and he could not force himself to eat fresh meat no matter how hungry he was.
Astrid grudgingly respected his wishes in this, since even she realized that she could not force Finn to do anything when he stood still and silent, not arguing with her, listening to her scolding with bowed head and no move to either obey or offer any defiance. Astrid did not, however, allow him to get away with anymore than that, and Finn did his share by trying to shut down his heart when it came to any furred or feathered creature that looked at him with intelligence in its eyes.
It worked until Snowy. Finn was eight years old, resentfully throwing feed at the newest batch of chickens, when one of them fluttered up to perch on him. He stared at her for a minute, then shook his arm. Rather than being knocked off, she simply tightened her claws and clucked in a satisfied sort of way.
"Get off, stupid."
She looked him right in the eye and made a soft chirring noise.
"Get off. I hate you. You're stupid and fat and I'm going to eat your babies, and I'll eat you someday."
She picked curiously at his hair. He bit his lip in dismay, already sensing that it was too late.
He hid it well and refused to name her for months. He yelled at the chickens, flung down their feed contemptuously, and chased them off when they got too close. Only one ignored his theatrics, often fluttering up to perch on him and preen his hair. He pointedly slaughtered her flockmates right in front of her, but she simply shied away from the mess and then came right back up to him as if nothing he did could possibly break her trust in him.
It didn't help that she was strangely friendly with all humans, that she perched on and preened and cooed at Valka and Astrid and the children's grandmother, too. It didn't help because when more than one human came out at the same time, Finn was always the one she gravitated toward...not that anyone else seemed to notice her preference.
Finn eventually gave in and doted on Snowy when no one else could see, doing the livestock chores as much as possible so that it wouldn't make his mother suspicious when he rushed to volunteer for butchering. He wanted to make sure that he was the one cutting all the birds' throats, because then he could ensure that the dying chicken wasn't Snowy.
His strategy worked for months, even through most of the difficult winter. It was just when the cold was starting to ease up, when all the food had been exhausted and there was literally nothing left to eat, when Astrid ordered her son to have the last chicken ready to cook for supper that night.
Finn felt numb. "Y...Yes, ma'am," he choked out, because he couldn't think of anything else to say.
"Do you want Valka to do it?" Astrid asked. "It really is her turn-"
"No, Mom, no, I'll do it."
His mother left. Finn trudged over to Snowy, feeling dead inside. She fluttered right up into his arms and nestled there, cooing. He felt like he couldn't breathe. "...I can't do it," he finally realized. "I can't."
She nibbled at his tunic. His brushed his face gently against her soft feathers. Then, before he could change his mind, he headed straight into the woods.
He walked until he couldn't see the village anymore, then kept walking. Snowy was squawking uncomfortably, but he held her tight, determined not to let her go until they were far enough away that no Viking would be able to find her and catch her and kill her. He remembered that adults had more stamina than children, so he kept going even after he felt like he'd gone far enough. Then, exhausted, he set Snowy down on the forest floor and made shooing motions. "Go, Snowy. You're free."
She screeched unhappily in the cold and huddled by his feet.
"Snowy! Shoo!" He gently but firmly shoved her away with his foot, then turned and tried to walk back to the village.
She followed him.
After several minutes of trying to get the chicken to wander off on her own, Finn finally realized, to his horror, that Snowy was not going to leave him. He stared at her for a minute as she clucked in distress and pecked at his boot. At last, he sat down and held her in his arms, shivering, having no idea what to do. He wondered bleakly if he was going to freeze to death out here trying to protect his chicken. He might have dozed off at one point.
Then suddenly he was wide awake and running for his life. He hadn't even gotten a good look at the creature that had come bursting out of the trees, but he knew it was a dragon, knew he had to run-
There was a cry behind him, and he stopped. He wouldn't have if he'd been thinking, but as if his body wasn't his own, Finn turned back at the exact same moment the Deadly Nadder raised its head.
Their eyes met. Blood dripped from the dragon's jaws; Snowy's mostly-severed wing dangled for a moment, before the dragon gulped and swallowed the last of the bird. Finn, feeling detached from his body, noted that the Nadder was skeletally thin before he remembered that it was going to come after him next. He had to run.
The dragon was just lowering its head to nose around the bloody dirt when Finn turned away to flee again. The boy raced back toward Berk, crying, full of despair. He didn't care overly much whether the dragon caught him or not. All he could think about was that he'd gone to so much trouble for nothing, he'd disobeyed his mother for nothing, now Val was going to go hungry tonight and it was all Finn's fault and Snowy wasn't even free, she was DEAD, Finn had accomplished nothing except to hurt everyone he cared about...
He was beyond tired by the time he trudged back into the village and found that a search party was being organized for him - his mother had been understandably alarmed when he disappeared for so long after being sent to do a simple task. She dragged him back to the house, slammed the door violently, and clutched her son in a painful grip as she shook him. "WHERE WERE YOU?"
"I'm sorry," was all he could say.
"WHAT HAPPENED?"
"N...Nothing."
"FINN BLACKMOLD HICCUPSON."
He was shaking in terror, but he knew there was no escape. Better to just get it over with. "The chicken's gone. I'm sorry."
She stared at him for a minute in confusion, her grip loosening slightly. He suddenly realized that she hadn't known he'd left on purpose. Maybe she thought he had been attacked.
"I...I..." Should he lie?
Her grip tightened again. "Finn," she hissed, "explain to me exactly what just happened here. I sent you out to butcher a chicken, and you COMPLETELY DISAPPEARED for two hours. What happened?"
He swallowed. "Please don't be mad at me."
"If you don't tell me what happened right this second, I'm going to punish you as if you deserve the worst."
"I do deserve the worst," he said miserably.
She stared at him again, but he couldn't bring himself to elaborate. She would be so incredibly disappointed in him, that he was so weak and disobedient and stupid. "You didn't let that chicken go, did you? And then just leave without telling anyone where you went?"
"..."
"DAMMIT FINN. YOU KNOW BETTER."
"I couldn't, Mom! I couldn't! I couldn't!"
She was furious again, giving him another shake as if she wanted to slam him against something. "There is NO FOOD tonight. NONE. Your sister will STARVE because of you, you stupid, selfish little bastard."
There was nothing he could say to that. He cried, loathing himself, even before she picked up a belt. He knew it would be worse if he ran or fought, but he couldn't help backing away and trying to plead with her. She took a moment to calm herself before she started hitting him, but the blows, though there weren't many of them, were merciless, and he couldn't keep silent like he'd wanted to. He was crying so hard that he couldn't get up for a while even after she'd finished. Even after he managed to reach his bed, he lay feeling so agonized with shame and failure and pain that he wanted to die. He was already so hungry, he was already such a waste of space, he'd just lie here until he starved to death.
Late that night, Valka crawled into bed with him. He didn't respond, and she was quiet until she stopped shivering and their shared body heat under the blankets made both of them feel the warmest they'd been all day. "Finn," she finally whispered.
"I'm sorry," he whispered back.
"Mom whipped you, huh."
"It's my fault there's nothing to eat."
"I'm so hungry."
"I'm sorry."
She nestled her head into the crook of his neck. "I love you, Finn."
Tears stung his eyes, and he tried hard to hide them from his sister. She was so much braver and stronger than him. He couldn't bear it if she scoffed at him.
"Does it still hurt?"
"...Kind of," he managed to choke out. After a moment, the tears were under enough control that he could speak without giving himself away. "Not really if I keep still. They hurt to touch, though."
"I hate her sometimes."
"It was my fault," he said miserably. "I tried to set Snowy free...and then she got eaten by a dragon anyway. I'm so stupid."
"I'm so hungryyyyy..."
He wrapped his arms around her and held her tightly.
"I don't think I'll mind dying too much if we go together," she murmured.
"I should die first. Then you can cook me and have a feast," he said, only partially joking.
"Gross, Finn." She bit him playfully. Then they both went quiet and eventually fell asleep.
To be continued...
Author's notes: I did as much research on chicken butchering as I could for this chapter, though not enough to feel comfortable writing about it. One thing I wanted to note is that Astrid, out of necessity, is operating on a "Waste not, want not" mentality, since the meat of old laying chickens is lower quality than the meat from chickens that were specifically raised to be eaten.
Also, chickens apparently have more personality than I thought.