Hiccup barely slept the following nights. Every time he closed his eyes, he found his father staring at him in the same place, wounded and dying by his hand. Sometimes, Stoick would gasp out a few saddened words before dropping to his knees. Other times, he would be shouting accusations at him, a bloody corpse with a blackened, cruel face. But each time, Hiccup would be asked the same question:
"What have you done? Why?"
Why, why, why?
Hiccup did not know. He did not know. All he knew was that sleep, once a Lethian sanctuary, had become nothing but a waking Hel.
Was there no peace anymore?
Fine.
What did it matter if he felt tired? What if he hardly slept? He had to be strong. He had to hold back the ocean of guilt and tears that threatened to drown him everyday. He had to step in and fill the void of his father, the void that he had created. This was what he deserved.
Hiccup had found a way to get more work done by getting up two hours earlier before he went with Toothless for their sunrise island patrol. He figured if he could not sleep anyhow, he needed to use that time to be useful and distract himself. Day in and out, people came to get saddles fixed, to put in work orders for their houses, and to address "concerns" about the untrained dragons previously captive of Drago. The days rushed by in an exhausted blur. Blasting and moving ice, salvaging the homes, slaving over the forge. The days ended with an occasional council of the elders before flying home to scribble down plans before waking up to start it all over again.
He hardly saw his friends, and if he did, it was only a passing glance. Too often he had been offered condolences, not only from those in the village but especially from his friends. He was fed up with them.
"I'm sorry about Stoick."
"Losing a father must be hard."
"We're here for you if you need anything."
"You must miss him."
It was all stupid nonsense that he did not deserve. Why were they even bothering? Why did they not understand that comfort and kindness was the last thing he deserved?
Why?
Hiccup's brain buzzed as he pulled the crate of armour across the room. He grunted and strained, his legs quivering as the crate sluggishly scraped across the dirt floor.
Why, son?
He made it to the forge. With tired effort, he hefted a heavy dragon helmet onto the fire. He gulped for air as his entire body ached with exhaustion. The room swayed left and right. The buzzing grew loud, almost as if his father was shouting straight in his ear.
Why, Hiccup? Why?
Why?
Why?
"Are you alright?"
Hiccup spun around to find Valka standing in the doorway, Cloudjumper peering over her shoulder. Her blue eyes stared intently at him. Hiccup's chest clenched.
Pity. Undeserved pity.
It made him sick.
"What are you doing here?" Hiccup asked, his tone colder than intended.
Valka stepped in, tossing her cascading braids over her shoulder. "Gobber said I might find you here."
Finding her gaze piercing, Hiccup glanced downward and busied himself with gathering up a mess of leather scraps on the table near him. "I've had stuff to do."
"I need to talk to you."
Hiccup still did not look up. "Okay?"
"You don't look well."
"I'm fine." Hiccup pitched the strips into a wastebasket.
"You don't look fine," replied his mother, crossing the room.
"Don't know what you're talking about." Hiccup fumbled with the tools on the workbench until his hands grasped around a pair of tongs. With frustration, he set them back down. Wrong pair. "Anyway, I've got some work to do-"
"Hiccup, you look sick," Valka interrupted. "I'm worried about you-"
"Don't need to be." Hiccup walked to his workplace in the back and tore back the curtain. He searched his desk, tossing balls of crumpled paper behind him. "Where did I put-"
"Hiccup, did you even sleep last night?" asked Valka.
But Hiccup did not answer her. He frantically paced back and forth across the cramping room, scrounging every tiny nook and cranny. The smallest room in the smithy, practically a closet, and he could find nothing? Had he lost them? Why did he not put it back in its proper place? What was wrong with him? Why did he do this?
Why?
"Hiccup-"
He twisted around. "What?"
Valka's eyes grew wide in shock, frozen. After a moment, she held out the large tongs to him.
"Ohmygods," breathed Hiccup. He snatched them up and heaved a sigh. "Ohmygods, I- I thought I'd lost them-"
"Sweetheart-" Valka's hands clutched his shoulders. "You're not well. Can't you see that?"
"What-" Hiccup let out a weak, airy laugh. "What are you talking about? I'm fine. I'm great."
"When did you last sleep?"
"Last night-"
"All the way through."
Hiccup bit his lip. "Does it matter?"
"Yes, it does. It matters to me." His mother passed a hand through Hiccup's disheveled hair. "Son, I don't want you to make the same mistake."
Hiccup stared blankly. "Same mistake?"
"I just…" Valka swallowed, taking a beat. "Your father started down the same path when he became chief. It took him a while before he realized that what he was doing was not sustainable. And it was not helping anyone, either."
Not helping anyone.
Not helping.
Not working hard enough.
A mistake.
A failure.
What have you done?
Hiccup pulled away and walked past his mother. "I'll be fine."
"Is there anything I can-"
"No." Hiccup set down the tools with a harsh clang. "I'm fine, thank you."
Valka's eyes shot open like she had been smacked across the face. She stood frozen for a moment before she gave a brief nod and disappeared through the door frame.
With a frustrated sigh, Hiccup turned away. The image of his mother's eyes burned in his head. Why was she pitying him? All of the village kept offering theirs; why was she being like them?
He did not deserve that. But there had been something else in her face. Pain. Hurt. What had he done? He had hurt her. He had hurt his mother. First, his father. Now his mother. What was wrong with him? Hiccup gripped the edge of the table, his fingers digging into the wood. He took a shallow breath.
"Sorry," he breathed. "I'm sorry…"
Guilty repulsion tightened his chest, suffocating. What kind of son was he? Hurting both his parents?
Stoick's voice echoed in his head.
What have you done?
Why? Why?
Hiccup's fingers twisted in his hair. He squeezed his eyes shut. "No, no, no…"
Why, Hiccup? Why?
Why?
"Hey."
Hiccup turned with a start. Gobber lumbered in, a basket underarm.
"Thor, don't do that." A hand went to Hiccup's chest as he gasped. "You scared me."
"Ha! Really? Guess my practice is payin' off," the blacksmith beamed cheerily.
Hiccup managed a weak smile before passing a hand through his hair. "Yeah, sure, I guess."
Gobber slowly set down his basket aside the forge, his eyes transfixed on the young chief. He raised one of his hairy caterpillar eyebrows. Hiccup shifted his eyes left and right in confusion.
"Ya doin' alright?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I…" Hiccup shrugged. "I'm fine. I don't know why everyone keeps asking that."
"Well, Hiccup-" Gobber vaguely waved his hand at him. "Ya do look a little worse for wear."
"I don't follow."
"Oh, c'mon, Hiccup, ya've not exactly been takin' care of yerself. I mean it," Gobber added when Hiccup gave a withering sigh. He lumbered forward. "Yer pale, yer eyes are half mast. Everyone's askin' how ya are 'cause ya look, well…"
Hiccup rolled his eyes haggardly. "Half-dead?"
"Your words, not mine."
"Gobber…" Hiccup passed a hand over his burning eyes. "I've got stuff to do, so…"
"Okay, chief, I know, I gotcha. I just-" Gobber, reaching into his inside vest pocket, he pulled out a smashed roll of bread. He set it in Hiccup's hand. "Thought ya might be hungry."
Hiccup glanced down at it blankly. "Well…thanks." He set it down. "But I'm not."
Gobber chuckled uncertainly as Hiccup took up a hammer. "I…I was hopin' we could talk…"
Hiccup inhaled tensely, and set down the hammer. Talk. Why did everyone want to talk all of a sudden?
"Did my mother send you?"
"No, no, I just can't help but notice that yeh've been, ya know, down lately. And I thought that maybe ya might wanna have a chat. Ya know," Gobber rambled on, "have someone t' lean on."
Hiccup's hands fiddled with a tiny winch, turning the gears round and round, wishing the time pass.
"And also…boyo, yer lookin' really thin lately. I hardly see ya eat, so. I know ya been busy, but…"
Hiccup did not respond.
"Are ya sleepin' at all?"
No response.
"I know it's been hard-"
"Gobber." Hiccup set the winch down, pressing his palms flat against the table. "Stop probing me. I'm fine, okay? I'm fine. You don't need to worry about me or tell me what to do."
Gobber's caterpillar eyebrows furrowed. "Fine? Ya don't look fine-"
"I'm just tired. Why don't you believe me?"
"Because-"
"Look, I don't need this right now," Hiccup interrupted, his tone sharp. Enough was enough. "I have to get this stuff done, so could we not talk about this right now?"
Gobber opened his mouth to say something when another voice boomed out, "Hiccup! Thought I'd find ya here!"
Hiccup groaned exasperatedly as the towering figure of Spitelout marched into the smithy. Great. Who next, Gothi?
"And Gobber, good t' see ya as well!" Spitelout clapped the blacksmith on the hand, then glanced at Hiccup. "Ya busy right now, chief?"
"Does it matter?" murmured Hiccup; he could guess what Spitelout wanted, and he had purposefully avoided him. But he was trapped now.
"Excellent," Spitelout blurted out, having not heard Hiccup's withered remark(big surprise). "Well, ya see, chief, the elders have been talkin', it bein' nearly two months since Stoick's death and all."
"I'm sure he's aware of that, Spitelout," Gobber replied in a tense tone. "Ya've mentioned it before."
"Yes, I know. And anyway, as tradition, after the burial process of the former chief, there is the sacred goblet rite which officially passes on the power to the heir. And, well, with ya putting it off…" Spitelout shifted his belt. "The council is starting to talk."
"I'm glad the council is talking," Hiccup deadpanned.
Spitelout furrowed his eyebrows. His arms crossed over his chest. "It's a serious rite. Ya can't just blow this one off."
"Spitelout, maybe you've forgotten who you're talking to," Hiccup retorted, "but I'm not exactly the traditional type."
"Regardless, ya still must preserve this rite. It's a sacred way of honoring all our ancestors and showin' yer grateful for the title ya've received. Not t' mention, ya'd be commemorating yer own father, helping him to rest in peace."
"Spitelout does have a point, Hiccup," Gobber chimed in. "The funeral is typically meant to take place seven days afterward. Avoidin' it entirely, the elders will take that as a sign of disrespect."
Hiccup knew full well about the goblet rite and its significance. It was supposed to recall the memory of all his forefathers. But for him, it meant that his father was truly dead. That he had really killed him and had stolen his father's place.
He was not worthy to perform that ceremony.
He was a murderer.
Hiccup glanced sideways. "Do I…even get any say in this?"
Spitelout shook his head. "Either ya perform the ritual by the end of this moon cycle, or the elders will have words. And believe me-" His voice went down to a dangerous whisper. "That won't be pretty for anyone."
Spitelout turned to stomp on out, calling over his shoulder, "Think of yer father!" before he departed on his Nadder.
Hiccup turned away, his brain buzzing with several thoughts. The goblet ceremony. Accepting the power of his father. But he was unworthy… wasn't he?
Think of your father. Who you killed.
Stoick's voice rang in his ears. Why, Hiccup?
Why?
What have you done?