AUTHOR'S NOTE: IT HAS BEEN A COUPLE OF MONTHS SINCE I LAST LOGGED ON HERE, BUT A FEW YEARS FOR THE OTHER FICS I POSTED, I KNOW
I just cannot stop thinking about this Pinterest pin I found for some reason: pin/728246202272635773/
Sooo, here we are.
I am pretty sure no one would read this, but here it is anyway!
The forest whispered of her birth before the people could.
Before her mother even held her in her arms, the wind had carried her name. The river had rippled with knowing. The trees had leaned toward the cradle of woven birchwood, heavy with silent reverence.
The Northuldra had always understood the way of things, the balance that must be kept. And when the first frost kissed the newborn's brow, they knew.
She was not ordinary.
She was of winter's breath and hoarfrost's touch, a child of ice and sky.
Elsa.
A name as old as the mountains, as soft as the snowflakes that settled upon her eyelashes.
And when she opened her eyes—pale, glacial, endless—her mother wept.
For she had been born with the gift of winter.
And winter was a burden not easily carried.
She did not cry as the others did.
When storms howled through the canopies, rattling the trees until they bowed beneath the weight of the wind, the children curled into their furs, whispering stories to drive the fear away.
But Elsa only listened.
She felt the wind as if it spoke to her. Understood the way the river trembled, the way the fire crackled in protest.
She was not afraid.
And that, more than anything, unsettled her people.
By the time she could walk, frost bloomed in her footsteps.
By the time she could speak, the air turned crisp at the sound of her voice.
By the time she could run, winter followed her wherever she went.
They taught her, as best as they could. The elders, the shamans, those who understood the spirits far more than she ever would.
"Control it, child," they whispered. "Or it will control you."
But how could she?
The frost was not something separate from her. It was her.
It lived in the marrow of her bones, sang in the pulse of her veins. When she breathed, the air turned sharp with cold. When she laughed, the wind danced. When she wept, the rivers stilled to ice.
She was not afraid of it.
But they were.
She could see it in their eyes—the hesitation, the unspoken words, the way the little ones hesitated before reaching for her hand.
And so, she learned.
Not to control it.
But to hide.
Across the sea, a boy was born under the crackling light of a storm.
The fire in the hearth flared with his first breath, and the wind outside howled in answer.
His mother held him close, murmuring prayers to gods both old and forgotten.
His father was no longer there.
And so, he would never know his name.
They called him Hiccup.
A name given in jest, in dismissal, in disregard. A name meant to be small, insignificant.
But the fire did not think him small.
The fire chose him.
His mother saw it first, though she did not speak of it.
The way the embers in their hearth never faded when he was near. The way the wind carried the scent of soot and smoke wherever he walked. The way the dragons did not fear him, the way they watched.
She did not tell him.
Not at first.
Instead, she took him away.
Away from Berk, away from the warriors who saw dragons as beasts to be slain.
She raised him among the clouds and open skies, in hidden coves where the great wings of dragons darkened the sun.
She taught him their ways—the language of wingbeats, the meaning of their songs, the way fire was not merely destruction but creation.
And when the night came, when the sky split open with the roar of something ancient, something greater than he could ever be. He understood.
The fire had chosen him.
And fire, like ice, was a burden not easily carried.