The storm that battered Berk that night when you were born was a beast unlike any the village had faced in years, a tempest so fierce it seemed to claw its way up from the depths of legend itself, as if Thor, in a fit of divine wrath, had hurled his hammer into the sky and shattered it into a thousand jagged shards of wind and rain.
The sea, a roiling black maw, roared with a fury that sent waves crashing over the rocky cliffs, splintering the sturdy timber of homes perched too close to the edge; boards groaned and snapped, tumbling into the churning abyss below where a maelstrom swirled angrily, swallowed by depths so dark they might have been the gates to Hel itself.
Stoick's voice, a thunderclap of its own, had bellowed across the chaos, ordering every soul to retreat inland as the village crumbled under the onslaught—storms were usually a mere itch to the Vikings of Berk, a flea bite compared to the dragons that scorched their skies or the snows that buried their paths, but this was no ordinary squall; whispers of Ragnarök slithered through the crowd, their faces pale as they wondered what sin had roused the gods to such vengeance.
The people stumbled toward the Great Hall, their sanctuary of stone and firelight, boots slipping on rain-slick paths as the wind howled like a pack of starved wolves; brave souls darted back into the fray—men and women with determination and grit in their eyes—hauling the stragglers to safety, their silhouettes flickering against the lightning's glare, risking all yet losing none, thank the fates, as the last of Berk's battered flock squeezed inside. Or so they thought.
Stoick, broad as an oak and twice as unyielding, stood at the hall's heart with Valka at his side, their voices cutting through the din as they counted heads—Until Gobber's gruff shouts mingling with the clank of his hammer-hand, pointed outward.
"Wait! There's still some out there!" Gobber bellowed from the shadowed throng near the Great Hall's towering doors.
Stoick had whipped his head toward him. His bearded jaw tightening as he'd stalked forward, boots pounding the stone like war drums competing against the thunder; shoving the one unclosed door aside, he'd peered into the chaos, his eyes narrowing at the sight of distant figures—mere smudges against the storm's black veil—struggling inland, their forms buckling under winds that shrieked chaos around them.
As chief, and the unyielding shield of his people, Stoick had steeled himself and plunged into the gale, his voice booming over the tumult with a command for all to stay put, the doors slamming behind him with a groan. He'd fought his way toward the figures, rain lashing his broad frame, until their shapes had sharpened into a young man and woman, her arms clutching a screaming bundle—their newborn child, a fragile spark amid the tempest's rage—her face a mask of terror as the wind tore at her cloak, her husband's hands steadying her against the onslaught.
Stoick had pressed forward, each step a battle against the storm's might, when the earth beneath them had shuddered and split, a crack racing through the ground like a serpent's strike; a landslide had erupted, morphing swiftly into a sinkhole that gaped wide where they'd stood, as if the island itself had conspired to claim them.
With a warrior's reflex, Stoick had seized a frayed rope lashed to one of Berk's ancient pillars—its weathered carvings whispering of forgotten ages—and shouted for them to run, his arm outstretched, a lifeline in the dark; they'd been mere inches from his grasp, the woman shielding her babe tight against her chest, her husband gripping them both in a desperate embrace, when the cliff had given way, the ground collapsing beneath their feet, their screams swallowed by the wind's merciless howl.
In a heartbeat, the man had thrust the bundle into Stoick's hands, his eyes locking with the chief's in a fleeting, wordless plea—then he and his wife had tumbled with the shattered earth, vanishing into the churning abyss below, claimed by the storm's insatiable hunger as Stoick failed to grab onto them.
Stoick had clung to the rope with a warrior's tenacity, the infant's wails slicing through the night like a blade forged in grief, a tiny life wrested from the jaws of a love it would never know; as the winds had raged on, howling like the spirits of the lost, he'd squeezed his eyes shut, a curse slipping beneath his breath as a sharp pang gripped his chest—not just from the strain, but from the weight of those he couldn't save.
Tucking the wee babe close, her soaked form trembling against his broad frame, he'd gripped the rope tighter, waiting for the storm to shift; the moment the gale faltered, veering inland, he'd seized his chance and bolted toward the Great Hall, his boots pounding the earth as rain lashed his face, the child's cries urging him on like a battle hymn.
Inside, the hall had held its breath, a sea of faces pressed to the cracks in the doors, their eyes straining against the dark until Stoick's towering silhouette had emerged from the tempest's shroud; Valka, his wife, clutching their fragile son Hiccup to her chest, had gasped in relief, her voice mingling with Gobber's gruff shout as he'd flung the doors wide, his peg leg thudding against the stone.
All eyes had fallen on Stoick then, and on the small bundle cradled beneath his arm—soaked, shivering, impossibly small—its wails softening to whimpers as the warmth of the hall crept in; Gobber's weathered face had twisted with worry, his eyes asking a question his tongue couldn't bear to voice, but Stoick's sad frown and the slight shake of his head had answered it—the parents were gone, claimed by the storm's cruel embrace.
A hush had fallen over the hall, heads bowing in silent mourning, the crackle of the hearth the only sound until the men behind had heaved the doors shut, their locks clanking like a final decree; Stoick had crossed the floor to Valka, her tear-streaked gaze flitting from the babe in his arms to Hiccup, nestled against her, only imagining Hiccup in that situation, which brought tears to her eyes.
"She'll catch her death if we don't get her fresh clothes and warmth soon," Stoick had declared, his voice steady despite the tremor in his soul, and Gobber had stepped forward, his calloused hands gentle as he'd taken the babe from his friend's arms, cradling her with a tenderness that belied his rough exterior.
The hall, once still, had erupted into motion—Vikings bustling to stoke fires, fetch blankets, and brace for the storm's duration—as the tempest that had descended upon Berk that night, a titan of nature's wrath, etched its fury into the village's history with claws of wind and teeth of rain, the sea roaring with a rage that mirrored the fire it stole; it had claimed lives, shattered homes, yet it hadn't broken the spirit of Berk's people, nor the fierce spark of the little bundle Stoick had saved—a girl who would grow to be as fierce and unyielding as the storm she was birthed into.