Chapter Text
The night sky was nigh silent that early morning, save for the bellowing horns and the ringing bells of the village situated at the foot of the mountain. Berk was its name, and it was located in an archipelago west of mainland Scandinavia. The village itself was seven generations old and yet almost every home was brand new.
This was thanks, in part, to the pests, while the mainland had to contend with wolfs and bears, Berk was besieged by dragons once every month, and the sieges were only growing with frequency as the winters passed. Yet its inhabitants, the Norsemen, were stubborn and they fought back with great might. For along the streets, warriors flung mighty spears.
Within the streets, a young women ran, blonde hair hurriedly braided together and a kransen upon her head yet her blues eyes, eyes that shined as brightly as the stars, were glued to the burning huts around her, pail of water in hand as she and her cohorts worked to put out the numerous fires around the village.
Her name was Astrid Ivardottir, the eldest child of Ivar and Ingrid, named as such after her great grandmother, Astrid Haralddottir. She was considered one of the greatest warriors of her generation and was famed for her skill with the battleaxe. Despite the battle raging on around her, she was as focused as ever on the duty she had been entrusted with.
Yet for all she was, there was one who surpassed her greatly, for amongst her generation, and though Spitelout and his supporters would say otherwise, Hrǿríkr ‘Hiccup’ Stoickson was the best warrior of their generation, for upon his hip, rested Inferno, to which he was deadly with and back home, was his spear, for which he had never missed his mark with a throw, surpassing his cousin, Ruffnut Agnarrdottir.
Hrǿríkr marched down the streets, as proudly as he could despite his scrawny build, for which he had earned the name Hiccup and into the forge he went, shredding his expensive clothing so as to keep it free of dust and grime. It was no secret that he had forged his blade, for Inferno was believed to be the first weapon he had forged with his own hands and ever proud was Stoick of the blade for its beauty surpassed all others on the island.
The dragons hurled fire, and many swarmed the farms, grabbing their cattle within talons and taking to the skies. Along the village outskirts, situated upon strategically placed watchtower, archers took aim and fired while catapults unleashed their payload upon fleeing dragons.
And Stoick stood within the centre of the town and watched the skies with a critical eye. “What have we got?” His voice was full of authority as he dusted rubble from his shoulder guards, upon his left, a warrior stood tall and to attention.
“Nadders, Gronckles, Zipplebacks, Ivar said he saw a Nightmare by the docks; no sign of the Night Fury either, sir.”
The Chief nodded and waved forth his mighty axe. “Good, we shall repel the assault from the lower levels.” His words were law and the warriors moved forth, flooding down the streets as they progressed to the lower defences.
And for all the chaos, all were focused upon their task, for within the forge, Hrǿríkr had set about putting one of Gobber’s hands back upon its hooks on the wall and turned to face the smith. “Glad you could join the party; was almost afraid they’d carried you off.”
Hrǿríkr rolled his eyes and ever sharp was his tongue. “Who, me?” Swiftly he moved about the smithy, organising and shifting through the various piles of metals and weapons. “They wouldn’t know what to do with all this raw Norsemen meat.” And he was as sarcastic as his father had been at his age.
“They’ll need toothpicks, wouldn’t they?” Was but the reply from the smith and Hrǿríkr passed no heed to the joke about his body, for he had heard many and despite his scrawny build, he was by far one of the strongest in the tribe, for his father was Stoick the Vast, strongest of them all.
To a grindstone, Hrǿríkr walked and from the pile beside it, he drew a blade and began to sharpen, his gaze drawn to the skies outside the smithy. For on that night, he swore upon the gods that he would bring down the Night Fury, he would be the first to slay such a dragon and from that deed, he would be respected by all.
“Hrǿríkr, they need me out there, stay put, I mean it. We don’t need your contraptions causing any more destruction then usual.” And with such words, Gobber charged to battle, leaving Hrǿríkr alone within the smithy and to his devices. A dangerous thing to do it was, for left alone, his mind worked and ticked away, developing elaborate plans and schemes that only he could pull off.
And so he raced into the back, where upon his latest device sat and while he could throw a bola with little issue, he could not throw such a weapon at the speed or accuracy necessary to bring down the Night Fury.
Ignoring the cries of those behind him, he raced forth from the smithy, pushing about his latest contraption and with it, a hefty supply of bolas, and through the village he ran, his gaze ever focused upon the point he would bring the dragon down from.
It was a small cliff he had found years ago, offering not just a charming view of the sunset but also allowed him to see nearly the entire village. Many times, he had come to that point to simply think and rest, far from the troubles of life in the village, and many times had he drawn the village below him there.
But that night, he came to that place for another purpose and there upon, he set up his contraption and took aim at the night sky, eyes glued as he waited for the dragon to make its appearance, and there he noticed the stars blinking from existence and knew then, that it was the silhouette of the dragon. Hrǿríkr smirked and watched, aiming ahead of the silhouette and then, as the dragon made yet another pass and took out the tower before him, he fired.
Through the air, the bola sored, at speeds unattainable by Norse hand alone, and a cry of pain echoed through the night sky. Hrǿríkr cheered at his victory and turned to glance upon the few empty huts nearby, as he had expected, none had seen his shot, and none would ever celebrate his victory save him, and Spitelout and his supporters would downplay his achievement.
He didn’t like his uncle, whom he despised for many reasons, though he may be his mother’s brother, and though Hrǿríkr’s claim to Berk’s throne was strongest by blood, his uncle believed that the throne belonged to his son alone. And for such reasons, he and his supporters degraded him, bullied him and tried everything in their power to ensure none would want him as the next chief.
Hrǿríkr shook his head, dispelling such thoughts and turned to pack his contraption away, though paused and backed up with a curse upon his lips. For of all times for things to go wrong, now was it. The Monstrous Nightmare was by no means an easy dragon to kill and though he may be his father’s son, he was well aware that he could not slay such a dragon yet, not when he knew very little of fighting dragons.
And so he ran, the dragon giving pursuit, and through the less populated parts of the village he went, for whenever things went wrong, he would attempt to ensure that any destruction caused by his mistakes was minimal.
Yet the gods were not on his side and fate led him to the village centre, where upon he hid behind a torch. He was, by no means, a coward, but as with all of his generation, attempting to fight a Nightmare without the proper training was asking for a scar.
And there upon he was saved by his father, and he stared up at the chief as the torch collapsed from the damage done upon it. “Hey dad.” He spoke sheepishly, giving a small smile as he noticed villagers gathering about.
Stoick stood tall, his gaze narrowed in upon his son, and for all that was good and despite his son’s skill and reputation, trouble seemed to follow him no matter where he went. And so he took a step forward. “Trying another contraption of yours, son?” And the disappointment was evident in his voice.
Hrǿríkr’s smile faded, and he glanced away from his father’s gaze. “I know I shouldn’t, but it was the first one that’s worked as intended and I had to take a shot at the Night Fury, and I managed to shoot it down and if we…” He was rambling, as he always did when given a simple question and upon hearing of the elusive dragon. Spitelout was the first to speak up.
“As if you’d shoot down a Night Fury, no one else has done so and you think you can?” The amusement was clear by his tone and the mockery was ever strong, for like all times he could, the man would take and seize upon the opportunity to belittle him.
“I really shot it down, if my father gathers a party, we can head to Raven’s Point and I’ll…” Hrǿríkr got no further as his father interrupted.
“Hrǿríkr, even if you did, we have more important matters to handle here, in the village. As future chief, you must put the needs of the people first and your own, second.” And as always, his father was in chief mode, Hrǿríkr didn’t usually mind such times they conversed like this in public, but that morning was different, and it elicited a different response from him than usual.
“If you ask me, some people could do with losing a little bit of weight.” He remarked, earning a few glares from others, and others merely glanced at their bellies as if questioning whether they really needed all that food.
“This is not the time for your jokes, I don’t want you using any more of those contraptions of yours, you are of age Hrǿríkr, which means you need to act your age.” Stoick’s word was final with a glance at Ivar, he began to turn away. “Spitelout, gather a construction crew together at once; the usual repairs, and Ruffnut, make sure your cousin gets home, I have other matters I need to attend with.”
And so Hrǿríkr walked alongside Ruffnut, ignoring the jeers of Spitelout’s supporters and the gaze of the others. Stoick’s supporters remained silent in the matter, save Ruffnut who glanced at her cousin, Ruffnut had come of age shortly after the last winter, and his uncle, Gunnarr, had arranged for his son to be wedded to her not long afterwards, making her yet another occupant of the great longhouse belonging to their family.
"It was certainly a show this morning Hrǿríkr.” Ruffnut, like all in his family and those who supported his father, did not call him by his nickname, it was a simple gesture from his cousin in a show of her support, and one of the few things she did these days that reflected on her and who she’d been before marriage; the other half of the prankster duo that were Agnarr’s eldest.
And so, they came to the longhouse and Hrǿríkr sighed, for, from the sound of activity within, the thralls, now that the raid had passed, were busy with their work. He shook his head and pushed open the grand doors. The large open space behind them that served as the communal room was filled with their servants, going about their daily tasks without complaint, for those of Stoick’s family treated their thralls with respect, and had earned them many followers, Agnarr’s family among them.
He moved through the crowd and up the stairs to his room where upon he came about a thrall busy cleaning his desk. “Master Hrǿríkr, always pleased to make your acquaintance.” Though she was a foreigner and a thrall at that, Synnøve had been a friend of his since childhood, since none would spend time with him. She was young in age, perhaps a winter older than him, but possessed a natural beauty and slim form best suited to cleaning around the longhouse.
“Synnøve.” He spoke in greeting and then moved to his bed, tossing his sword upon it and glanced upon the weapon rack on the wall, where his spear was hung. “How am I even supposed to please my father?” The question was not to be answered, for he had not intended it to be heard, yet Synnøve possessed excellent hearing, which is why she made for an excellent spy in the household.
“I remember your father being quite proud of your blade. I also recall him speaking proudly of you every time you won the annual spear throwing tournament.” Such words were spoken by a quiet and timid voice, and the young women speaking them was rather certain of their truth as well.
Hrǿríkr sighed, hand pinching the bridge of his nose in annoyance. “Uh, if only he could speak proudly of me beyond those times. I wish he’d speak to me like he did in my younger days, whenever he does now, it’s with this pointed scowl and disappointment in his eyes.” He stood tall and Synnøve knew what was to come, for many times she had heard the impression he made of his father. “Excuse me barmaid, you’ve brought me the wrong offspring, I asked for a lad with strong arms and large muscle.”
Synnøve shook her head and glanced up from where she cleaned. “Well, I see no point in trying to argue with you, so I’ll simple ask, what happened this time?” She also had a tendency to get straight to the problem and strike at its heart, for as shy as she could be, she could be merciless and unsuspecting.
The young Norsemen crossed his arms as he grabbed his journal. “Well, I shot down the Night Fury, accidentally caused some minor destruction in the process whilst running from a Nightmare.” He heard Synnøve snicker behind him. “Hey, not my fault dragon training hasn’t started up yet, but anyway, the dragon caused some problems and like always, he tells me not to use my inventions.”
The thrall glanced towards the door, and then at Hrǿríkr, as if deciding her options. “Well, I’m not one to question the Chief and head of the house, but if you say you shot down a Night Fury, I am inclined to believe you, for you’ve had no reason to lie in the past and I don’t see why you’d start now.” She spoke quietly, so as to only let him hear. “And I say you should go and find it yourself, hunting party or not.”
And Hrǿríkr got a glint in his eyes as he turned to face her. “Well, it would be unfair of me to hunt alone and none to help carry my prize, so, I shall endeavour to bring a thrall with me.” His words were spoken quickly and given his authority in the household as its future head, he was allowed to get away with taking a thrall out for a hunt to carry his kills back for him.
“As you command, Master Hrǿríkr.” Synnøve’s reply was quick and parted from the room to prepare for a hunt, leaving Hrǿríkr to change into more suitable clothing. “I shall meet you at the back entrance.”