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Hiccup was ready to go.

All necessary belongings were packed and provisions for a week tucked away in his bag. The incriminating notebooks and blueprints had been burned and he had gone through his house, the forge, and the Cove for anything he’d missed. The villagers were too busy getting drunk in the Great Hall — celebrating his victory in dragon training — to notice his quiet scurrying through the village. Not like they ever did. By the time anyone bothered to look for him, he and Toothless would be far, far away. He was worried about the arena dragons, but he would just have to come back for them later. After he was gone. Hiccup never thought he’d leave home, but now… now he couldn’t imagine staying. Not when he was expected to kill a caged, innocent dragon tomorrow in front of the whole village. No, it was better to go.

Hiccup lingered, just for a moment, in his home before he left it for good. He stoked the fire one last time so when his father finally returned, it would at least be warm. There was nothing else keeping him here, no friends and no future he wanted on the island, and yet still he hesitated. Dad had been devastated by the loss of his mother when he was a babe. He was fairly certain his father didn’t like him or, at the very least, found him strange and irritating; even so, Hiccup was the only family he had left, not to mention his only blood heir. Snotlout would be a much better replacement anyway so he wasn’t too worried about that.

However, unless Hiccup did something, his dad was sure to think Hiccup had also been carried off by dragons. In a way, he supposed he had been, but not to be killed and eaten. More in a fun, friendshippy way. Chief Stoick would undoubtedly seek vengeance on the dragons who would fight to defend themselves and the cycle of violence would continue. 

He didn’t have much time before people started making their way back to their homes to be up bright and early to watch their useless heir slay the Nightmare. It was now or never. He ripped a blank parchment out of his notebook and scribbled the first thing he could think of. It wasn’t clever or meaningful or an explanation, but it would have to do. He placed the note on the table, carefully positioning his dad’s mug on one corner so it wouldn’t be missed.

“Ok, then… goodbye, I guess. I’d say it’s been a good run but, well, it really wasn’t. I was never a good heir, a good son… They’ll be better off without me,” Hiccup told the empty house. He pulled his pack over his shoulders, grabbed the basket of fish he’d stashed in the house earlier, then made for the woods. No one had been looking up at the sky that night, but if they had, they would have seen a small, dark shadow blotting out the stars as it flew away.

Stoick woke at dawn like always but, this time, there was a smile on his face. Today, his boy would prove himself to the tribe and become a true Viking. His only regret was that Valka could not be here to see their son prosper; taking the first big step towards his inevitable ascent to Chief. Whistling a little, he got dressed and walked up the narrow steps to Hiccup’s bedroom.

“Time to wake up, Killer. I’ll make you breakfast so you don’t get mobbed by your fans in the Hall,” he said cheerfully as he opened the door. To his surprise, Hiccup wasn’t in his room and it looked as if he hadn’t been here all night. Stoick didn’t venture into his son’s space very often, but even he could tell the place felt empty, vacant. Something wasn’t right. He absentmindedly tapped his knuckles against Hiccup’s clean desk, usually piled high with drawings and half made doo-dads.

“Finally put all that nonsense behind him to focus on more important things,” Stoick muttered to himself. He nodded and walked back downstairs. “He probably fell asleep at the forge again. I bet he was making himself a fearsome weapon to take on the Nightmare.” 

Soothed by his own self-assurances, he grabbed his helmet and strode out the door, completely bypassing the note fluttering on the table.

He exchanged quiet greetings with a few of the other early risers as he made the trek to Gobber’s forge. Stoick stopped and bought some of Hiccup’s favorite hot honey buns along with a bit of smoked meat to give him energy for his battle. It had been a while since they’d had dagmal together. They could eat in the forge and talk about weapons and strategy. Stoick felt almost giddy at the thought.

“Tell yer boy we’re rooting for him,” the baker smiled as he wrapped up the treats. “I threw in an extra, just don’t tell the missus. We gotta put some meat on the lad’s bones.”

“Aye, I’ll pass on your well wishes,” Stoick grinned as he took his package and continued on his way. He shouldered open the door to the forge to find Gobber stoking the coals back to life. 

“Stoick, I know it’s Hiccup’s big day an’ he’s a grand warrior now, but that’s no excuse ta let the forge fires burn down so low. It’ll take me at least an hour to get it going again,” Gobber wiped at his brow with his good hand. He eyed the bags in Stoick’s hand. “Those for me?”

“They’re for Hiccup,” Stoick frowned and looked around. “He’s not here?”

“No, I let him off work early yesterday and haven’t seen him since, but I’m telling ya’, Stoick, the mess he left —”

“Gobber,” he interrupted. “He’s not at the house and I don’t think he slept in his bed. I’d assumed he’d been here.” The worry that he had almost dismissed earlier bubbled up again.

“Now let’s no’ get worked up quite yet,” Gobber grumbled, but he did set down the bellows and make eye contact with Stoick. “He’s always got places to be, that one. I’ll check the arena and you go look ‘round the woods by your house.” He hobbled towards the door, clapping his friend on the shoulder as he passed. “This island ain’t that big, Chief. We’ll find him.”

The sun was fully in the sky, hiding behind dreary clouds when Stoick first felt the edges of panic lapping at him. It was past the hour Hiccup was supposed to kill the dragon and he was nowhere to be found. They had searched high and low and couldn’t find hide nor hair of the boy. Stoick had last seen his son at the celebratory feast the night before in brief flashes before the eager crowd swallowed him. He’d been more than a little drunk when he’d returned home last night and hadn’t thought to check on Hiccup, simply assuming he’d be where he ought. What a foolish notion.

“Well, ah think it’s pretty clear what’s happened,” Spitelout announced, and there was a bit of a cruel smirk on his lips. “Lil’ Hiccy got cold feet and is off hidin’ somewhere. He’ll shamefully slink back home once he gets hungry enough.” He grabbed a fistful of Snotlout’s tunic and roughly dragged him forward. “In the meantime, we’re all gathered here now, so why don’t we let a real Viking have a crack at the beastie.” Snotlout looked nervous and uncomfortable in his father’s hold. 

“Settle down now,” Gobber snarled. “Yer one to throw out accusations of cowardice, Spitelout. Hiccup earned his prize and no one else will have it — not if I have anything to say about it.”

“If he is hiding, then where the Hel is he?” Stoick couldn’t help but ask. “We’ve searched the village top to bottom.”

“Ah, quit yer worrying,” Ack said, slapping Stoick’s shoulder. “Boy is like a little rat; likes to crawl in small, strange spaces. I bet he’s out there in the woods training and just lost track of time.” Stoick didn’t quite appreciate the comparison, but Hiccup did tend to get focused and block out everything else. Some of the panic abated.

“Well, I’ll feel better when I can see him. Do you kids know where he plays, er, goes out to train?” He asked, turning to Hiccup’s little friends. The teens all shared a look he couldn’t quite understand. 

“He goes somewhere in the woods doing… whatever it is he does,” Snotlout said, wriggling out of his father’s grip and scooting away. “He always goes alone, even when we’ve offered to train with him!” 

“I tried to follow him a few times, but he always gave me the slip. I’ve never been able to find where he went,” Astrid added bitterly with her arms crossed. Stoick blinked.

“So you’re telling me Hiccup has been going into the forest — alone — which could be full of wild animals or dragons, and none of ya’ knows where he’s been going?” The kids and a few of the adults had the awareness to look ashamed. Stoick sighed in exasperation so fear didn’t take him. “All right, looks like we’re searching the woods. Everyone get yerself a partner; I don’t want anyone going off by themselves.”

There was some grumbling, though no one put up too much of a fight. Hiccup had never been popular, but he was one of them. A missing person, especially a child, took priority over petty village disagreements. Gobber chattered nervously at him during their long, stressful search. Around him, his fellow villagers called out his son’s name, but there was never any answer. Stoick’s stomach clenched at every sharp cliff face and deep crevice. For all that he had started excelling in dragon training, Hiccup was still so small. He was small and clumsy and he was Stoick’s son. And he had no idea where he could be.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine, Stoick,” Gobber said, hours later as the sun crossed the sky and began its descent. He still heard the occasional shout, but it seems people were starting to give up. “Our boy’s a survivor, has been since the day he was born.”

“Luck runs out eventually, Gobber,” Stoick murmured. 

They stayed out until dark, when they could no longer see their hands in front of them and continuing meant almost certain death from exposure or predators. They emerged from the woods and Stoick couldn’t stand the soft, pitying looks on people’s faces as they walked past. So different from the hope and joy they had all shared just this morning. 

“Where could he be?” He asked himself quietly. Gobber just clapped him on the back and began to make his way back to the forge. He promised to keep an eye out if Hiccup made his way back there. Stoick slumped back to his home, desolate and afraid. He trekked upstairs to Hiccup’s room again, just to make sure. It was just as desolate as it had been that morning.

Only once he had confirmed that he was truly alone in the house did Stoick finally notice the note tucked underneath his mug. He lunged for the parchment and felt his whole world crumble as he read it. Only a few words long, but reading each one felt like a small eternity. Gobber wasn’t even halfway to the forge before Stoick was stumbling after him, his face ghost white.

“He’s gone,” Stoick moaned, shaking the note in his hand. “He’s not missing or dead. He got up and left without intending to return.” Gobber took the crumpled note and studied it. He frowned.

“Were any boats missin’?” 

“Not that I can recall. Spitelout was the one who searched the docks,” Stoick muttered distractedly, still in shock. “Why would he run, Gobber? I checked his room again and… his clothes and other belongings are missing. What would make him abandon his home, his people?”

“Stoick,” Gobber said sternly, gripping his friend’s shoulder with his good hand. “You have got to pull it together. Yer still the Chief and this village will descend into anarchy if ya’ start losing it.” The other man nodded, taking a shaky breath and straightening up.

“Sven was the last one to see Hiccup before he —” Stoick paused. “He left the Hall early into the feast and was seen heading towards the house. If he left straight away and he took a boat…” He turned to look towards the sea before marching that way.

“Stoick, I know what yer thinking and it’s a bad idea!” Gobber said, hobbling after him.

“You’ve seen his arms, Gobber! There’s no way in Hel he’s even made it to the Guardians – even with a full day's head start! He’s probably sitting out there right now, being tossed by the water, exhausted and waiting for his father to clean up after his mess, again.” As he spoke, his tone became tight with anger. “I shouldn’t be surprised. He’s always coming up with crazy schemes, but this one! Oh, this one takes them all! When I get that boy back here, there’s going to be a severe price for the worry he put us through.”

“Stoick,” Gobber grabbed his arm. “It’s black as death out there and the waters are treacherous this time o’ year. You’ll never find him and only get yerself killed. You talk to Spitelout about the inventory of ships and I’ll talk to the guard, tell them to watch the waters in case he comes back. If not, we’ll set out in the morning fer him. He’ll be back before we know it.”

“Right, of course. That’s a good idea, Gobber,” Stoick said, stopping his frantic walking. He took a deep, steadying breath in, then let it all out again with a deep groan of defeat. “I thought, with him doing so well in the ring, that things would be better. Where did we go wrong?”

“He’s young, Stoick, still figuring himself out. And, well, I imagine it hasn't been easy given his, well, Hiccupness.” Gobber sighed. “I didn’t want to worry you, but he doesn’t have much in the way of friends. And, well, between his size and his accidents, the villagers don’t treat him the way they ought as heir. I know he’ll be in trouble for this but, maybe hear him out first.”

“You’ve been good for him, Gobber. Thank you for looking out for him,” Stoick nodded. “We’ll get him back and get this all sorted.”

Despite the late hour, word started to spread among the Hooligans that Hiccup had left of his own accord. The night watch kept a careful eye on the seas, searching for a boat even as they complained about the Chief’s son and his idiotic stunts. The Elders shook their heads in their homes, fearful for a future potentially under the rule of the flighty and destructive Hiccup the Useless. A few brave souls, a few drinks in, started laughing about the situation. Mocking the boy for his foolhardiness and cowardice. ‘A spoiled brat of an heir,’ they joked. ‘Good riddance,’ they nodded amongst themselves.

A shame, too — he had almost, sort of, started to become one of them. 

Astrid Hofferson had been sent home early from the search with the other teens and wouldn’t hear until the next morning about the note. She, instead, spent most of the night nervously pacing in her room. When she did settle, her eyes watched out her window towards the forest rather than the seas. She had seen Hiccup go off in that direction dozens of times in the last few weeks, carrying contraptions more often than not. Astrid had tried to follow him yesterday, to find out what exactly he spent all his time doing. Maybe it held the secret to his sudden success. But she had gotten turned around in the forest and grew frustrated, storming out without ever catching sight of him. Was that when he was attacked by an animal? Or carried off by a dragon like his mother before him? If only she hadn’t given up, then maybe both of them could be sleeping in their beds right now.

She played nervously with the end of her braid as the dark night only seemed to grow longer. Astrid didn’t like Hiccup. Hel, she barely knew him despite living alongside him for fifteen years. But she couldn’t imagine Berk without him either. She tried to sleep, and found it impossible. Astrid often prayed for courage, for strength, but now she whispered a soft prayer of safety to the Gods for the boy she had never understood.

Stoick sat in his armchair, in his big, quiet house, and waited for the sun to rise. The only movements were when he had to tend to the fire to keep it alight and his anxious tapping on the chair. He could not stop picturing Hiccup being tossed around by the unforgiving sea, battling waves his slight form had no hope of withstanding. Hiccup was a terrible sailor, always ending up drenched, if not falling overboard outright. Stoick could almost see him now, spitting out seawater as he was soaked to the bone with frigid water, his skin turning pale and lips a deathly blue. 

At this point, he could’ve been gone for over a day on the unforgiving sea. Could he still be alive? Would Stoick make his own way out to sea and find nothing but a water-logged corpse? Or maybe just an empty boat with his child lost to the sea, leaving no body to burn and no avenue for Valhalla. Not that the gates would open for someone who’d run from a fight. Valka was surely there, having died defending their son from a vicious Stormcutter. It gave Stoick some peace to know he and Valka would be reunited someday, but how could he ascend knowing his son was destined for Helheim? 

He huffed out a shaky breath and looked down at his rough and scarred hands. Fifteen years ago, these hands had held the smallest babe he had ever laid eyes on. He had been terrified the only child Valka could bear would die, born too early, born too weak. His people had told him to cast the child out, that a runt could never inherit. But Stoick had heard how heartily that early babe had wailed. Felt how the weak boy had gripped Stoick’s finger with all his strength. Saw how days and nights passed and his son lived on despite being given a death sentence at birth. Living on as if to spite all the people against him. And that was why Stoick named him after ancestral heroes and announced him as his heir. Any child that could conquer death itself deserved the chance to live. 

And live he had, overcoming every sickness and every injury. He hadn’t grown like the other children had in height and health, but his personality had certainly come in strong, positively exploding out of his small frame. Hiccup was different, right from the start, yet Stoick loved him with all his heart anyway. And now his heart was far away and lost at sea. He stared into the waning warmth of the hearth, quiet and ponderous. As soon as he got Hiccup back and made sure he was safe and healthy, Stoick would listen. Gobber was right, as usual. Stoick would need to push aside his anger and frustration and actually hear what his son had to say. Look him in the eye and ask why he felt his only recourse was to run. For Hiccup, he would put aside being a Chieftain for a moment and be a father. Anything to have him back.

The sun rose slowly and Stoick was already at the docks, deep bags under his eyes as he inspected the ships and interrogated the guards. By his best count, not one boat was missing. From the longboats to the skiffs, everything was accounted for. 

“I s’pose he coulda made a boat,” Gobber frowned as he stroked his mustache. “Would’ve been hard to conceal though, and he’s much better with metal than he is with wood.” The man rubbed at his eyes. “I really can’t see him sailing by himself, but there’s no other way off of this island.”

“I’ll send some ships out, just to be sure,” Stoick stated. “We’ll go back to searching the isle. He might be tucked away in the woods somewhere or found some sort of, I don’t know, hole to crawl into.” Gobber’s mouth twitched upwards for a moment in amusement before letting out a weary sigh. “A’right, I’ll gather up volunteers to continue looking on land while you badger the fisherman to take the search to the seas.”  

To Gobber, the day seemed to pass by in a blink. He was exhausted and dirty and his stumps ached something fierce from hours upon hours of trekking through forests, crossing rivers, and climbing up mountains. And despite all that effort, by the end of it there was still no sign of Hiccup. They did find a pretty little cove. It had a weather-worn shield stuck between some rocks and a few other signs of human habitation, but it was otherwise deserted. Oddly enough, they had also found dragon scales, lots of them, but Hiccup had made it clear he’d left willingly and not been carried off, so they dismissed the cove as unimportant.

Stoick’s panic became more pronounced the longer the search went on. He yelled louder, demanded more, and refused to clear an area until he’d checked it over himself. Gobber had a feeling that, by the time all was said and done, Stoick will have personally scoured every crevice and crack on this island. And still Hiccup would be missing. It was properly sinking into Gobber that Hiccup had — somehow, someway — fled the island. His apprentice, his nephew in every way that counted, was gone. He saw his own grim conclusion reflected back at him from the nervous, flat faces of his fellow tribesmen. 

By the third day, the number of volunteers for the search had been reduced by half. By the fourth, they had halved once more, and by the fifth, there were scarcely a handful. Death was common in the arsehole of the world. The sheep still needed shearing, crops still needed tending, and life would go on. Gobber watched his best friend break bit by bit as he was forced to come to grips with the horrific, yet inevitable conclusion. 

His son had left and he wasn’t coming back. 

Gobber stood in the doorway of the forge that afternoon. Stoick was still out searching, but the village blacksmith had a backlog to attend to. Especially since he no longer had an assistant. If only Stoick had spent more time with his boy, been less harsh, more willing to listen, then he wouldn’t be out there now looking for what was already lost. Gobber took a breath and tried to let go of his anger. It wouldn’t help anyone now, what’s done was done and they had to move on.

He started by carefully gathering Hiccup’s belongings which were scattered about as usual. The apron he used while working, a spare tunic, an old, beaten book of legends he sometimes perused while waiting for metal to cool, one of his many sketchbooks, and some of his tools which had been carefully adjusted once they realized Hiccup favored his left hand. It did not escape Gobber’s notice that over half of Hiccup’s tools, his most recent notebook, and his wage purse were conspicuously absent.

“So ya’ really left us, eh, Laddie?” Gobber asked out loud to the empty forge. He scratched at his head with his good hand, feeling too many things and not sure what to do with it all. “I hope ye’ had a damned good reason fer doin’ this ta me, and to yer father, but… just be safe out there, Hiccup. This place will always be yer’ home, should ya’ decide to come back.” That said, Gobber bundled everything up and tucked it all safely away in the boy’s workshop. He was unsurprised to find it cleaner and emptier than the last time he was in here. Setting the items on the desk, he noticed a scrap of parchment on the floor, obviously missed during Hiccup’s hasty clean up. 

“Now what kind of beastie is this?” He asked aloud, squinting at the picture. It was sleek and lithe, dark-colored by the shading, with long wings and a tail. Hiccup drew dragons frequently, but instead of there being the expected fire and claws, this one had wide eyes and an open posture. It looked almost friendly and – dare he even say – cute. “Hiccup, I would pay all the gold I own to know what the Hel you were up to.” He’d known something was going on with his apprentice for weeks now. Gobber figured it was your typical teenage issues along with his newfound fame and acceptance. Well, that obviously had not been the case, and Gobber’s negligence had cost them the island’s heir.

“I’m so sorry for failing ye’,” Gobber said quietly as he set the sketch on the table with Hiccup’s other belongings. He felt awful packing Hiccup away like ill-fitting undies, but he would need the space when he was forced to take on a new apprentice. He doubted he would ever find one with half Hiccup’s talent. Overwhelmed, he staggered out of the room and got to work.

“I still can’t believe Hiccup actually left,” Tuffnut drawled over dinner, before taking a long sip of his drink. “Who’re we gonna dunk on now that the village punching bag is gone?”

“Have you considered that’s maybe why Hiccup left?” Fishlegs grumbled, hunching over his plate, then flinching when a large chunk of turnip was tossed at him.

“Wonderful, so good of you to volunteer, Fishy!” Ruff grinned, picking up another vegetable and getting ready to throw. 

“Cut it out. This isn’t the time for jokes,” Astrid ground out, tearing apart her mutton like it had personally wronged her. “Hiccup abandoned us. Our supposed heir left in the middle of the night like the weakling coward that he was. The whole tribe’s in chaos, but we’ll be better for it when it all settles down.”

“Woah, harsh, girl. I love it,” Ruff said, lifting her mug in cheers to that. 

“Yeah, and now that the runt is finally out of the running, it’ll be the Snotman who will take over this heap of rock,” Snotlout grinned, flexing his muscles. “You better get used to kissing my feet because there’s gonna be a new world order when I become Chief.”

“There’s no way the Chief is making you Chief,” Tuff snorted. “I mean, first he’d have to admit that Hiccy isn’t coming back and I don’t think that’s happening anytime soon.” The teens glanced over at the empty throne their leader normally sat at, drinking and laughing with his people. He hadn’t eaten in the Great Hall since Hiccup disappeared. When his duties didn’t require him elsewhere, he was usually out searching the island.

“Yeah, like, it’s super depressing,” Ruffnut grimaced. “Logically, I knew the Chief had to like Hiccup enough not to kill him for all his mishaps, but I didn’t expect all this effort.”

“Okay, I can’t do it anymore!” Fishlegs frowned, clenching his fists on the table. “We have known Hiccup our whole lives, we played together as kids, survived the same illnesses and dragon attacks, and now he’s gone. Everyone is acting like he was a traitor or a coward, but I think he finally had enough of everyone treating him like dirt.” The anger bled out of him quickly. “Including me. I was so excited when he started doing well in training. I thought I could finally be friends with him again without my parents yelling at me. Now I’ll never get the chance.”

“Yeah, what was up with that anyway?” Snotlout grumbled. “He’s been a weakling from the day he was born and then out of nowhere, he’s frightening dragons back into their cages and punching them out? Something was going on with him and I was this close to figuring it out and then I would have been the top of dragon train —”

Astrid slammed her knife into the table, slotting right between Snotlout’s middle and ring finger. He screeched and yanked his hand back, glaring at her.

“I think Hiccup was training with someone. No one gets that good, that fast,” Astrid said, her tone icy. “He was always sneaking off to the woods at all hours; I think that’s where they were hiding. Pretty sure I almost caught sight of them in the forge a few weeks back. Our heir let a foreigner stay on our island and then ran away with them when he felt his lies were going to be exposed. I say, good riddance.” She stood up abruptly, “I’m going to bed. Gotta start training early. The Chief will have to choose someone to take on the Nightmare eventually and it’s going to be me.”  

Astrid deliberately bumped into Snotlout as she walked past, making him spill some of his drink. The table was silent as she stormed angrily out of the Hall.

“Pfft, even if Hiccup did have some secret dragon trainer stuffed in the woods, how’d they leave the island? My dad searched the docks and nothing was missing. Even if the guy brought his own boat, I’m pretty sure we’d have noticed it over the weeks of training,” Snotlout grouched. 

“Hiccup is very clever, I’m sure he did something none of us would ever think of,” Fishlegs noted curiously. “I wonder if he’ll ever come back. Like maybe he just went on some sort of quest like Sigurd Fafnisbane the Dragon Slayer. Oh! He could be out there right now, using his insane dragon talents to kill dragons and find a solution to all the raids.”

“The inside of your brain must be so freaky,” Tuffnut noted somewhat dreamily. 

Similar conversations were taking place all over the island, spoken in curious whispers so as not to reach beyond their worn tables and roaring hearths. As the days and weeks passed, it was the last thing spoken of at night and the first topic brought up in the mornings. Stoick’s heir had gone from nuisance to prodigy overnight and then vanished without a trace. 

The gossips of Berk were having the time of their life chewing on that.

“I bet he got a bit too big fer ‘is britches,” Lagertha groused as she plunged her hands into the cold stream where she and the other wives were doing laundry. “Thought ‘imself a big, bad, dragon killer and went off to make his riches elsewhere. Poor idiot prolly drowned before he got a chance to kill his first dragon.”

“Nah, the pressure got ta him,” Ingrid disagreed, shaking her head. “Boy’s always been unpopular. We all knew it was only a matter o’ time before Stoick was forced to officially disinherit him. Constitution of a sheared lamb that ‘un. Once his fortunes turned, he turned tail and ran from the impending responsibilities. I doubt he meant to stay gone.”

“The Chief did dote on his idiot, only child,” Bearlegs agreed with a sigh. “There was no wife to raise him up right while Stoick was busy managing the village. The lad has been allowed to run about unchecked, causing mishaps and mayhem. Hiccup had no idea how good he had it here; he would’ve been beaten or exiled long ago if it weren’t fer his Da’. Such a shame.”

“Oh, mah heart breaks fer Stoick,” Ragna moaned, clutching her damp laundry to her chest. “First he loses his weird wife and now his strange son. It’s more than any man should bear.”

“Well, bear it he must,” Akne huffed. “Hiccup wasn’t much, but at least he was breathing, which was all that was needed to be heir at the moment. Stoick either needs ta find himself a new wife and have more children or Berk will have a succession crisis.”

“Strange and unlikable as she was, Stoick was smitten with his Valka and swore he’d never marry again,” Lagertha grumbled. “He punched Boartusk clean out when he suggested it a few years back. Snotlout better step up or this whole island will be in trouble.”

Across town, the fishermen searched for food to feed their families, but they, like the women, also fed the gossip mill.

“I just can’t figure how he got off the island,” Bootstrap said with a shake of his head. “I’m out here every day and I never once saw the boy near the docks, much less with a boat. None of our inventory is missing, but ‘ow could he have built a boat without testing it on the water?”

“And that’s why he’s dead,” Wart stated bluntly. “Ye’ve all seen Spitelout strutting ‘round proud as anythin’. He’s prolly so certain his family will take over the Chiefdom, but his son is as dumb as a drunk rock,” the man complained before glaring at the water. “Nothing’s biting today. I bet Hiccup scared them all off with his pisspoor sailing.” Several men grunted in agreement. They knew it was probably just overfishing in an attempt to replace their stores, but it was easier, in a way, to blame the missing heir. It would become a familiar pattern in the coming months. 

“How do we know he didn’t have something to do with the boy’s disappearance?” Boartusk muttered, stroking his mostly grey beard in thought. “It was clear Hiccup didn’t have what it took to be Chief. Spitelout just had to wait fer Stoick to see it himself and name his nephew as heir instead. Once Hiccup started doing well in the ring, well, who’s to say he didn’t remove his son’s competition? All we’ve got to go on is a short note.”

“Don’t be speculating about such things unless you have hard proof,” his brother, Deerteeth, interjected. “That kind of talk could get men killed and we’ll have another civil war on our hands. “Besides,” he shrugged, “obviously Trolls lured the boy away and ate him.”

The men started loudly arguing with each other, scaring away any fish that were nearby.

People talked. Theories and coins were exchanged, but still no answers appeared. The baker baked. The butcher slaughtered. The Chief sat on a boulder alone in the forest and let reality slowly crash down on him. Astrid trained and held onto her anger because that was easier to deal with than guilt. Snotlout hid from his father while Fishlegs looked over a notebook Hiccup had left at his house years before. Who could ever say what the twins were doing at any given time? Life on Berk creaked and groaned under the strain, but still managed to move along. 

The village was awoken early one morning, three weeks after Hiccup was supposed to face the Monstrous Nightmare to explosions and dragons in the air. The warriors got ready to attack, but the dragons were already fleeing. Stoick had a Nadder in his sights when the screech of a Night Fury sounded. Everyone took cover and, by the time they got back to their feet, the dragons were gone. It didn’t take them long to discover that those had been their dragons, the ones from the arena. The locks and chains had been blasted to bits. Gobber ran his fingers against the blackened soot of the doors.

“Haven’t seen a Fury in months and it comes back to free captive dragons?” He thoughtfully asked himself. Stoick’s axe embedded itself in one of the doors, and he turns to find his friend full of rage. “Sto?”

“That was supposed to be Hiccup’s Nightmare!” He shouted, wrenching his axe out before continuing to attack the door. Gobber grunted, knowing it would be up to him to repair the damage, but let Stoick have this for now. It had been his first real show of emotion since he’d found the Note. “How could you let this happen, Gobber?”

“Whut? You think I can Fury proof these cages? Yer out of yer bloody min–”

“How could you let him leave?” Stoick shouted, his mouth pulled into a sneer. “You were with ‘im more than I could be, taught him yer trade. Hiccup was supposed ta be safe with you! I trusted you with the most important thing in my life!”

“Dun’t ya turn this on me, Stoick,” Gobber hissed. “He was ma apprentice, but he was yer son! Ya spent all that time searching the isle fer him after he left, but couldn’t find time to see ‘im while he was here. Ah did me best but that is no excuse for ya being a pisspoor father.”

Stoick charged the man and the two of them swung at each other, tussling aggressively in the ring, pulling braids and biting on exposed flesh. The fight ended with no clear winner and no resolution of their explosive grief.

Either way, training was put on hold indefinitely until they could capture more dragons

Scarcely a week after that, there was a raid. It was notable for many reasons. People afterwards privately agreed that it was one of the worst in recent memory. Homes and crops and livestock were burned, the Gothi’s hut was half destroyed and bodies — human and reptilian — littered the streets. 

It’s hard to keep track during a raid, but it’s also generally agreed that Stoick the Vast — once a husband and father and now neither — took down a record number of dragons that night. He had become vengeance incarnate. Berk’s warrior Chief took down foes with a rage that could only come from someone who had nothing left to lose. 

They were lucky the Chief had been in such rare fighting form, because many of Berk’s finest found themselves facing the dragons empty-handed. The forge was overrun with requests for something, anything, to help fight back the enemy. Gobber had become accustomed to leaving Hiccup the shop while he joined the battle so he’d forgotten how hectic everything became while under siege.

“Gobber! There’s two Gronkles on me roof!” Hans shouted, thrusting his arm into the smithy as he was jammed up against the frame by a dozen other weaponless vikings. “I need a sword, an axe, a slingshot, something!”

“I got nuthin’ fer ya!” Gobber shouted over the din of the crowd and the roar of the beasts. “I gave away my last usable sword ten minutes ago! I can’t keep up the demand without Hiccup here!” 

“Gobber, gimme something —”

“I said I’m clear out!” He yelled again, grabbing a set of plyers and chucking it at the crowd. “Go rob yer ancestral tombs, they got more weapons than I do right now!” He noticed the fire brigade making the rounds behind the panicked villagers. “Tuffnut Thorston!” The boy jolted in question. “Get yer skinny arse in here. I need another set of hands on these blades.”

“Yeah, but I —”

“I said now, ya damned idiot!” Gobber said, slamming his good hand on the counter. “Yer not a blacksmith, but any warm body will do at this point.” The boy slouched in and staggered a bit as half a dozen swords were dropped into his arms. “Get those battle ready as soon as possible. Don’t worry about the nicks and cracks, just sharpen the edges and secure the handles.”

“Uh, am I the new Hiccup?” Tuffnut asked in a daze, dropping the swords in a crashing heap by the grindstone. “Am I destined to become the new village punching bag? This would be an example of irony: a literary device employing the incongruity between what might be expected —”

“Hiccup had more brains and talent in his pinkie than ya’ have in yer entire body,” Gobber said with an offended huff. “Now get to work, Apprentice. I don’t have time to hold yer hand, so for the love of the gods, if you slice yerself open, just keep working through it.” Tuffnut huffed and groaned, but ultimately complied, getting the grindstone spinning properly and lining up the first sword’s blade. He was surprised by how hard it was to hold the sword steady as it spat sparks at him. By the time the raid finished, he’d been working on the same blade and it was now the size of a small dagger. Gobber threw him out face first into a still smoking pile of debris. Ruffnut unceremoniously poured a bucket of water over him. 

Gobber would later sit in Hiccup’s empty little workshop and reflect on how much work he’d unconsciously handed off to the lad. Everyone teased him for being small and slight, but by the gods could he hammer out the impurities in metal and make it as sharp as one of his cutting remarks. Gobber was down two limbs and was closer to the end of his life than the beginning. His apprentice could make two, sometimes even three weapons in the time it took Gobber to finish one.

He’d weep then, for the first time since Hiccup left. Yes, Gobber was fond of him as his best friend’s son, but he’d been his apprentice as well. Taken in at first out of pity and then kept out of necessity. Dyin’ never frightened him, mostly because he thought Berk would be all right with a competent blacksmith to take over the forge when he kicked it. But who would keep the furnace going when ole Gobber ascended to Valhalla? Stoick’s legacy would end with him and, in a way, so too would Gobber’s.

Finally, this raid was special because — though the people of Berk didn’t know it yet — it would be the last one they would ever have. As soon as the dragons left, the rebuilding process began like it did every other time. Stoick was pensive and quiet as he supervised the repairs. He had stopped his pointless search of the island. No matter how much he tried to deny it, he had to admit that his son wasn’t simply hiding, but was truly gone. The Chief didn’t talk about Hiccup, didn’t talk about the succession, didn’t talk about much of anything that didn’t have to do with Berk. He had not smiled once since the morning his son was supposed to kill his first dragon.

A few days after, deep in the night when the sky was at its darkest, Berk was awakened by a roar that shook the very earth. They staggered out of their half built homes, axes raised in defense only to be dropped in horror. Vikings had been searching for the location of the fabled dragon nest for centuries to no avail. In the distance, they could see a great monster — a Jötunn of legend — flying amid the fog of Helheim’s Gate. The creature was so massive that, even at such a distance, they could still see its horrid visage and hear its awful roar.

The Jötunn breathed out a continuous jet of flames, flames that could be seen even across the water. It fought against something, but it was too far away and even with the Jötunn’s firebreathing, too dark to tell what exactly. They saw the monster dive and they heard its death cry, an inferno of fire exploding in the distance. Berk was too frightened to cheer. Too terrified to move a muscle even as the heat and reek of burnt flesh began wafting to their shores. 

“Was that what was at the Nest?” Mulch asked with a dry mouth, wiping his sweaty brow. “Kind of glad we never found it.”

“The Hel was that creature?” Ingrid questioned, holding her daughter close.

“What could have possibly killed that thing?” Ack whispered to himself. 

“Someone go wake Gothi,” Stoick said, never taking his eyes off the explosion. “If that was a demon from Helheim, we need to build our spiritual defenses. The rest of you, we need to prepare for war with whatever killed that monster. Someone get me parchment, charcoal, and a table. We’re the closest to the Nest; I need to alert our allies.” Stoick the Vast stood in the light of the premature dawn, brought about by the flaming carcass of a downed god. By that light, he scratched out missives and warnings to their closest allies. The whole Archipelago could be on the brink of war and he could not afford the luxury of caution. 

He refused to leave his unofficial post from the cliffside for the rest of the day, watching the faraway fires burn and dwindle. His Council came by to give periodic updates while he kept up his vigil. Gothi had sacrificed their largest goat in supplication to the gods, marking Berk with its blood to offer extra protection. Gobber had dragged Fishlegs into the forge by his ankle and put him to work sharpening all of Berk’s weapons. It was fine for about an hour before he injured himself on the grindstone and limped to the healers. Repairs were still ongoing from the last raid, but the air on the island was electric and strained. Everyone was on edge for whatever fight was coming to them. 

Stoick sent out several ravens, hoping that they would reach their recipients swiftly. As night fell and the fires within Helheim’s Gate began to slowly bank; he could only hope that they would have time to prepare a counterattack. The next few days were tense, most people not talking at all, just holding themselves and their weapons at the ready. Before they knew it, almost three weeks had passed without so much as a wing or tail sighting, but several Viking longboats were seen in the distance. Stoick greeted his fellow chieftains as they docked.

“Is all well, Stoick? We sailed as fast as the winds would allow,” Chief Bertha said, gripping Stoick’s forearm tightly in greeting. There was more bone than meat in his grip; stress and grief were whittling Berk’s mountain of a chief down. The tribal leaders gathered in a small circle while their various peoples intermingled. 

“Aye, ever since that night, there have been no more attacks,” Stoick confirmed. “But our warriors are ready for anything. Come, we have much to discuss and no time to waste. I know your journey was long, but there is food and drink in the Great Hall.”

“A dragon of that size sounds like a story made to frighten children,” Chief Mogadon said incredulously as they all began to make their way up from the docks. “Were anyone else to speak of it… Now, tell me again exactly what you saw.”

“Dad, what about Hic —” 

“Not now, Thuggory,” Mogadon chastised. “We can speak of Hiccup later. For now, the dragons and this demon must take priority. This is the talk of adults and not for the ears of children.”

“I’m not a damned child!” The heir cursed before storming off. The father rolled his one eye before glancing over at Stoick as if to make a comment about troublesome teenagers. Instead, he saw agonizing longing on Stoick’s face as he watched the young man stomp away. 

“We got yer letter about Young Hiccup,” Chief Bashem said quietly. “A devastating loss, especially since he was the only child of your blood. We hope he is recovered soon.” Stoick gave a curt nod and gestured for the men and women who led the major islands of the Archipelago to the Hall. The discussion lasted hours. Much mead was consumed and food was thrown and blood oaths sworn but, eventually, they came to a decision.

“At first light tomorrow,” Stoick announced in the village square, “we shall set sail for the Nest.” The groans interrupted him and he waved his hand in a broad sweep as if to dismiss them. “I know we have only just returned, but we must find out what monster died so close to our shores and if we have more to fear. We’re Vikings! We do not cower, we do not wait for danger to come to our shores. We seek it out and kill it where it stands! Now who’s with me?” The rousing speech garnered the desired volunteers who quickly dispersed to ready themselves for another long journey. 

“Sto, if ya don’t mind me sayin’ so, you look right awful,” Bertha said as Stoick crossed back over to them. It wasn’t just the lost weight, or the sallow skin and deep circles under his eyes. He appeared more burdened than usual, hunching as if the world tree Yggdrasill were on his back.

“Many late nights, preparing for an attack that never came. Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to turn in early. This will be a fierce battle and we need to get some rest. Gobber or Spitelout can attend to whatever you need in the meantime.” He turned away with a nod. 

“Chief Stoick, sir,” Bertha’s wild daughter, Camicazi, spoke up, looking uncharacteristically nervous. “About Hiccup…”

“Good night, Lass,” Stoick cut her off tersely and continued the trek to his house. As had become the new normal, sleep would not come no matter how badly his body cried out for it. The house was oppressively silent and felt unnaturally dark and still. At some point, he heaved himself out of his bed and trekked up the stairs to the unused bedroom. It didn’t matter that he was comically oversized for the small bed. It didn’t matter that it was as quiet up here as down below. His son’s bedroom was the only place he felt any peace these days. He closed his eyes and refused to think about how stale the room was becoming as Hiccup’s lingering scent was overlaid by dust.

He packed with the expectation of being gone for weeks. Most searches for the Nest were long affairs as they became lost in fog or beset by angry beasts. However, it only took a few days to reach Helheim’s Gate and they were surprised to find it was smooth sailing into its depths. The fog was clearer than it had ever been and any dragons they came across quickly scattered at the sight of them. It was barely a day after entering the fog before their boats were rocking against the beach. Well, the part that wasn’t covered by the burnt and rotting corpse of a creature straight from Hel. One of the younger crewmen leaned over and vomited over the side of the boat. A few others took a knee in shock and relief. It looked like a some had soiled themselves. 

The biggest dragon they had ever seen and it was dead. By whose hands they did not know.

“Search the island!” Stoick ordered, shocking the warriors out of their stupor. “We cannot celebrate just yet, we must ensure that every possible threat is found and killed. The continuation of our culture depends on it.”

“Stoick!” Gobber shouted, his friend gesturing him towards something in the wreckage on the beach. “We found something!”

Stoick wasn’t sure what he expected when he made his way over, but it certainly wasn’t a human leg. He grimaced a bit at the smell; the limb had clearly been wounded and rotted before it was taken off by what looked like dragon teeth. It had also been sitting out in the elements for some length of time. Gobber was crouched near the broken bit of flesh, poking at it idly with a stick.

“The only thing of interest we’ve been able ta find,” Gobber shrugged before looking at the limb thoughtfully. “But now that I look at it closer, I’m not sure this is an adult’s leg.” His eyes slid away from the beach and towards the open ocean, picking thoughtfully at his lip. “Some poor lad prolly got snatched up in the last raid and this’s all that's left of ‘em.”

Stoick frowned at that, crouching down to examine the limb. The bones were badly broken and the remaining meat was filled with blood and decay. There were no clothes or identifying features, everything having been burned or worn away. It was easy to picture Hiccup banging about the house, but it was not often he looked at his bare feet. He glanced over at Gobber with a worried question in his eyes that he didn’t know if he could ask aloud.

“We can’t prove it’s not him,” Gobber said painfully before continuing. “But Hiccup left over a month before the last raid. If he truly sailed out, he could’ve been far enough away when the beasts went on the hunt.” His mouth quirked into a small smile, “or he could’ve gotten turned around and navigated Helheim’s Gate — which has stymied Vikings for centuries — and killed this beast of Loki.”

“Enough joking,” Stoick said sternly before grunting as he stood up. “Either way, I’m going to gather some driftwood for a small pyre. Even if it’s not… they deserve to be sent out the proper way.”

“Right, of course, Chief.”

They didn’t find anything else living on the island. Just the corpse of a monster dragon, the bones of a hundred other dragons and one severed leg. Stoick constructed a small boat from the wreckage just large enough for the limb and they set it aflame once it was out to sea. It was almost sunset and no one spoke as the last victim of the dragon war was given a warrior’s pyre. 

They sailed back for Berk with more questions than answers. About halfway back to the isle, Chief Mogadon pulled him off to the side with an earth shattering revelation. 

“Hiccup made it to Meathead Island?” Stoick asked breathlessly, and he turned away from his old friend and braced himself against the side of the ship in shock. “When was this?”

“Perhaps five or six weeks ago? He came to visit Thuggory and to stock up on supplies. My idiot son waited over a week before telling me, we’d had yer letter for a few days by that point when he finally confessed. Don’t worry, I gave him a good thrashin’ fer hiding secrets like that. I had the whole island searched, but Hiccup had already flown the coop. Slippery lil’ thing he is.”

“Was he all right?” Stoick practically begged.

“You can ask Thug when we get back but, from what he described, Hiccup seemed nervous and flighty — no different than usual — but otherwise unharmed.” Mogadon shook his head, “I just can’t figure it, though. It takes ten days minimum to reach Meathead from Berk but, if Hiccup left when you say he did, he did it in less than a week. When ye’ get him back, be sure to ask how he sailed so fast.” He clapped Stoick on the back. “After ye beat that troublesome streak outta him, of course.”

Stoick felt half in a dream during the rest of the journey. Hiccup made it out of Berk’s shores safely, he got to Meathead island with all his limbs attached. A part of him settled a bit. The Meatheads weren’t attacked as often as Berk. That leg they found on the shores of the Nest couldn’t be Hiccup’s. His boy was okay and still out there, Stoick didn’t even have the energy to be angry; his relief cooled any flames he felt. 

They landed on Berk in record time to find the heirs tussling in the dirt.

“Ye’ rotten, loose lipped, ninny headed —” Camicazi shouted, cussing and swinging even as Bertha stomped off the ship and hauled her daughter back. Thuggory glared at her, sporting a black eye and swollen lip. He wiped at his mouth as he stood shakily to his feet. “I can’t believe you told yer father about Hiccup! He swore me to secrecy and I know damn well he did the same fer you! Thug the Coward, they’ll call you! The Gutless, Back-Stabbing, Mutton-Headed —”

“What’s this about Hiccup?” Stoick asked, baffled. Camicazi shook off her mother’s arms to glare up at him. She was a small thing, but her eyes had heat to them.

“Since there’s no point in hiding it anymore,” she turned her sharp glare onto Thuggory before turning back. “Hiccup came to me too.”

“You let a man onto my island?” Bertha growled, turning her anger onto Stoick instead of her daughter. Stoick could only just remain standing after what felt like another punch to the gut. 

“He never stepped foot on the island, he obviously knows the rules, Mother,” the young girl scoffed and rolled her eyes. “The closest he got was standing in the shallows. He looked okay, just a bit dirty and wet.” Her frown turned thoughtful. “Hiccup asked for supplies, the usual survival necessities, but also weird stuff — some old leathers and sailcloth we weren’t using.”

“I gave him some scrap metal and a bit of rope,” Thuggory admitted, eyes cast down away from his angry father. “He said he was gonna hit up a forge on one of the other islands.” He gave the girl a sharp look as he spat out a bit of blood. “I only told my father because I was scared for him, Cami. You’ve seen him, he’s small and weak. There’s no way he can survive out in the Wilderwest on his own. He wouldn’t even show me his ship so I could make sure it was seaworthy.”

“He’s lasted this long,” Camicazi said, jutting her jaw out. “He came to the Bog not even a week before we got the summons here. I don’t know how he seemed to you, Thuggory the Unobservant, but he was more alive than I’ve ever seen him. He was planning something, I know it, he had this look in his eyes… And ya’ know what? Hiccup looked better a month in the wild than he ever had here.”

“That’s enough lip outta you, ya’ little rascal!” Bertha said, picking up her daughter by the back of her tunic and tucking her under one arm despite her trashing and yelling. She turned back to Stoick, looking almost contrite. “I’m sorry, I had no idea she was keeping secrets ‘bout yer boy. I swear I would’ve written to ya’ if I’d known he was —”

“I know, Bertha,” Stoick sighed, rubbing at his forehead. “I know.” He forced himself to stand tall despite wanting to crumble, looking down imposingly at the two shrinking heirs. He should feel lucky Hiccup has such loyal friends, yet all he felt was exhausted. “Lad, Lass, I am only going to ask you this once. Where is my son?” 

The answer, after over an hour of awkward questioning, was that nobody knew.

And so the rumors and gossip on Berk's lost heir — which had just started to die down — flared back to life again. All over the Archipelago, people were talking of the strange, runty Chief’s son who managed to run away with no clear means of escape and disappear into thin air. Soon there were unconfirmed sightings coming in from across the seas. A glimpse of the lost heir was as enticing as the mysterious Night Fury sometimes heard whistling high above in the skies.

“What do you think he’s doing out there?” Ruffnut asked dreamily during her stint at the forge. She was hunched over by the service window talking to Tuffnut, who leaned against the outside wall with a confident smirk.

“Oh, man, he is getting up to so much trouble, the likes of which we can only dream,” Tuff bragged. “Flying contraptions powered with pedals and a dream interpretation pyramid scheme and, of course, some epic explosions.” He sighed in contentment, “I’m telling you, Sister Nut, we pegged Hiccy all wrong. Instead of the bullying, we should have ingratiated ourselves early with Loki’s incarnation on Midgard.”

“I know, right?” she huffed, twirling one of her braids around. “I mean who'd've thunk wimpy Hiccup Haddock would have the stones to do that.”

“Ruffnut Thorston!” Gobber screeched in the background and she turned with a yelp to realize the forge fires were burning out of control and spewing from the furnace. Gobber was throwing bucket after bucket of water into the furnace. “Ya’ get outta my shop before I throw you in next!” She leapt through the window and ran off cackling with her twin. 

“I knew it, I knew that little brat would cause trouble,” Mildew crowed at anyone who would listen to him. “Aye told Stoick when he was born that he ought to send that boy to sea, divorce his crazy wife, and start all over. But even with his wife gone, he inflicted that problem child onto the village like a curse. Ya’ notice the dragons are staying away now? It’s because the gods are finally granting us favor for getting rid of that nuisance.” Most of the onlookers frowned, but a few shrugged and nodded their heads. Ingrid Hofferson gave the man a sharp look as she passed, tutting to herself as she walked with her daughter to the butcher.

“Really ‘tis a shame about the boy,” she sighed. “He was finally starting to act like a proper viking. If he had stayed, who knows, he might’ve become your husband and made you Chieftess.” Astrid said nothing, gripping their basket of purchases tightly. “Of course, that’s all just talk now. Even if Hiccup came back, the boy has proven himself to be fickle and unreliable. The village would never accept him as Chief and we’d never connect ourselves with such a disgrace.”

“Oh, but what if he did some heroic deeds?” Hilda said with a titter from the next stall over, not bothering to pretend she hadn’t been listening. “Returned with riches and tales of valor? Came to Stoick on bended knee with a dragon heart in one hand and a vanquished enemy’s blade in another?”

“Well, now you’re just talking nonsense, girl,” Ingrid said with an eye roll. “Hiccup Haddock is hardly the warrior type. He’s not out there slaying dragons or saving villages; he’s being strange and ridiculous and will either die a failure or come crawling back once he realizes how hard life is when you’re not the prized heir.”

“But still, it's fun to think about,” Hilda grinned, “so what if he did come home a war hero?”

“In the very unlikely event that occurs, then I’d arrange a betrothal to my daughter that same day. Only the best warriors deserve my little —” Ingrid blinked and looked around. “Astrid? Now where did that girl run off to now?”

“Stoick!” Spitelout shouted from across the square. His half-brother didn’t even acknowledge him and instead turned around and stomped the other way. Refusing to be brushed off again, Spitelout chased after him. “Stoick, ya’ have ta start thinking about the succession.”

“Arvar, how are you doing today? Turning a good profit?” Stoick said nonsensically to the baker who was looking between the two warriors with fear and confusion. “Yes, well, have a good one. I’ve places to be.”

“Where ya’ ought to be is making plans for the next Chief o’ Berk,” Spitelout ground out, still trailing behind Stoick’s stubborn arse. As always. “Yer son wasn’t up for the task even when he was here and now he’s run off ta gods know where and we ain’t getting any younger, Brother.”

Stoick continued to charge forward as if he could outrun this conversation, but Spitelout was sick and tired of being given the runaround. He sped forward and placed himself directly in Stoick’s path, forcing him to stop. The man started to go around, so Spitelout gripped his arm and held him in place. The glare he received meant he only had a few seconds to make his point before he got his front teeth knocked out.

“I know ye’ loved that boy and did the best ye’ could by him,” Spitelout said as gently as he could, even though he still didn’t understand why Stoick had bothered to care about that boy at all. If he’d had the misfortune to have sired a runt, the child wouldn’t have been tolerated for a single night much less fifteen years. He admired Stoick for his strength, his fortitude, his prowess in battle, but he was also a sentimental fool. One of them had to be pragmatic. “But I know you also love Berk and, if you were to die tomorrow, the island would be in chaos without a replacement. It could break out into another civil war like with Alvin and we can’t afford that with the dragon raids.”

Stoick pulled his arm out of Spitelout’s grip, yet he didn’t try to go around him again, so he kept speaking.

“With Hiccup… I’m next in line since we shared a father, but I’m as old and stupid as you are. We need to start preparing the next generation for the struggles of leadership. My boy —”

“Is an arrogant, bullheaded idiot who only barely made it through dragon training,” Stoick bit out and Spitelout ground his teeth to stop himself from yelling.

“Snot’s young, yes, so he has time to learn some parts of what makes a leader; but some things can't be taught. Strength, Charisma, Presence — he can learn the laws and language of diplomacy, but he needs to be able to address his people and be respected.”

Stoick sighed, looking away from Spitelout to stare at his hut where he now lived alone. His inattention gave Spitelout a moment to work his face into something more pleasant and understanding. He had been waiting for years for Hiccup to disgrace his father so badly that he was removed from the succession. He’d been counting on dragon training to be the perfect avenue, either through failure or death. There’d been a moment he’d been afraid the boy was coming into his own but, of course, Hiccup’s nuisance nature flared up again. This truly was the best scenario for him. And for Berk, of course.

“Send Snotlout to my house tomorrow at dawn,” Stoick said heavily. “I’ll take him on my rounds with me and see how he does.” He looked over sharply, “I’m not making anything official, no announcements or contracts. And if I hear you saying otherwise…”

“No, I would never,” Spitelout grinned. “I’m proud of ya’, Stoick. This isn’t an easy decision, but I think it’s the right one. Boyo will be there bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at the break of dawn.” He sauntered away, trying to keep the proud swagger out of his hips while Stoick was watching. Stoick wasn’t wrong about his son, but Spitelout would do whatever he had to in order to beat the annoying brat into chief material. Even if that required an actual beating.

Stoick, meanwhile, just trudged away. He finished up his tasks quickly, even though his mind was distracted and his people could tell. Of course, he only regretted ending the day early once he got back to his home where it was empty and cold. No fire that had been lovingly tended to. No mug of mead and a plate from the Hall waiting for him on the table. No sounds of scuffing boots in the room above, absent mutterings, quiet breathing. Three months of silence had never sounded so deafening. Stoick fell into his seat with a loud thump that echoed through the house and put his head in his hands. He did not move for a while.

“Astrid! Ya’ can’t just let tha forge go out! Set down the whetstone and pump the bellows!” Gobber shouted from his station and Astrid groaned, throwing the sword she’d been sharpening on the table to go fan the dying flames of the forge. She’d been here about five hours and every part of her was slick with sweat and her muscles trembled with exertion. 

Astrid had thoroughly underestimated the physical demand that went into properly making and maintaining weapons. She could strike her target with her axe from ten paces away, but to keep pumping the bellows to maintain the flames, while hammering away at stubborn, molten metal and then grinding it into shape? Now that was hard. Wary of Fishlegs’ accident on the grindstone, she tried to get away with just using a whetstone. But the weapons people carelessly dropped off weren’t her clean, well-cared for axe; they were cracked and rusty and needed a whole lot of care to get them functional again. She wanted to scream at these grown men and women for their shoddy maintenance but knew she was wasting breath better spent pumping the bellows. 

Gobber wandered over just as she finished pumping and picked up one of her creations — a small knife that was lumpy and misshapen and duller than Snotlout. He tapped it lightly on the workbench and it crumbled. Astrid’s face fell; she’d spent hours on that. Gobber just leaned his good hand on the table and stared at the broken bits of metal.

“Not yer fault, Lass,” he said quietly. “I still remember the first knife Hiccup made. Just a wee lad of about six or seven. Stoick dropped him off to keep him out of the way and I gave him a bit of metal to work with, not expecting much.” The man sniffled loudly and Astrid was afraid for a moment he’d start crying. “It took him ages and it wasn’t the prettiest thing, but it had an edge on it. He was a real fish outta water in most things, but he came to life in the forge. No ‘un would dare call him Useless if they saw how diligently he worked in his domain.”

“Sir,” she said quietly, unsure of what else to say. What to feel. Gobber seemed to snap out of his reverie and shook his head. He gave her a look over and waved her off.

“Ya’ look like yer gonna pass out. Go get cleaned up and find something to eat at the Hall. I’ll grab one of the other youngins for the afternoon shift.”

“Sir, no, I can try again! I won’t give up,” Astrid defended, not wanting to be there anymore, yet chaffing at the idea of being deemed, well, useless. “Just give me another chance.”

“This job is as much an art as it is a skill. If you keep working at it, you will get better, but if yer heart isn’t in it…” He sighed, “this isn’t where ya’ belong, Astrid. I thank ya’ fer coming in and helping an old man, but it’s gonna be damn hard to replace him.” She didn’t know what to say to that, so she left. After a quick rinse with cold water and donning new clothes she staggered to the Hall, doing her best to stretch out her aching muscles.

“How the Hel was he still so small,” she muttered to herself as she got in line. 

“Oh, you poor dear, I take it from the smell that yer Gobber’s latest victim,” Britta said pitifully. “It’s tough work, manning the forge, or I suppose womanning the forge in yer case. Here’s an extra helping, to help ya’ recover.” Her sore arms strained under the weight of her plate. A massive amount she couldn’t finish over two meals. “Eat up, dearie, and thank ya’ again fer helping ole’ Gobber, he’s really been strugglin’ through all this.”

Astrid just nodded and walked away. She couldn’t help thinking that Hiccup had never received extra helpings when he worked long shifts, when he came in shaky, sweaty and covered in soot. Had he ever been thanked by the villagers for his hard work in maintaining their weapons? She couldn’t even think of a time he ever greeted kindly when he was in public. Probably why he had rarely taken meals in the Hall, only coming in to pick up a plate for his father. Now that she thought about it, she had hardly ever seen him eating. Probably why he had stayed so small.

She sat down and began picking at her mountain of food.

“Your turn for forge duty, huh?” Ruffnut drawled as she took in Astrid’s haggard appearance. “It’s tougher than it looks, right?”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Tuffnut groused, leaning back a bit from the table. “I could barely move afterwards and I wasn’t even there the whole raid. No idea how Hiccy spent hours and hours at it. Not to mention he seemed to actually like it, which is lunatic behavior right there. Only lunatics like hard work.”

“Gobber told me he’d been doing all the detailing work and finishing touches on weapons for at least a year in addition to normal weapons maintenance," Astrid frowned, running her thumb along the side of her axe. She had no idea Hiccup had been the one caring for it for years; not until she’d gotten it back from Gobber and found the balance and edge were off. “He didn’t have big, bulging muscles, but he couldn’t have done all that work if he truly was weak.”

“Who’s gonna run the forge when Gobber retires?” Fishlegs asked, scratching nervously at the new scar on his forearm from his grindstone accident. “I don’t know what’s up with the dragons lately, but we’re still going to need weapons and other metalwork.” He glanced around their group, assessing them. “And all of us have proven incapable of filling in Hiccup’s shoes.” Astrid flushed with annoyance, but realized she couldn’t really argue. 

“Everyone except Snotlout,” Tuff pointed out.

“But he’s doing chief training,” Ruff noted with an eye roll. “As if that isn’t weird at all. Imagine Snotlout as the big boss giving orders.”

“Sounds like a nightmare waiting to happen,” Astrid muttered to herself, apparently not quietly enough because Fishlegs frowned at her.

“Yeah, but who else will be in charge when Chief Stoick is gone?” Fish asked, looking at them. “Hiccup wasn’t just our future blacksmith; he was also next in line to inherit. Everyone gave him such a hard time, but, I don’t know, I think he’d have done an okay job.”

“I guess we’ll never know,” Ruffnut said morosely, tossing one of her braids over her shoulder and smacking Tuffnut in the face. He bit down on it then made a face and spit it out. “Sure hope he’s enjoying his freedom in the Great Beyond. If this place gets any more depressing, I might just follow right after him.” 

“Man, that’d be so cool,” Tuffnut sighed dreamily before the two of them launched into all the mischief and mayhem they’d cause if they managed to escape Berk. Astrid rolled her eyes and tried to concentrate on her food. Fishlegs gently tapped on the table in front of her.

“Hey, maybe we should try and go easy on Snotlout. The island has already run off one heir, we can’t afford to lose another.” Astrid felt her stomach roll and, despite the ravenous hunger she felt, she couldn’t bring herself to eat another bite.

The too-short interlude of autumn passed by quickly as always and soon the long winter began. Nearly four months had passed since their Chief’s son had left and the village had moved on. There were new things to gossip about, other villagers to make the butt of jokes and more problems to worry over. Some of them did end up circling back to Hiccup, just not in the way they expected.

“Gobber,” Wart sighed with frustration and crossed his arms. “Snoggletog is in two days, is me wife’s shield gonna be ready in time or not?”

“You and everyone on the island is asking me that!” Gobber said, wiping at his sweat soaked brow with his forearm. “I’ve barely left the forge in the last week trying to keep up with everyone’s orders.” He held up his hammer hand somewhat threateningly and Wart backed off a bit. “I’ve got one good hand and I’m trying to make up fer the fact that my missin’ apprentice did the dragon’s share of the work. If the missus doesn’t get her shield until a few days after the holiday, then so be it!” He gestured angrily to the sky. “It ain’t as if we’ve been needing shields lately. Now get out of my sight!”

“Ya’ used to be good company, Gobber,” Wart grumbled before glancing at the chaos in the forge. “Why don’t ya’ just take on a new apprentice? We’re gonna need another blacksmith eventually.”

“If you can find me a lad or lass who can get through a full shift without disaster, then I’ll put on a dress and be yer pretty, new wife,” Gobber said with an eye roll. “Now, get!” 

“My Snoggletog gift is probably gonna be late,” Wart’s wife, Lagertha, later complained to the other women as they cooked nattmal at the Hall. “I hadn’t realized how much lil’ Hiccup did at the forge. I just assumed the Chief stuck him there to keep him out of the way, but poor Gobber looks overworked and unwell on his own.”

“My weapons haven't been this dull in years,” Ingrid mentioned off-handedly. “They used to come back sharp as Munnin’s claws and now… well, I don’t want to say Gobber’s lost his touch, but…” she bit her lip in shame. “I used to request that the boy not work on them, especially my family axe being an heirloom and all, but clearly I underestimated his abilities as a blacksmith.”

“I always thought he was a bit spoiled,” Britta admitted. “I used to withhold food for my youngins when they were misbehaving; I thought if I did the same for him, it’d straighten him out,” she sniffled. “But Stoick was busy and he didn’t have a Ma at home to give him sweets. If he really worked that hard… I feel like I been denying a child food for petty reasons. No wonder he never grew.”

“He was just such a wee thing,” Hilda said, stirring the pot. “Didn’t think he’d be good at anything. I mean, just imagine him as Chief.”

“Imagine Snotlout as Chief,” Phlema said with a grunt. “He’s an idiot and an arrogant one who hasn’t earned his oversized ego. The brat is just gonna be Spitelout’s puppet and that’ll cause a whole mess. Wile away all our gold and start pointless wars.” 

“Stoick only ate in the Hall a few meals a week because Hiccup would come after his shift to pick something up for him,” Ragna noted. “He got the laundry bundled for the washerwomen and kept their hut clean. He didn’t have a mother, didn’t have any other family, so the lad took over care of the household and of his father. I can’t imagine my son doing anything like that if I were to kick the bucket,” she continued hesitantly. “Hiccup was a nuisance, true, but he was hardworking and kind. Even if he never grew to be a warrior like Stoick, surely the elders could have helped him rule.”

“I guess bein’ a dragon killer doesn’t matter much any more now that the beasts have stopped attacking,” Lagertha noted with a huff. “This is pointless, the lad’s gone, but nattmal must be put on. Back to work, you ugly trolls.”

Despite the heavy snow that fell Snoggletog morning, Gobber shut the forge and made the long trek up to the Chief’s house with a bundle under his arm. He let himself in and found Stoick staring vacantly into the fire. Hiccup’s helmet was sitting on the mantle, filled with goodies and presents but no one to open them. 

“Cold as Hella’s teets out there,” Gobber muttered. “Happy Snoggletog, Sto.” 

“Do ya’ think he’s cold out there, Gobber?” Stoick asked quietly. “He got sick every year and never seemed to get warm no matter how much wood I added to the fire. None of the tribes have reported seeing him in several months. How could he possibly survive in this kind of weather?”

“Now, ya’ can’t be thinking that way,” Gobber said as he plopped down in Valka’s old seat, avoiding Hiccup’s. “He’s clever and determined. He used to sleep in the forge a lot during the winter. Bet he’s driving some other smith crazy with his doo-dads and tinkerings right now.” He sniffed, and it was only partially due to the chill. 

“I’d adjusted some more tools for him as a Snoggletog present,” he tossed the bundle at Stoick. “He works so much better with his left hand, so I've been slowly tweaking them. Those were my chisels and grips for the detail work he loved to do.” He chuckled sadly, “figured he would use ‘em to etch some protective runes and poetry onto an axe for Astrid as a courting gift one of these days.” Stoick said nothing as he ran his fingers over the fabric.

“Half me tools are made fer his hands,” Gobber said after a few moments of silence. “Who’s gonna use ‘em now?” Stoick was his best friend in addition to his Chief. They used to be able to talk for hours about anything n’ everything. But the Hiccup-shaped hole in their life has changed that; each grieving and silently blaming the other for the loss. It was getting harder to bridge the gap, to talk about or even around their missing boy.

Conversation trickled off awkwardly as the two men sat in miserable silence while the rest of the island toasted and cheered for the holiday. Outside, the snow continued to fall. 

The village shuts down and isolates for the winter, everyone huddling close to the fire and their families. Stoick abandoned his lonely house after a week, sure he would go mad in the silence, and started staying at the forge with Gobber. He’d hunker down in Hiccup’s small workshop, curling himself onto Hiccup’s abandoned futon. So many times he had found the lad splayed here, covered in soot and dried sweat. How Stoick would gently cradle his son, often so exhausted he didn’t awaken, and carry him back to the house. 

He spent what would have been Hiccup’s sixteenth birthday — his actual birthday on the extra day of Gói — in something of a daze, gently rubbing his thumb along the familiar curve of Hiccup’s abandoned helmet. The presents Stoick had prepared for him,  more sketching charcoals and some books, remained hidden and unopened. He did not leave his house or speak a single word that entire day.

The Thaw couldn’t come fast enough. Spitelout tried to cheer him up by eagerly hyping up Thawfest and their annual rivalry, but Stoick just didn’t have it in him this year. Stoick felt like half the man he’d been this time last year. He didn’t have much of an appetite these days and his tunic hung looser on him. The village wives tutted at him when didn’t finish his meals.

“Ya’ can’t keep doin’ this, Chief,” Britta mentioned with a frown. “You lose any more weight and you’ll be as thin as —” she stopped herself just in time, but they all knew what she was going to say. 

So he sat on the sidelines while his village wrestled and fought for glory. Snotlout, in particular, was doing his best to stand out as much as possible. Everyone knew Stoick had been working with the lad, though nothing had been said about officially passing on the inheritance. Snotlout himself just grinned wider and boasted louder so people wouldn’t notice the cold sweat beading on his brow. 

It was closer to spring than winter when it was time to renew the treaty with the Berserkers. Stoick stroked his beard as he watched the ships dock — far too many for just a simple signing. Oswald hadn’t responded to Stoick’s summons about the Nest, so maybe he was planning on going after the treaty? Well, Stoick would update him during the feast. Maybe he’d seen Hiccup; he thought Oswald’s boy and his son were friends. Maybe. 

“My father has been retired. He lost his taste for blood,” Heir — no, Chief — Dagur the Deranged said with a grin. His flinty eyes fell on Stoick, “and from what I hear, I’m not the only one who lost a family member since the last treaty signing."

“Watch yer tongue,” Gobber hissed, but Dagur threw a knife at him, just barely missing the man as it sunk into a wooden beam. He never took his eyes off of Stoick.

“I can’t believe my brother had it in him to run,” the young man cackled wildly. “I wonder if he’s still alive out there and not half frozen or eaten by wild dragons. Oh, I hope he is,” his eyes glinted, “he might have stories of the Dragon Master.”

“The who, what, now?” Gobber grumbled as he limped after the two chiefs. 

“The Dragon Master,” Dagur explained later as he dug a knife into a table at the Great Hall. “So far it’s only been rumors and sailor’s talk, but they form a picture. The recent drop in dragon activity is supposedly caused by him. They say he controls the beasts, that he’s gathering them for his army. He speaks their language, can crouch and hiss like a dragon and turn them into his slaves. He’s only seen in glimpses because the mount he rides is said to be a Night Fury of all things.”

“Sounds like a whole lotta yakshite to me,” Snotlout grumbled under his breath but,  unfortunately, Dagur heard it. The young Chief whipped his head in Snotlout’s direction and grabbed a fistful of his hair, dragging him forward so they stood face to face. 

“A good leader knows not to buy entirely into rumors, but to find the truth buried beneath the tall tales.” Dagur said, then leaned down close to the other man’s ear, whispering conspiratorially. “I used to have so much fun with Hiccup. I could torment him for hours and yet he never broke, not once. He may have been tiny and weak in stature, but compared to him, you are just so small.” He shoved the shaking boy back into his seat, then turned back towards Stoick, dismissing the presumed heir entirely.

“I don’t suppose you have any dragons in your arena to bleed for the treaty signing?” Dagur asked, wrenching the knife out of the table and holding it threateningly. “I volunteer to slay it.”

“Our dragons have been gone for months,” Stoick noted carefully. “There was a Fury present the night they escaped. We suspect that it may have been involved in the rescue.” Dagur threw back his head and laughed loudly.

“So, he was here already, the Dragon Master,” his grin turned menacing. “I can’t wait to kill and gut both him and his beast.”

Stoick signed the treaty and got the madman off of his island as soon as he could. Dagur seemed interested in checking out the Nest himself and didn’t need much coaxing. Stoick watched Dagur and his men go as he wearily rubbed at his aching temples. 

“Dragon Master, who’s ever heard of anything so ridiculous,” Spitelout grumbled at his side. “Real men don’t chase after tall tales; they’re grounded in cold, hard facts.” He side-eyed Stoick. “We have ta stop beatin’ round the bush; when are ya’ going to officially name my boy heir?”

“I haven’t decided yet, Spitelout,” Stoick ground out. “Your son is simple-minded and prideful. He was not born into leadership and I do not yet know if he can be forged by it. I do not care for your machinations, Brother.”

“We barely made it through the winter with our stores, our allies are deranged, I don’t know what’s going on with the dragons or this Dragon Master business. These aren’t problems that are easily fixed. All I have left is Berk, and I will make sure this island is passed into capable hands.” Spitelout glared stormily into the horizon as Stoick left him.

Spitelout ended up eating his words as traders came to Berk’s shore armed not only with goods, but also tales of the mysterious man who rode the Night Fury.

“And then what happened, Mr. Johann?” Bitterroot — the seven and a half year old daughter of Treeroot — asked with wide eyes. A gaggle of children, as well as a small group of adults feigning disinterest on the outskirts, leaned in with anticipation. 

“Well, after the fog monster stole my ship and dragged it into the Breakneck Bog, I thought I was positively done for!” The trader announced with a theatrical, fearful tremble. “But then! From within the fog, I heard it, the call of the dreaded Night Fury! The unholy companion of the one and only Dragon Master!” The children gasped. “I could barely make out the shape of his rider, but I daresay it was hardly human. It was hunched over the creature’s back and where its face ought to be was covered with darkness. I feared the creatures would feast on my poor, stringy flesh, but instead the rider got a length of rope and dragged my small rowboat out of the Bog and back to sweet civilization. I was picked up by a passing ship. However, by then, the man and his beast were long gone.”

“Why did he help you if he’s a demon?” Scurvy asked, picking his nose with his pinkie. 

“One can never know the whims of gods nor their monsters,” Johann diverted easily. “The rider never spoke, never presented themselves, just hung in the fog like it belonged there and pulled my boat forward.” The man sniffed and clasped his hands to his breast. “Demon or no, I was grateful for the help. If only it had come closer so that I might have been able to thank it properly.” 

Or kill the annoying fool who had tamed such a prize and sell his priceless dragon to the highest bidder, he thought idly. But that was a bit much for the wee ones. He had hoped Berk would have some insight into the Dragon Master but, no matter. Now that the man was starting to affect profits, someone would get serious and finally kill him. But still, even Johann could appreciate a good story.

“So you really didn’t see him — or, uh, it — at all?” Little Olav asked eagerly.

“Up close? Oh, goodness no, I’d fall right to pieces. No, though others have said the Dragon Master is tall and lithe, built for the skies and not walking on the ground. He almost never dismounts his Fury, practically becoming one with his beast. One reliable source said he has a cloven hoof instead of a human foot. It would explain why he doesn’t walk much. Perhaps he traded it to his Fury in exchange for his ability to control dragons.”

“All right, all right, that’s enough,” Stoick said, waving off the children and other lurkers. “Johann, my old friend, I beg of you to stop filling their heads with such nonsense. The youngest ones are forgetting about the dragon raids and if they start getting in their heads to ride one —”

“I’m afraid it’s not all nonsense, Chief Stoick,” the trader said with a flip of his hand. “Now that I’ve seen it for myself, I know many of the rumors to be true. We don’t know why the raids have stopped, but I’d bet a barrel of gold that the Dragon Master has something to do with it. You ought to be wary.”

“I trust you and I will take your warning into consideration,” Stoick said evenly. “Has there been any word of my son?”

“There may have been a sighting of him at Dark Deep and another as far as Uppsala, but—” Johann held up a finger before turning and digging through his cargo. He pulled out a wooden, rectangular box. “One of the lads I employ to load the ship received this just before we launched from the Northern Markets a few weeks back. When I asked for a description, he just said it was a lanky boy with a wild mop of auburn hair.” 

Stoick took the box with trepidation; his thumb ran over the runes of his name carved into the box. The letters were off-center and angled as always since Hiccup refused to use his proper hand to write. He’d been subsisting off blind hope and potential sightings for so many months that real, physical proof his son lived felt like a Gronckle to the chest.

“There’s not even a transport fee!” Johann continued on eagerly as Stoick continued to stare down at the box. “Not that I would have charged my dear friend Stoick for such a precious gift, why not more than a few silver pieces! But your lad was considerate enough to pay ahead for its transport,” Johann’s eyes twinkled with heady curiosity. “Seven gold pieces, for the transport of a simple box I would have done, almost, free of charge. I always knew your boy had the potential for greatness, but whatever he’s done while traveling to be throwing around that kind of gold... it makes one wonder.”

“You said he was at the Northern Markets?” Stoick asked.

“He was, though I don’t know how he’s been making his way around and beyond the Archipelago. I would bet my boots that he’s long gone from there by now,” Johann noted casually. His mind, however, was still whirling over the mystery of the missing heir. Maybe if he found him, Johann could anonymously ransom the boy back to Stoick? How much trouble could one runt be? 

“I promise to let you know straight away if I hear anything about Young Hiccup,” he lied.

“Thank you, Johann, truly,” Stoick said as he dropped a few coins into the man’s hands. “I know you said he paid already, but you’ve no idea what this means to me.” He didn’t stay any longer, walking as quickly as he could to his hut to open Hiccup’s package. There were tears shed in the Haddock hut that night, tears of love and relief instead of the usual fear and grief.

Meanwhile, the Dragon Master wasn’t the only Berkian teen being gossiped about on the isle.

“Oh, he’s so dreamy,” Hilda sighed, watching through the forge window, a few paces away. 

“Really?” Her friend, Inga, said with a sneer. “Snotlout’s always been kind of short and ugly, plus he’s boastful and smells something awful —”

“Okay, but he’s going to be Chief so that automatically makes him dreamy,” Hilda interrupted sharply. She brought her hands to her face. “Imagine me as Chieftess. Everyone would have to do what I say and all I’d have to do is pop out a kid or two. I thought I'd have to put up with that annoying Hiccup brat, but Snotlout is a much better choice.”

“Just because we haven’t had a Chieftess in a while doesn’t mean they don’t do anything,” Inga rolled her eyes. “Plus, you’re six years older than him, surely he’d want a younger bri —”

“Age is just a number, Inga,” Hilda hissed before flipping her braids. “Besides, I imagine Snotty would appreciate a mature woman like me. Better than marrying that rabid Thorston girl, and Astrid the Arsehole says she’s gonna remain celebate as a shield maiden.”

“What is he even doing here?” Inga ignored her friend and instead watched the boy fumble and stagger, panting and sweating and looking thoroughly miserable. Gobber came over and yelled at him about something and the boy shrunk away. “As the presumed heir, he’s not required to do stints at the forge. Does he think acting like the old heir will secure his position? He was always giving Hiccup a hard time, so why is he here?”

“I don’t know, maybe guilt?” Hilda shrugged. “A lot of people think Spitelout put the runt out of his misery to ensure his family inherited. Further proof that my precious Snotlout is a good man and the perfect husband for me.”

“You and your schemes,” Inga huffed.

With every new ship that docked at Berk came new and increasingly fantastical stories about the Dragon Master — the only name he had since the man refused to give his own. Stoick stopped dismissing the rumors out of hand since so many of them had been repeated and confirmed. It was all the wee ones talked about now. Without the shadow of the raids, their fear of dragons started shifting towards awe. To the adults, it was a worrying trend as they expected the dragon raids to start up again any day now. The youngins would learn soon enough that dragons were fiends, not friends.

“The Dragon Master was heading North, the last I heard. It’s hard to get any real information on the man, but everyone seems to be in agreement on that,” a bounty hunter named Eret sighed. Stoick didn’t usually ally with dragon hunters as he typically found them to be men without honor, felling dragons through cowardly methods for profit. Eret and his crew, however, were hardworking men who ran on the outskirts of the trade and captured all their dragons by hand. The young man also gave him insight into what was happening beyond the shores of Berk.

“There’s nothing to the North except ice and death,” Stoick grunted. He fiddled absentmindedly with his new chainmail, enjoying the feel of metal under his fingers. 

“Perhaps to you and I, but people like him are a different breed entirely. Maybe he’s allied with that crazy dragon thief up there. Or maybe he’s off to face Drago. Now that’s a confrontation I wouldn’t want to be around to see, but it is inevitable I suppose for the two dragon conquerors to clash.” Both men shuddered at the thought. 

“Anything you can tell me about him? To protect my people should he turn his eye towards Berk?” Stoick asked.

“I hate to rely on rumors,” the man continued, taking a slow sip of his drink, “but that's all we have. No one has ever gotten a good look at him. He’s all in black and blends in with the creature he rides - plus he’s usually only out at night. The hunters have pretty much stopped all movement of product once the sun sets to try and prevent further losses.” The man groaned, “I’m telling you, it's a bad time to be in the business right now.”

“He’s attacking the dragon trade?”

“Anyone who buys, sells, or even harbors dragons can expect a visit. I don’t know when the crazy bastard gets any sleep; it seems he’s always hitting someone. From the small traders all the way up to the big boys. Viggo Grimborn has declared war on him; offered quite a hefty reward for his capture, so I heard. And I’m telling you right now, that’s one bounty I’m leaving on the table.”

“Probably fer the best,” Stoick noted as he thoughtfully stared into his mug. “We found a dragon corpse at the Nest, big as a mountain with teeth taller ‘n any natural born man. Me and my second think yer Dragon Master killed it. Possibly how he gained control over the creatures.” He missed Eret’s pale face and wide eyes, blissfully unaware that the hunter would spread Stoick’s words aboard his ship and in other ports. Had no idea he has just contributed more to the swirling myths about the man. 

He pushed some gold across the table and the hunter gave him a sad, patient smile. The man tried to return it, but Stoick wouldn’t take it.

“I told you I would keep an eye out for your boy, you don’t have to keep bribing me,” Eret sighed as he reluctantly snatched up the coins. “I don’t know how he can stay hidden when you’re paying half the Archipelago to look for him.”

“Anything that brings me closer to finding him is worth every piece of gold I own.”

“Snotlout,” Stoick asked his nephew later as they watched the hunters sail away. “What do you think of this Dragon Master business?”

“Oh, uh,” the boy stumbled. “I mean it sounds pretty cool but, of course, uh, everyone knows that dragons are bad and riding one would be… also bad.”

“No, I mean,” Stoick sighed. “What if this man comes to Berk? What would you do with him? Would you treat with him? Drive him off? Try to slay him?” Snotlout stared at him with wide, vacant eyes. “Lad, if you truly wish to succeed me as chief, I need you to start thinking about these things. No matter what drivel yer father tells ya’, there’s a whole lot more to being chief than sitting on a throne and bossing around the womenfolk. You need to be able to think and act decisively, for the good of the isle and all her people. Their lives are in your hands.”

“I don’t really know what I’d do, if he showed up,” Snotlout admitted quietly, looking down at his boots. “If he’s done half the things Johann and the others say he has, I don’t know if we’d be able to fight or reason with him.”

“I suppose that’ll due for now,” Stoick said gruffly. “But think awfully hard on what kind of chief you would see yourself being.”

Dragons did eventually come back to Berk. 

With the spring, they caught sight of Nadders in the skies or Terrors hiding in fish barrels. Mildew screamed bloody murder when a Zippleback took a nap in his cabbage field. But they never purposely raided and they scattered the moment they were approached. Stoick didn’t know what to make of it. He poured over Bork’s notes late in the night when he couldn’t sleep and yet found nothing to explain such passive behavior. They behaved more like skittish forest animals than the demons he’d known his entire life.

On one particularly nice spring day, Gobber closed the shop early and began building something around the forge. Gustav helped him at the beginning, but the boy made such a mess with his tools he was shooed off before the Hall stopped serving dagmal. People paused to observe the project of their blacksmith who just said it was something he wanted to give a try. He spent all day on it and worked into the night before he declared it done. No one quite understood what the tall, wooden frame over the building was until a week later when one of the twins’ pranks gone awry threw smoking cinders onto the forge’s thatched roof. It began to sizzle and smoke until Gobber pulled a piece of rope and a trough of water spilled over the building and killed the fire before it could blaze.

“Oh, that’s something clever!” The butcher said, stroking his beard. “We really could have used a dozen or so of these when the dragon raids were still going. This would have saved a lot of rebuilding. I don’t suppose I could commission ya’ fer one?”

“And I,” Bravenut Thorston said drolly as she corralled her troublesome youngsters. A few others spoke up in interest as they examined the structure. 

“What a great idea, Gobber,” Stoick praised, clasping his battle brother on the shoulder. “How did you come up with it?”

“I didn’t,” the man said heavily. He pulled a piece of parchment out of his pocket which detailed the idea along with measurements and other thoughts scratched into the margins. HHH III was scrawled messily in the bottom lefthand corner. “My apprentice did. He was always working on these sorts of things, though with bigger projects like this - he knew he’d never get permission for ‘em. Lad drew this over a year ago. Imagine how many homes could have been saved if he’d been able to build this.”

“Where did you get this?” Stoick asked, taking the parchment and delicately running his fingers over his son’s signature.

“Found an old notebook tucked away while things around the other day. There’s some good ideas in there, things that could work given time and patience. I just,” Gobber took a slow, steadying breath. “I just wanted to see something of his work; to show people it could work.”

“This does look like his sort of nonsense,” Spitelout said, eyeing the new addition with distaste. “But this is what we’ve got a fire brigade for. We’ve no need for,” he gestured flippantly to the wooden frame and the still swinging water trough, “all this.”

“Just because it’s something new,” Gobber sneered, getting right up in Spitelout’s face, “just because it came from Hiccup doesn’t mean it deserves your ire.” 

“Whut? As if anyone cares about anything made by Hiccup th’ Useless,” Spitelout spat with a snort. He chuckled and looked over his shoulder, waiting for the others to agree with him.

“I dunno, this seems pretty useful to me,” the butcher said with a thoughtful frown. “I never really paid attention to what the lad was doing, so long as he was out of the way. Maybe I should have.”

“Hiccup had been servicing my family’s weapons for years and no one acknowledged it,” Ingrid Hofferson admitted grudgingly. “We knew he worked the forge, but I hadn’t known how talented a smith he was until he was gone.”

“He looked after our Chief, kept him fed and did the house chores,” Ragna Bakken noted quietly. “He made messes, but he tried to fix them up afterwards.”

“Hiccup always treated me well, led me back to my hut when I got lost that one time,” Bucket insisted. “He was small, but he tried very hard.”

“He was fifteen and was treated like yakdung for most of his life because of things he couldn’t change,” Gobber spat. “So he couldn’t lift a sheep over his head? What does that matter in the end? He ‘ad strength of heart, the brains to see a plan through, and the fortitude to survive in a village that wanted him gone. Well, yeh got yer wish, he’s gone, and only now do ya’ selfish bastards see his worth.” He huffed and waved his hand dismissively as he hobbled back into the forge. 

“What did you call him?” Stoick asked Spitelout in a dangerously quiet voice, his fists clenched in rage. “What did you call my boy?”

“Spitelout, yer drunk. Shut yer mouth before ya’ regret it,” Frida hissed frantically, but Spitelout ignored his wife to address the crowd.

“Oh sure, everyone get mad at Spitelout fer speaking th’ truth!” the man shouted back. “You all are a bunch o’ cowards! Hiding behind pretty words as if every single one of us hasn’t muttered that name under our breaths. I’m not ashamed to say that I think it’s good that he’s gone! Saved you the trouble of disinher—”

Spitelout was thrown back as Stoick slammed his fist into the side of his jaw. Dazed and shaky, he struggled to get back to his feet, but the Chief forced him back into the dirt with a heavy boot. The whole village was silent.

“Don’t you ever talk about my son that way,” Stoick rumbled. “I don’t want that name to pass from your lips ever again or I’ll rip yer jaw from yer skull.” Spitelout felt his ribs creak from how firmly Stoick's boot pressed his chest into the hard earth.  “Don’t think I haven’t heard the rumors, Brother, that you had something to do with Hiccup’s disappearance. If I didn’t have proof that he was alive elsewhere… My boy, small as he may be, is twice the man ye will ever be, Spitelout Jorgenson.”

“Th’ Hel are ya’ talking about?” Spitelout said, spitting out a bit of bloodied saliva. “Ye think this is some grand conspiracy? The village takes its cues from you, Brother. They treated Hiccup how you did, pushing him outta the way, yelling at him to quit messin’ about, trying ta’ toughen him up. How can we respect an heir when ya’ clearly didn’t even like him?”

Stoick stumbled back, the words shaking him as if they’d been a blow. His people looked at him with wide eyes, no one arguing against Spitelout’s statement. Some even averted their gazes to the ground so he couldn’t see their expressions, see the agreement in their eyes.

“No,” he breathed out, before starting again stronger. “No, Hiccup was my only child. I loved him more than the breath in my lungs, more than every star in the sky. My last bit of Valka that remained in this world, I would have done anything fer him. He knew that, knew I loved him.”

“Then why did he leave?” Spitelout growled as he shakily pushed himself up. “Face it, Stoick. Yer son was a nuisance and ye drove him off. If you want this isle to survive then ya’ have to accept it and move on. Snotlout will be waiting to resume training when ya’ get yer head out of yer arse.” He stormed off and, seeing that the show was over, everyone else drifted off to whatever they’d been doing before. Only Stoick remained in the now empty streets as Spitelout’s words banged around in his head like a hammer. He clasped Hiccup’s Snoggletog gift between his palms as if in prayer. 

Hiccup knew he was loved. Knew that Stoick appreciated the warm mead Hiccup poured for him when he got back from a long day. Knew that every single one of Stoick’s actions was done to make the world a bit safer for his small, frail boy. They didn’t talk much, that much was true. Stoick just… never knew what to say to him. He loved Hiccup, but Stoick didn’t understand him, didn’t really know what to do with him. The mounting pressure to make Hiccup into a worthy heir and the fear of losing him, coupled with stress from the island slowly losing the dragon war… 

Stoick thought back to his last conversation with Hiccup, the eve before he was to fight the Nightmare. He spoke of how proud he was, gave him a precious helmet made from Valka’s armor and was eager to speak about the glory of fighting monsters. Stoick found he couldn’t remember much of what Hiccup said. However his awkward and uncomfortable expression in his father’s presence was now practically seared into Stoick’s mind.

“Oh, what a fool I am.”

The introduction of the fire control system was about when public opinion for Hiccup Haddock, former heir, lost son, began to change. Now when people spoke of him, there was less derision in their tone, more respect. No longer was he a spoiled, foolhardy boy who would soon perish in the Wilderwest, but rather a proud warrior on a quest for blood and victory. He may not have been strong, but he was clever. There was a passive longing when speaking of him, firmly in the present tense, as if waiting for him to return.

“I hear Stoick got a box from him and it held enough gold to feed the village fer months,” Deerteeth said as the men sailed out beyond Berk. They had the respect, at least, to save gossiping about their leader’s son off the isle. “We’re to have a grand feast any day now using the riches within.”

“That’s a load o’ yakshite,” Wart growled as he wrestled with the oars. “Stoick would’ve announced it if the contents of Hiccup’s package were valuable to the village.” He sighed and swiped at his sweaty brow with his equally sweaty forearm. “But I’ve no doubt it was something valuable to the Chief. Probably the lad sent something to swear fealty to his father. Assure him of his health and promise to return when he’s done whatever he hoped to accomplish.”

“Imagine Hiccup th’ Not So Useless returning as a warrior with riches and a bloodied sword,” Bootstrap mused. “I suppose the Haddock blood had to come out somehow. If he has truly proven himself, I would gladly accept him as my chief. Better than that idiot Jorgenson boy.”

“Maybe praying for our wayward heir’s safe return will bring fish to our boats,” Wart said with a sarcastic edge. “Cast out the nets, men! We still have a village to feed.”

“Take that, you evil dragon hunter!” Young Olav said, stabbing at his sister with a toy sword. The girl gagged and squawked as she fell dramatically to the ground from her grievous ‘wound’.

“Curse you Heir Haddock, for your masterful killing blow!” Olga howled, despite her supposed injury. “Curse the Hairy Hooligans for making an heir so cunning and strong! Curse the Gods for aiding in your sacred journey!”

“Be silent, wicked dragon hunter,” Scurvy said, stepping roughly on Olga’s gut and prompting a very real grunt of pain. “I, the Fearsome Dragon Master, do honor you Hiccup Haddock for your bravery. I will teach you the way of dragons and make you richer than the Romans if you aid me on my quest to kill every dragon hunter.”

“Oh, uh, I don’t know,” Olav blinked at the older kids who gave him an unimpressed look. “I mean, uh,” he held up his sword again. “I mean my father, the Chief, is waiting for me to return home. If I wait too long, he might forget me.”

“You do your people a great honor, but imagine how much more we could do together,” Scurvy grinned. Olga decided she was bored on the ground and bit Scurvy in the leg holding her down. “Ouch! That hurt, wench!”

“I’m not a wench!” The girl declared, bouncing up to her feet and stealing her brother’s sword. She lofted it high in the air as if it were crafted by the gods themselves and not imperfectly whittled by her father. “I am the Dragon Master and only I control the dragons.” She held out her hand to her younger brother whose eyes sparkled at her. “Come, Heir Haddock, we have all of Midgard to save! Let us fly off on my Night Fury!” The children continued to play Heir and Hero, as they dubbed it, until after the sun set and their parents called them home. 

“Okay, I’m here, what do you want?” Astrid huffed in frustration. Her axe was gripped tightly in her hand, held low. She wasn’t sure what to expect from this meeting, and she wasn’t taking any chances. One never could with Snotlout. Especially like this, when he was pacing in front of her like a caged dragon. But a caged creature was often more dangerous than a free one. 

“Marry me, Astrid,” the boy said suddenly, stopping in his tracks to stare up at her. Her eyebrows shot into her hairline before she started laughing. “I’m serious!” She laughed even harder, doubling over a bit when she couldn’t contain her merriment.

“Seriously deranged,” Astrid said breathlessly as she struggled to compose herself. “I hate you, you hate me. We’re Jorgensons and Hoffersons, that’s how it’s always been. Besides, I’m never getting married. You’re going to be Chief, you can have any girl on the island or beyond. Go try your pathetic attempts at wooing on someone who’s —”

“There is no one else!” Snotlout shouted. He dug his fingers into his hair, dislodging his helmet which clattered loudly to the ground. The sound of it, mixed with the desperation on the other’s face, finally wiped the smile off her face. “It was cool when Hiccup was around and everyone was all like, ‘ew, Hiccup’ and made me look better in comparison without doing anything. But now that Hiccup’s gone and, like, maybe a badass journeyman or something, now everyone’s saying ‘ew, Snotlout’ and no matter how much I show off, no one seems to care.” 

He groaned, “Fishlegs was right, as weird and weak as he was, Hiccup would have been a good Chief. Before I grew and Hiccup didn’t, he used to take charge in our games and make up new, fun ones. You remember, don’t you? How it was before our parents told us to stop playing with Stoick’s runt?” Astrid frowned, only recalling vague memories of the time Snotlout spoke of. They’d all been so small…

“My dad has been obsessed with me inheriting ever since, but of course, he never asked me what I wanted. I’m not good at all that stuff; I never wanted to be the heir.”

“You are the heir,” She scoffed. “Stoick may not have announced it, but you’re the only option. And because you're the heir, you’re going to have to buck up and learn how to lead. You don’t have the option to say no, so you better figure it out.” His frantic eyes were still boring into her and she sighed with frustration, trying to convince him of the foolishness of his request. “Look, I’m a warrior. I will not be an obedient housewife; I won’t rub your feet, I won’t cook for you, I won’t pop out an army of babies. I am the actual worst choice for a bride.”

“But the best choice for Chief,” his words shocked her into silence. “The more Uncle Stoick tells me, the more I realize I can’t do this. I’m not — this isn’t who I am, Astrid. The whole village will be looking to me to help them and… I tried – I did! – but I just can’t. But you can! You’re smart and strong and people will listen to you.” He held out his hand, mouth pressed into a firm line.

“I can sew, and who cares about the hut, cleanliness is overrated anyway. We’ll get our meals in the Hall and we’d only need a single heir to get people off our backs. Marry me, Astrid, because there is no way I can be Chief. You don’t have the bloodline to inherit directly but, through me, you can have it all.” He glanced at the ground, “I don’t actually hate you, that’s just my dad. I don’t know if I could love you, but I could respect you.”

“What if I can’t respect a man willing to hand over the Chiefdom because he’s scared,” Astrid retorted. “If you’re that much of a coward, you might as well run away like Hiccup did.” Not interested in hearing any other excuses or pleas after that, Astrid turned on her heel and stomped away. 

She found herself growing angrier with every step. Angry at Snotlout for such a ridiculous proposal and thinking he could dump all his problems on her. Angry at Spitelout and the Chief for doing such a bad job of handling sons, at teaching future heirs. Angry at Hiccup, for leaving in the dead of night and making Astrid feel all sorts of things. Guilt and worry and fear for the future. Anger, however, was the easiest to deal with.

It was summer on Berk, as warm as the island ever got with new lambs and yaks toddling around without fear of a fiery death from above. The trees were blooming, the birds were singing, the crops were plentiful, and a knife rusted at the bottom of a pond in a picturesque, little cove.

It had been a year since Hiccup had left Berk.

Stoick used to rouse easily. The slightest sound of dragon wings or the smell of sulphur would have him alert in moments. Later, he began listening for the rustle of a teenager's midnight snack raid or the creak of boots on the unused stairs. It had been months since he had heard either and so Stoick began to sleep deeper. He was… tired a lot these days. So when a pounding on his door awoke him a few hours shy of dawn, it took him a minute to answer. It was Spitelout, his face grim.

“We’ve got several boats with presumed dragon hunters within sight of Berk. I think they were travelling past when they were attacked,” he said as Stoick clipped on his furs.

“By whom?”

“You know who,” his half-brother said with the slightest edge of wariness, of fear. Stoick was plenty awake now. “Dragons are circling overhead, but none have landed on the island. Some of the hunters have fled their sinking ships and are heading this way. I don’t know what they’re transporting, but I swear I’ve seen lightning crackling from within one of the ships.” 

“Alert everyone able to fight, then have Mulch and Bucket gather the young, old, and infirm to shelter in the Hall. Have Gobber open the forge for weapons,” Stoick ordered.

“And Snotlout and the others?” Spitelout questioned. “They were never officially inducted as warriors since dragon training ended early, but…”

“They’re old enough. It’s time for them to learn battle,” Stoick nodded. There was a fleeting moment of curiosity on how Hiccup would have aged in a year. Would Stoick have sent him into battle with his cohort or selfishly kept him safe with the other youngins. He shook his head, chastising himself as he needed to focus on the upcoming conflict. He could not worry over what might have been.

By the time the warriors of Berk lined the beaches and cliffs, a small skiff pulled in clumsily to the docks. A dozen men piled out, some staring at the flames from their ships as they disappeared beneath the waves. Some watched the dragons still flying above and around the island. Some looked out into the inky blackness of the night with dread. Dawn was still a little ways off, yet the sky was already alight with fire. A broad man with no hair save for a small beard on his face moved the gawkers aside and strode towards Stoick.

“I am Ryker Grimborn. I need men, weapons and ships,” he demanded. “We’re moving a valuable product that will make us very rich. If you cooperate, you will be compensated. If you refuse, we will burn your isle to the ground. I have no time for negotiations while that lunatic is out there. Take the deal or your people die.”

“Bold words spoken from a man begging for aid,” Stoick said, his hands clenched into fists. “Vikings face their death with honor, but you have already proven your idiocy and cowardice.” He raised his sword – different from his usual, warhammer but one crafted by Hiccup’s hands – and brought it aloft. “Get back on yer vessel and leave this place. Pray to the gods for mercy, for you shall find none here.” 

“The Dragon Master threatens us all, you arrogant fool!” Grimborn shouted, spittle flying and his veins bulging obscenely with rage. “Help us kill him or, so help me, this pathetic place will be an ugly memory by morning.” He raised his weapon to strike when a familiar sound filled the air.

“Night Fury, get down!” Someone yelled. Stoick swiftly knelt down and brought up his shield, but he still caught the flash of something dark and fast moving against the night sky. Heard the powerful blast leave the beast and Grimborn’s responding scream. Smelt the sickening scent of burnt flesh as the target found its mark. The man’s broken axe fell at Stoick’s feet along with a few smoldering fingers. The Night Fury’s aim was as true as ever, hitting the man’s attacking arm and nothing else. Grimborn’s shrieks as he cradled the pitiful remains of his wrist almost disguised the sound of powerful wings flapping in the night. 

Stoick craned his neck up to get his first view of the man whose name was on everyone’s lips. 

The beast hovered in front of the moon, Máni’s bright light obscuring all his features until he was a well of darkness. Someone behind Stoick started murmuring a prayer to the gods under their breath. Grimborn was on his knees, panting and in shock, yet he still managed to bare his teeth in anger at the man and his dragon.

“Tell Viggo that was for raising a weapon against the innocent,” the man — for he had to be a man and not some divine creature like his eyes told him — spoke resolutely. His voice was surprisingly soft, barely making it to the ground. Maybe he imagined it, but to Stoick, the man sounded strained. He clearly took no pleasure from the necessary show of force. “I’ll take a limb for any attempt to harm the islands uninvolved in our conflict. This is between us and the gods. I will not tolerate any more unprovoked violence.”

The beast released another blast at Grimborn’s feet who staggered back into one of his men. The Dragon Master kept his head towards the hunters, never once turning his gaze towards the Berkians caught in the middle. 

“Leave now or I'll start taking more pieces.”

“I’ll kill you for this,” Grimborn said, gritting against the pain. “I’ll gut your Fury and make you eat its entrails. I’ll pluck out your eyes and your flapping tongue, flay the skin from your bones, and leave you to rot where everyone can see your corpse.” He spat at the ground, making brief eye contact with Stoick before turning towards the docks. “What are you idiots gawking at? Back into the water. It’s a long way home, so start rowing. I’ll make sure my brother is aware of this island’s cowardice and treachery.” 

Stoick was so invested in making sure the hunters left his waters that he didn’t notice the Dragon Master leaving as quietly as he came. He felt unbalanced, finally meeting the legend in the flesh. He was as powerful and terrifying as the rumors proclaimed, but he had also stood between Berk and men who would do her harm. 

Only time would tell whether the Dragon Master could be trusted. 

While Stoick was glad for the aid (as unnecessary as it was), he did not appreciate how explosively popular Dragon Master became on Berk because of it. A large portion of the island viewed him as a warrior and a savior. No matter how much Stoick tried to prevent such foolishness, public opinion was as fickle and ever changing as a Changewing’s scales. At least trying to hold onto order and prevent his people from deifying the madman kept him busy, something he was begrudgingly grateful for. 

He had stopped looking for Hiccup in the forge, in the crowds. Had stopped expecting his fire to be blazing and his mug filled when he walked in the door. His trips to Hiccup’s abandoned room and workshop became less frequent. Slowly, he was remembering what it meant to live alone.

Stoick was well practiced in grief by now. He knew the steps like an old, familiar dance.

“So you haven’t seen him again?” Stoick couldn’t help but ask Bertha at the emergency Thing they’d held a few weeks after the Incident. The legendary dragon hunters hadn’t enacted revenge on Berk, probably fearing retaliation from the Dragon Master, but it was better to be prepared.

“I obviously can’t trust my girl ta be entirely truthful, but I’ve kept a guard to the seas and there’s been nothing,” Bertha grunted. “In fairness, Cami and Thug tipped their hands so Hiccup might not think our islands are safe anymore.”

“I can only hope he has found other people, other islands where he does feel safe,” Stoick sighed. “I know I did wrong by him, was not the father he deserved. Yet I would give all my family’s gold to know that someone out there is watching out fer him, giving him food and shelter and keeping him safe from himself.”

“Yer old, Sto, but still spry. You could probably father another child, any woman would be happy to have yer bairn,” Bertha said even as Stoick scoffed. “And I say that not just because I fear for Berk after you pass but, well, I think a babe would do you good. You could do it right this time.”

“I don’t want another child, just as I don’t want a new wife. Valka is my only love and Hiccup my only child. I shall see my bride again in Valhalla but I desire nothing more than to meet my boy again here on Midgard.” he said resolutely as he drained his mug. “If you’ll excuse me.”

He’s not sure exactly when the idea came to him. 

The thought nagged at him during the long, neverending hours of the day. It started with the Terror he found crawling around outside his house. He grabbed it and held its throat tight enough to prevent it from flaming, but not enough that it couldn’t breathe. His people watched on with curiosity and wariness as he walked it to the arena and tossed it into a cage. Two weeks later, he and a few men wrangled a Gronkle which had been burrowing in the rocky beach. It joined the Terror one cell over.

“It’s fer dragon training,” he said, whenever the subject was broached. But even the youngins, usually so eager to start fighting the beasts, seemed uncomfortable. Mildew was pleased with him for once when Stoick caught the Zippleback that wouldn’t leave his fields alone. He sent ravens to his allies and even one to Captain Eret asking if they had any dragons they would be willing to send to Berk. The letters he received in reply told him he was playing a dangerous game. He kept sending letters, making sure everyone knew he was collecting dragons. Stoick took a small group of volunteers and aimed once more for Helheim’s Gate. They came back with a Nadder, another Gronkle, a whole cage full of Terrors and a large, cranky Monstrous Nightmare. People went out of their way to avoid the arena. To avoid him.

Stoick was feeding the beasts when Gobber approached him. This was usually the blacksmith's job as the de facto dragon trainer, but Stoick refused to have any one else responsible for this. If this went sideways, he didn’t want the village to bear the brunt of his mistakes. 

“Stoick, what in Hel’s name are ye doing?” Gobber said. “Yer not exactly being quiet about this, so you know He’s gonna catch wind sooner or later.” Stoick did not ask who He was. “Yes, he protected us a few months back, but I guarantee ya’ he’s not going to be as friendly on the other end. That beast of his didn’t even need to land to blast that man’s hand to bits,” he recalled with a shudder as he massaged his own stump.

“These dragons are being well cared for; Hel, they eat better than I do. I even let ‘em stretch their wings once a day while I rinse out their mess in the cages. I’ve done nothing to draw his ire, only his attention.” Stoick frowned at the arena wall. “The Dragon Master can speak and he has some sort of crusade, which means he can be reasoned with. I wish to treat with him.”

“Yer absolutely mad,” Gobber sneered with a shake of his head. “We don’t know if he’s even human, Sto. He could be part beast himself or Loki in disguise. Yer putting yerself and the whole village at risk to barter with a man who flies around on a damned Night Fury.” Gobber stopped and chuckled wearily, rubbing at his eyes. “Thor help me, this is exactly the kind of plan Hiccup would have come up with.”

“If that is how I can keep his memory alive, then so be it,” Stoick said calmly. “Go back to the forge, Gobber. The weather’s fair enough that I’ve been sleeping here as I wait for him.” He paused and ran his fingers along his medallion. “If something were to happen to me, you n’ Spitelout will be interim Chief. Announce my death to the Archipelago, see if we can reach Hiccup. If he returns home then the throne is his by birthright. If not, I suppose you turn it over to Snotlout if he can prove he won’t burn the isle down in a fortnight.”

“Stoick, ya can’t-”

“I’ve made up my mind, Gobber,” he snapped before deflating. “Please, this is something I have to do. I can’t explain it, but I must speak with him.”

“Yer a fool,” Gobber frowned before turning and making his way to the entrance. “I’m going ta sleep now and I’ll be up at sunset to keep guard at the forge. If I hear any sign of trouble, I’ll be there as fast as my one leg can carry me.”

Stoick finished up his tasks in the village and did not miss how his people avoided him more than usual, how they kept their eyes down and regarded him with caution. It occurred to him sadly that this was probably how Hiccup had lived much of his life. If – when – his boy came home, things would be different. He ate alone in the Hall before making his way back to the arena. The chittering and rustling of the dragons in their cages was far better than the oppressive silence of his home. Stoick slept better under the summer stars than he had in months. 

Several nights passed like this until, one evening, deep into the night, Stoick found himself awakened. Perhaps it was his rusty paternal instincts, but he just knew someone was sneaking around when they weren’t supposed to. He turned his head and was greeted with a low, threatening growl. 

“Chief Stoick, what a surprise,” the man said, his voice tight with something. Probably anger. 

“Easy, I mean no harm. I merely wish to talk,” he said as he slowly sat up from his furs with his hands raised. “I brought a lantern and some spark rocks so we can talk like men —” A whispered instruction and the Night Fury sent several controlled blasts to the torches surrounding the arena, bathing it in a soft glow. Combined with the moon’s gentle light peeking out occasionally from behind scattered clouds, Stoick could finally regard the bane of the Archipelago as he dismounted his beast and stood to face him. 

The Dragon Master was not what Stoick expected. He wore all black as he’d been told with some sort of demonic mask that covered his head and a sword strapped to his hip. But all Stoick could think as he saw the myth made real up close was how small he was. He was barely taller than some of the children running ‘round the island. Perhaps his people were bred to be small and light; it would make dragon riding easier, he supposed. 

“You were expecting us,” the man said quietly. “Is that why you’ve made sure everyone knew you were capturing dragons?”

“I do not deny it,” Stoick said. “You may look for yerself, they are unharmed and well fed. When we have finished talking, they are free to go so long as they don’t cause any destruction on my island.” The Dragon Master stalked over to one of the cages - the one holding the Nightmare - and pulled on the winch releasing the door. The man gently coaxed the beast out with some soft words and an open, outstretched hand. There were no signs of flames from the dragon who seemed to positively melt under the man’s gentle touch. 

He stroked the dragon like a prized hound, running his hand along the scales, pulling out it’s wings and even checking the inside of its mouth. The man was braver than Tyr, sticking his hand in Fenrir’s mouth, but the dragon calmly sat through the inspection. Stoick was uneasy, hoping his clumsy attempts at caring for the dragons would pacify a man who could order him blasted to bits before he could even move. Many Nightmares had died in this arena, Hiccup was supposed to have killed one a year ago. Maybe it was for the best he hadn’t. 

“This one appears healthy and it doesn’t sound like the others are being mistreated unlike with other trappers,” the Dragon Master turned his back to Stoick to, bizarrely, knock his knuckles on the doors. If Stoick was looking at anyone else, he would almost say the man was nervous. The Night Fury watched him intently, just waiting for Stoick to move and give it an excuse to strike. “So, uh, why did you go to all this trouble just to speak to little ole’ me?”

“I’m sure yer aware that you’ve become quite famous, and you’ve travelled through and beyond our lands on that dragon of yours,” he began slowly. “You lent aid to our village earlier in the season for which I wanted to express gratitude.”

“A thank you note would have been easier than all this,” the man quipped and something about it stuck out to Stoick. He’d analyze that later, once the danger had passed. If there even was a later. 

“I called for ya partially out of gratitude and partially to ask you fer another good turn,” he held his head high even as he uttered such shameful words. His pride had done him no good in the past, and if he got what he wanted, then he would gladly lay it down for good. “My son, Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third.”

“Your what?” The Dragon Master said, taking a small step back. His dragon curled protectively around him. “I mean, who? I don’t know about that or, uh, him.”

“My son has been missing since summer last,” he forced the painful words out. Without thought, he reached underneath his tunic to run his fingers along the medallion forged by Hiccup’s hands. It had not left his skin once since he’d received it. “I’ve sent scouts and letters and no one can seem to lay eyes on him for more than a moment before he disappears. I have proof he’s alive, at least since Snoggletog when he sent me a box of… but if you have any children of your own, you know it’s not enough.” 

The man took a breath and stroked his Fury who leaned into the touch. The interaction between the man and his dragon looked so natural, so strong, as if they were brothers instead of a man and his mount. He had never known a dragon could feel such things and yet, it was practically purring under the man’s hand. Who was he? To turn creatures into kittens?

“So what is your favor?”

“I ask what I ask of anyone who comes to my shores — I ask for them to keep an eye out for my boy. To pass on that his father worries for him, misses him and is… sorry for how things had been before he left. To make sure he has the means and methods to survive out there,” Stoick continued.

“And you wish me to direct your wayward heir home?”

“I —” Stoick paused and looked at the Dragon Master, or rather, at the black mask that covered the whole of his face. He wondered if he had a family to call his own, if he could comprehend the depth of Stoick’s pain. “Hiccup left for a reason. I am only now starting to see why he felt like he had to abandon the island of his birth. But if he’s strong enough to cross the seas and avoid my allies seeking him, well, I know he could return should he desire.” The man tilted his mask, but made no comment, so Stoick continued.

“I want him home, I want to hold him and hear of his tales, but I will not force him. I believe that as much as Berk pushed him away, something else just as important called to him. He is grown; I cannot and will not keep him where he does not wish to stay. Berk can find another heir, another blacksmith, but my son’s happiness comes before anything.”

“I see, that’s very…”

“Aye,” Stoick nodded self-consciously. Here he was, bearing his heart and failures to a complete stranger, yet he must do it. If there was the slimmest chance his words could reach Hiccup, even if only secondhand from the mouth of the stranger, then so be it. “It is not what my father would say, but I am Hiccup’s father before I am a Chief, even if it took him leaving for me to realize. So long as he is safe and knows he is welcome back any time, I will have to be content.”

“I wish my father had been more like you,” the Dragon Master muttered before clearing his throat and looking away as he scratched at the back of his neck. Again, the action seemed familiar, but he could not place it.

“I will watch for your — Hiccup, was it? — if you do me a favor as well,” the man said, standing taller. “The wind is changing; the raids are over with the Queen dead and dragons can be trained and become friends. The world is so much bigger on dragon back. One island, one region, is nothing compared to the endless expanse of the sky.”

“What would you ask of me?”

“Be open to that change,” the man said quickly, as if afraid Stoick would cut him off. “I won’t free the rest of these dragons if you promise to care for them. If you feed them, pet them, play with them, learn about dragons through gentle touches instead of violence. You can help me show the Archipelago that dragons can be our greatest asset, can save our lives.” He lovingly pet his Fury again who melted under his affectionate touch. “I am so much better for having Toothless in my life. I miss my home, but he has become my home as well.”

“Toothless?” Stoick couldn’t help but ask.

“It’s, uh,” the Dragon Master chuckled, “a long story.”

“I look forward to hearing about it someday. I agree to your terms. You watch out for my son and make sure he is safe and I will do my best to make this island friendlier, or at least more tolerant, of dragons.” He held out his arm. The warrior stared at it for a moment before holding out his own. They clasped forearms, sealing the deal. The Nightmare let out a yawn that showed off all its terrifying teeth and, to his shock, turned back to the cage it had been released from. Even more shocking was the Dragon Master lowering the winch and sealing it back inside.

“I’ll be keeping an eye on Berk as well, make sure you truly are making an effort with the dragons. I suppose if you have any questions you can, uh, wave me down I guess.”

“I’ll talk to my second in the morning and we’ll rework dragon training from the ground up. They say you can’t teach an old goat new tricks, but we’ll give it our best,” Stoick said. He tried to project assurance and steadiness, but underneath it all, he was afraid. He didn’t know what to expect from the dragons, from their Master, but he had to try — for Hiccup’s sake. Besides, an alliance with the Dragon Master would only benefit Berk, he could feel it.

The man mounted his dragon and the flickering torchlight caught on his foot. His metal foot. Had the leg at the Nest been his all along? Well, at least it wasn’t Hiccup’s. The dragon was still watching him, but its demeanor seemed overall less hostile than when it landed. The man stroked his beast on the head.

“You know,” he said slowly, as if he wasn’t sure if he should speak. “If Berk really changes, becomes a place where Vikings and dragons can live together in peace... I imagine that maybe, just maybe, your son would come back. It would tell him that his home is willing to break tradition to embrace the strange.” He coughed and turned his head away, “I don’t know, just a thought.”

“My boy never seemed cut out for dragon slaying,” he admitted and it only burned a little. “Dragon riding would probably be something he’d be interested in. Gods knows what sort of trouble he would get into. Hel, he’d be doing all sorts of tricks that would turn my beard gray.”

The Dragon Master laughed, loud and suddenly, before he launched himself into the sky. He sped around the arena, the wind from the dragon’s wings dousing the torches before they disappeared into the night. He heard the distinctive whistle of the Night Fury as it flew away from Berk and back into the Great Beyond. 

But he would back and, with luck, so too would Hiccup.

“Ah came as fast as I could, where is he? I didn’t have time to grab a weapon, but I found this long stick an’ I —” Gobber shouted as he limped into the arena. His hook hand was holding his trousers up while he waved the stick about. The sight filled Stoick with merriment, but also love. His friend who had both grieved with him and blamed Stoick in some capacity for the loss of his apprentice, had come rushing to his aid in the middle of the night without a belt on. For the first time in what felt like ages, Stoick grinned and laughed at his dearest friend. He could not remember the last time he laughed so freely; probably not since the night Hiccup left.

“Ya’ just missed him,” he strode forward and clapped Gobber on the shoulder. “Go get yer beauty sleep, ya’ ugly prune. Tomorrow, we’re starting from scratch with dragon training. Mark my words, Berk is going to be the first island to be riding dragons, just you wait.”

Gobber stopped abruptly, gobsmacked by both Stoick’s laugh and his words. Still, the sight of that grin filled Gobber with a feeling he couldn’t quite describe, but it might have been something close to relief. “So we’re riding dragons now, are we?” Gobber said, giving Stoick an odd half-smile. “How very Hiccup of you.”

“Yes, well, we gotta keep things interesting if we want our boy to come home.” He said before his smile dissolved into a sigh. “I’m sorry, fer blaming ya for Hiccup leaving. Ya did yer best fer him, better n’ I did. I know Hiccup was always cared for when he was with you and I’m grateful fer that.”

“Aw, cut it out, ya big lug,” Gobber said, grasping his friend around the shoulders for a quick, manly side hug. “We both did our best but sometimes it just ain’t enough. This though, this crazy thing yer doing, that just might be enough.” 

“Only one way to find out. Come now, the dragons are settled in for the night and it’s time you and I do the same.” They walked to the forge where Gobber entered with a yawn before Stoick made the lonely trek to his hut. The village was quiet and peaceful at this hour of the night. Was this Hiccup’s last view before he left? He hoped the next time Hiccup saw Berk, it would be with warmth and pride for how far they had come, for how far Stoick had gone for him. 

Berk had not been kind nor welcoming to Hiccup for fifteen years. If Stoick had to turn the whole island upside down to change that, well, that was just all part of fatherhood. 

Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third, former useless and unwanted heir to the throne, former son of Stoick the Vast, current terrifying and unwanted Dragon Master flew away from Berk. But instead of the heavy weight of grief and guilt and homesickness he expected would be dragging him down, he felt… well, he felt like he was flying.

“That sure was something,” he remarked to Toothless as they navigated away from his home. His former home. His future home? “My dad, wow, I’ve never heard him talk that way before, and what he said about me… It’s a lot to take in. I sent him that package to let him know I was alive because I’d heard people thought I was dead, but I can’t believe he treasured it that much. I don’t —” Feeling suffocated all of a sudden, he pulled off his stupid mask. He thought it looked cool and mysterious, but it was admittedly constricting and hard to breathe in at times. To be honest, the whole Dragon Master persona — which he had NOT agreed to that name by the way — felt like an iron clamp around his throat. 

“I just wanted to help the dragons,” Hiccup whispered to himself as the wind tangled through his unruly hair. “I didn’t mean to…” What, become some sort of scary dragon vigilante, known and feared throughout the Archipelago as some sort of inhuman draconic spirit? Too late for that.

What started as stopping one trade ship became war declared by the hunters and Hiccup being forced to ask Toothless to be, well, not so toothless. He squeezed his eyes shut at the thought of the blood from the men he had maimed, the agonized roars and whines of dragons caught in cruel traps, the screams from both parties when he couldn't save those trapped aboard burning ships. The sight of Ryker’s mutilated forearm had him dry heaving for hours afterwards and still haunted his nightmares.

Hiccup pressed his palms into his eyes until stars burst into his vision. He didn’t want to be a legend. He didn’t want to be a monster. He didn’t want riches or women or secrets or whatever people kept trying to offer him. Hiccup just wanted there to be peace with the dragons. And he also wanted his dad. It had surprised him, how fiercely he had missed his father and Gobber, missed the backdrop of the village and the people in it. He was happier with Toothless, freer and more comfortable with himself, yet it felt like there was a hole in his heart in the shape of his old home. But maybe, just maybe, he could have both.

“What do you think, Bud?” Hiccup asked, leaning forward to stroke his dragon’s head. “Do you think we can try again with Berk? Get them to see the truth about dragons?” And about me, went unspoken. Still, Hiccup felt buoyed by the heady feeling of his father’s love, his calm acceptance of Hiccup’s journey. The weight of his chosen duty didn’t feel so heavy knowing he could return home any time he wanted and be welcomed into his father’s arms.

“Maybe if I hadn’t run,” he sighed. “If I had confronted the village when I faced the Nightmare, maybe we wouldn’t have had to miss each other so much.” Might not have had to have Toothless bite off his wounded leg when they became trapped at the nest. Could have used Gobber’s forge instead of sneaking into strange shops in the dead of night to rebuild the tailfin and a matching foot. Would have had reassurance and backup in his accidental, unending war against the dragon hunters. 

Toothless made a grumbling noise and Hiccup laughed. “Yeah, or maybe I would’ve gotten my skinny butt charbroiled and banished right afterwards.” 

“I guess we’ll never know what could have been, but all we can do is try to move forward,” he said with a hopeful smile. He laughed suddenly. “Can you even imagine what the village gossips would say if they learned that wimpy Hiccup Haddock is the Dragon Master?” Toothless didn’t respond vocally, just tucked his wings into a dive and startling another laugh out of Hiccup. 

“You’re right, I’m getting ahead of myself. Berk has a long way to go before we’re ready to reveal that bit of juicy information and we still have a lot of dragons to save, not to mention stopping the dragon trade.” He clicked his foot into the proper gear to continue the dive, the Dragon Master and his vicious Fury — Hiccup and his best friend — picked up velocity and shot through the dark, cutting across the stars. Just before they would have hit the water, man and dragon opened their respective wings and sharply tore across the war.

“Come on, Bud,” Hiccup said. “We’ve got a lot of work to do before we can go home.” It was an eventuality, a promise of someday. One day, Hiccup Haddock would set his singular foot back on Berk. For now, he would fly with his father’s blessing and an open sky of possibilities in front of him.