Chapter Text
“STOP! Just... stop.”
They had no body.
Nothing to put on the pyre.
No way to properly put his boy to rest.
Just like Valka.
Stoick blamed himself. Hiccup disappeared not long after defeating the Gronkle. At the time Gobber assured him it was nothing to worry about, the boy had been spending most of his free time alone, in the forest or in the forge. He’d even been avoiding Gobber. So no one thought anything of it when he wasn’t in the Great Hall for dinner. Or when he didn’t show up to the party thrown in his honor. Stoick still worried but he didn’t think much of it when he returned home and his son wasn’t there. The boy had spent so little time at the house to begin with.
Stoick's worry grew more fierce when Hiccup was still absent the next morning.
The rest of the village didn’t seem to share his concern. The boy's final test was just that afternoon, he likely got an early start to the day and was in the forest training as he had been doing for the last few weeks. Hiccup had a tendency to disappear for hours at a time and then show back up as though he had never left in the first place. They had no reason to be concerned. After all, Hiccup was a Viking. He may not look it. Or act it. Or speak it. But he had proved that he was a Viking nonetheless. Just as hard headed, stubborn, and resilient as the rest of them.
“Every time you step outside, disaster follows.”
That's why they knew something was wrong when Hiccup didn’t show up for The Killing. It was normal for the boy to disappear for hours on end morning noon and night but he had never once missed a Dragon Training session. And he certainly wouldn’t have missed this! It was the event of the year, the entire village had come out, even Mildew had turned up, and Hiccup was the guest of honor. The main event! A true triumph for the underdog! Not just that but this was a return to grace for himself and the Chief! He would restore their family name! Their family honor!
Hiccup the Useless. Hiccup the Scrawny. Hiccup the Screw-up.
It would all be a thing of the past. The village could forgive and eventually they would forget. After all how could they hold the past against him when he had the best score in dragon training since Stoick himself!?
The boy was about to earn a new title, one that spoke of power, honor, and upheld the Viking way of life!
He would become Hiccup the Fearless. Hiccup the Bloodthirsty. Hiccup the Dragon Killer.
After all Hiccup was a Viking just like the rest of them. A late bloomer but still a born killer.
And no proper Viking would ever turn down the opportunity to kill a dragon.
“Can you not see that I have bigger problems?”
The chief ordered a search of the village to commence at once. After all it wouldn’t be the first time someone had sabotaged the Dragon Training winner in order to take the kill for themselves. Although no one thought Astrid or Fishegs would stoop so low they couldn’t say the same for Snotlout or Ruffnut and Tuffnut.They searched all inhabited areas until well after nightfall, they left no stone unturned but still found nothing.
The five remaining children all swore they had nothing to do with this. They’d formed a friendship with Hiccup the last few weeks and were nothing but excited that he was the one with the honor of killing the dragon (except Astrid but she claimed she wasn’t so dumb as to kidnap the son of the chief).
The next day they turned to the surrounding area. They split into groups and each of them began to search in a different direction. Gobber took the cliff edges, worried the boy had slipped and fallen, injuring himself or worse. Spitelout and Snotlout led a group to the beach, Snotloud claimed that Hiccup was always interested in the caves there when they were younger and could’ve easily gotten himself trapped in a rockslide. Stoick took his group to the forest. No matter the amount of time Hiccup spent within its branches a small directionally challenged thing such as himself could’ve easily gotten lost in the brush.
“Winter's almost here and I have an entire village to feed!”
They found no signs of him the first day. Nor the second. By the third the chief was growing restless.
They’d scoured nearly the entire island yet his son was still missing, as though he’d vanished into thin air.
It was on the fifth day that they finally found something.
Mulch and Bucket had broken from their group to search closer to Raven Point, an area they knew well that had yet to be checked. After all, how could Hiccup have gotten all the way out there? When they stumbled across what appeared to be a crash site.
A large tree with its trunk split in two. Others cut down entirely. A moat carved into the forest floor. All leading to an empty crater with the remains of a bola net.
“Go get the chief.”
“Why can't you follow the simplest orders?”
It was obvious as to what had happened. Hiccup had shot a dragon out of the sky the night of the attack. If the black scales surrounding the crash site were any indication it really had been a Nightfury. It made sense to them all now why he’d been continuously sneaking off into the forest by himself. He knew he had shot it down and he, the stubborn born Viking that he was, was going to prove it to all of them. He must’ve been searching tirelessly for weeks to find where it had landed. And when he finally did he had planned to bring it back to the village to show them all. They knew he must’ve planned on dragging its lifeless body all the way back to the village. After weeks of laying there, no access to food or water, Hiccup would have assumed it to be dead, or at the very least too weak to fight back. But dragons are resilient beasts. The moment Hiccup cut the first rope, and they assumed he had cut it as a way to drag the beast back, it struck. It escaped and it took Hiccup with it.
Stoick ordered them to continue the search, but he, along with the rest of the village, knew it was futile.
“You are many things, Hiccup. But a dragon killer is not one of them.”
Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III, heir of Berk, was dead.
On the sixth day they mourned.
On the seventh day they held a funeral.
“This is serious, son!”
It was early in the morning, the sun just beginning to peak over the horizon, when the village made the march down to the shore. A longboat sat on the beach waiting for their arrival. The children had offered to paint it as an homage to Hiccup; it depicted his various triumphs against the training dragons in the arena. Including the time he scared the Zippleback into its pen with nothing but his bare hands. The final image that of Hiccup standing face to face with a Monstrous Nightmare.
They had no body to burn but that didn’t stop the chief from loading the boat with grave goods. Blankets, clothing, and drawings Hiccup had made. Members of the village came forward and added in some of their own weapons, things Hiccup had made or fixed in the forge.
“When you carry this axe, you carry all of us with you.”
The boat was launched out to sea and when the time came it wasn’t just one arrow that flew through the sky but three. Stoick released his first, followed closely by Gobber, and, against all odds, Snotloud released the third.
“Do you think this will be enough?” Gobbers voice was quiet, barely louder than a whisper, but it carried across the shore.
“If the Gods can recognize who these belong to they’ll know, and Hiccup will find his place in Valhalla.”
The truth is none of them could know that for sure, but it was the chief’s word, and who were they to argue against it.
Not a single soul left the shore until the flaming ship had disappeared over the horizon, lost to the ocean waves. By that time the sun was beginning to set, painting the waters in brilliant reds and oranges. They marched back to the village in silence, each and every viking returning home without the usual fanfare and revelry accompanying a funeral.
“Which means you walk like us.”
No one left their house until later that night when the dragons attacked. It was the bloodiest battle the Hairy Hooligan Tribe had fought in years. Every viking wanted their pound of flesh. And they certainly got it.
“You talk like us.”
Every member of the tribe refused to stay down. If they were knocked over by a dragon tail they shook off the pain and stood right back up. They threw caution to the wind. Threw their hearts and souls into the battle ahead of them. Limbs were lost, houses reduced to ash, someone swore they saw Silent Sphen get lit on fire by a Nadder and continue on as though nothing happened.
“You think like us.”
Stoick was by far the worst. He fought with his heart, his soul, his anger, and his despair. Any dragon who dared cross his path was met with a violent and bloody end. Stoick fought as though every dragon was the one who took his son away. As though killing the beasts who attacked their village would avenge his son and take away his grief. He was driven forward by the ghosts of his past whispering in his ears. Every harsh word, every cold shoulder, every disappointed scowl.
He regret it all.
His son died not knowing how much he cared. And as Stoick ripped the head off of a Monstrous Nightmare with nothing but his bare hands he vowed to never make that mistake with his village.
“No more of... this.”
By the end of the battle there were more dragon carcass strewn about the street than there were sheep left in their flock.