Little Miracles

Confession

Chapter Thirteen: Confession

The silence that followed Stoick's confession was utterly stunning and completely deafening. Everyone in attendance thought someone should speak... someone should ask why and, more importantly, how... someone should do something to comfort Stoick, even put a hand on his shoulder, but no one could do anything. Even Trista was silent as she stared at Stoick, whose eyes were focused on the ground rather than on anyone specifically.

Then came a tiny sniffle from Adrianna and the spell was broken.

"Why would you..."

"What did you..."

"...you did that..."

"Dad, how..."

"But Trista was..."

"...how you'd forget..."

"...could have happened..."

"But you wouldn't..."

At long last, Stoick held up a hand to silence the group, all of whom were looking a cross between horrified and desperately curious. Even Adrianna had been completely forgotten in the ensuing chaos.

"It's a long story." Stoick said, looking over to Trista. "Do you want me to tell them now?"

"Only if you value little Addie's life." Trista said, pressing the dagger up to the child's windpipe just lightly enough that no skin was broken.

Hiccup felt a surge of anger at the sound of his special nickname for this daughter but his helplessness to the situation and overwhelming curiosity got the better of him. He gritted his teeth and faced his father.

"I think we'd all like to know what happened." he said in a low voice.

"Trista," Stoick said, looking her in the eye. "I don't know if Adrianna should hear this..."

"Oh she already knows the story. She just didn't believe me." Trista chortled.

Stoick looked down at his granddaughter and was dismayed to see her bright green eyes fixed on him, wide in shock. It wasn't enough that he had to disappoint his son but he felt like he was stealing the innocent adoration the child had for him far too early. He took a deep breath, averting her gaze and turning to face another pair of green eyes.

"It was over forty years ago." he said, his voice devoid of all emotion. "I was a child, ten or eleven, and I was... different back then. More rambunctious, more mischievous. I didn't take many things seriously. My parents were constantly telling me to focus, to stop playing around but I didn't listen. If I had... well if I had, none of this would ever have happened."

"Stop swinging that around!" Trista snapped, looking up from her sewing and glaring at her little brother. "You're making a lot of racket!"

"Trista!" Stoick whined, his eyes focused on the club he was holding. "It's boring! Can't I go to the Great Hall? The other guys are there..."

"Dad said to stay put. He'll only be out a minute. I said stop swinging that!" Trista stood up and reached for the club.

"Or what? You'll tell on me?" Stoick's mouth twisted into a wide grin. "We all know who dad's really gonna believe."

Trista pursed her lips and turned back to her sewing. As much as she hated to admit it, Stoick was right. No matter what she said, their father never listened to her. She ignored her brother as he bounded into another room. For a few minutes, everything was quiet.

Then came the crash.

"What the Hel did you do?" Trista shouted, standing up and running into the other room.