Heir and Pride

Chapter Twenty Two

The air was filled with ash and the stench of scorched dragon flesh as the Chief of Berk stumbled through the aftermath of the battle. The beach of Dragon Island was strewn with charred skin, bones and ash, the aftermath of the explosive death of the mountain-sized Red-spined dragon that the vikings were already referring to as the Red Death. But Stoick only had eyes for the small black shape of his son's dragon.

    

"HICCUP!" he shouted. "HICCUP!"

    

The beach was chaos, boulders and rocks exploded or smashed by the impact. But the Chief was desperate, his eyes scanning every inch of the beach, until he saw it: not grey but black. The Night Fury. Toothless.

     

He ran forward, his legs strong as he ran over the broken ground. He almost reached the dragon when he caught sight of something that made his blood freeze: the saddle on the dragon's neck was empty. Stock dropped to his knees and his eyes shone with sudden grief.

    

"Oh Hiccup," he breathed. And guilt assailed him for all the times he had shouted at or struck the boy, for every harsh word or insult he had tossed at the slight boy. And all those times his son, his brave and determined boy had suffered at his displeasure. "Oh son, I did this," he moaned.

    

And he knew he had. Hiccup wouldn't have driven himself to such crazy lengths if he had been accepted, if he had felt part of the tribe. But Hiccup had never been part of the tribe, ostracised and rejected, the boy had finally found the way to make his father proud-at the cost of his life. He had saved the village-but not himself. And if Stoick had given him that chance earlier, maybe his son would not be dead.

    

"Son-I'm sorry," he whispered.

    

Toothless opened his eyes at the sound of Stoick's voice and bleary green eyes fixed on the huge man, on his knees with his head bowed. The rest of the tribe were drawing close but Toothless was tired and he hurt. The impact had been survivable for him, because dragons were tough, but it was still a very rough landing. He saw the girl, Astrid emerge from the crowd, her eyes filled with tears and the other dragons looked distraught. But the word...the word sorry was what Toothless had been waiting for. It was a word he knew and a word that everyone on Berk owed his rider. But his father most of all.

    

Slowly, he unfolded his wings-to reveal the battered and bloody shape within. Hiccup.

    

Stoick grabbed him and his face suddenly lit with hope. "Hiccup!" he gasped and pressed his ear to his son's toast rack chest. Against all hope, there was the faint pitter-pat of the boy's heart.

    

"He's alive!" he cried and cheers rang out. "You brought him back alive!" More cheers as Gobber limped over and peered down at the grievously wounded shape in the Chief's arms.

    

"Well, most of him," he said.

oOo

Stoick's breath froze as he saw what his friend meant. Bruised, battered and broken, Hiccup was still gravely wounded-but the worst was his left foot and ankle. His boot was gone and somehow, his foot had taken the brunt of the blast before the flameproof dragon had wrapped him in its embrace. The foot was burnt and torn, the flesh blackened and cracked with the charred bone showing in places. Blood oozed from the upper limits of the wound, a red stream leaking the boy's life onto the dry ashes of his foe. He stared up at Gobber and his face held utter despair.