Dark Valkyrie

Twenty-Two: Lost

Twenty Two: Lost

The return to Berk was swathed by night and it was raining but the solid shape of Stoick the Vast was still pacing up and down the Plaza, ostensibly checking that the village was secure but in reality, waiting for the Riders to return. The night patrol nodded greetings and he acknowledged them absently, peering into the mist as he retreated back into the shelter of the forge.

Gobber looked up from where he was unbending a sword that seemed to have been transformed into a corkscrew and gestured to his friend.

"Tek a seat," he said, his hammer prosthetic steadily flattening the curved sword. "I don't know what that yakbrain Lars does with his weapons but if he can manage to go a week without turning them into scrap, he's doing well." Stoick frowned and quietly lowered his bulky shape onto Gobber's carefully reinforced stool, reaching automatically for the flask of mead that the blacksmith kept in the middle of his tools. He didn't mention he had seen Lars using his sword the previous day to hammer some nails into a fence that he had been knocking down and then repairing all using just his sword.

"Aye-he's not the sharpest weapon in the armoury but he is a good cheesemaker," he commented, sipping Gobber's mead. He grimaced: the man insisted on brewing his own and Gobber's mead could double as metal polish-and probably had, Stoick thought wryly.

"I can tell yer worried but Hiccup's friends will find him," Gobber reassured him.

"Why did he go in the first place?" Stoick asked wearily. "I mean, he is still recovering from being poisoned by that honourless cur, Viggo, and he is safest here."

"He's Hiccup," Gobber smiled. "He overthinks everything. He tends to brood and he always comes to the worst possible conclusion. I mean, I got to know how his mind works pretty well when he was meh apprentice. And whenever he felt he had disappointed you-or you had ignored the boy because he wasnae what yeh thought ye wanted in a son, he took it hard. Can ye imagine what he thinks now, with that brand on his flesh?" Grimly, the Chief nodded.

"I wish he knew that we will face this together," Stoick sighed. "I mean, he is my son and it took me far too long to realise what an amazing young man he is-but I know who he is now and I couldn't be more proud in him. I just want him home..." Gobber peered up and then his eyes twinkled.

"Ye can ask him yerself," he commented as roars echoed through the rain and shapes coalesced, drenched and flying fast, led by the iridescent shape of Skullcrusher who arrowed without hesitation towards the forge, followed by the other dragons. Stoick was up on his feet in an instant, running into the rain to see the dripping shapes of the Riders landing, his eyes fixed only on the black shape of Toothless and the bowed young man on his back. Hiccup was soaked, his auburn hair darkened and plastered to his head and his left shoulder bare and wounded. Stoick stared at him as his son lifted his head.

"Sorry, Dad," he murmured as Stoick lunged forward, wrapping his only child in his arms, swathing him in his warmth and concern.

"I was worried, son," he said gruffly, feeling Hiccup wrap his arms around his father. "I know how sick you have been and that man is still out there. Anything could have happened." Hiccup looked up. "And I know you had Toothless with you-but I still worry. It's an occupational hazard." Leaning against his father and sighing, the young man tightened his grip.

"Sorry, Dad," he repeated. "I-I just had to go. I-I needed some time..." His throat was curiously thick with shame and unfamiliar emotion. "I'm sorry I let you down. I'm sorry I shamed you. I'm sorry I'm not your son, not the Heir you need." He pulled back. "They know." Stoick stared into his ashamed face.

"Son..." he murmured but Hiccup bowed his head.

"They saw..."

"And we have an idea, sir," Fishlegs piped up as Tuff immediately stuck his hand in the air.