Chapter Text
The massive hearth of the Great Hall had long since grown cold and dim, but Berk’s council still debated. Stoick the Vast sat motionless in his wooden throne, listening in silence to the arguments of his fellows.
“Exile still seems the best option, Stoick,” Spitelout tried again, leaning his elbows on the gray stone. “I’ll sail the ship myself. If we leave tomorrow, the boy could be dropped off at Outcast Island in a week's time.”
“We can’t send ‘im off the island!” Mildew protests, rattling his staff. “Better to keep ‘im here than to make a gift of him to Alvin the Treacherous. If he bewitched one beast, he can bewitch another! I’ll not have us cowering in our halls with our shields over our heads while the runt sends a Nightmare to–!”
“Watch yer mouth, Mildew.” Beside the Chief, Gobber’s glower intensifies. “Hiccup would never–”
“You saw the beast with your own eyes, Gobber!” The lanky, grizzled old man shouts. “We haven’t any idea what Hiccup would do! The boy has been deceiving us! Fratenizing with those creatures beneath our noses! And a Night Fury of all beasts–what wicked tricks could enslave such a beast to the boy? It’s sedir, I tell you! Witchcraft! We should have known the lad was cursed the very moment Valka bore a runt. Instead, you made him heir, and now look at what he’s done.”
A blanket of unease sweeps over the Hall’s occupants, all but the wise old Gothi, who scowls, and the Chief himself, who frowns. Eyes sweep to him at the mention of Valka, but it is the whispers of witchcraft that turn his eyes cold. Mildew sits back in his chair, seeming to realize–with an uncharacteristic display of tact–that he has gone too far. Stoick was never one to believe such children’s tales and crone’s fears. Mentions of magic and spells will do nothing more than unnerve the council.
And, in truth, Stoick doubts magic had anything to do with what Hiccup has done.
The doors of the Great Hall bang open, a sharp gust of wind stealing through the hall. The remaining embers of the hearth struggle weakly, and Bucket and Mulch hurry to close the doors. Stoick eyes the storm beyond them as they fall shut, the thick white pelting down from above, and the ceaseless wind. Just as the doors close, lightning cracks in the sky, and thunder rolls seconds later.
The freezing climate of Berk is even colder than the norm, tonight.
“Gunnar.” Stoick says, his voice gravelly with disuse. He hasn’t spoken in hours, except now, to a guard standing near the hearth. “See that cloaks are brought to the prisons. I’ll not have the boy freeze before he can answer for himself.”
“He does raise a point, Stoick.” Not-So-Silent Sven’s voice raises up, hesitant in its high pitch. “Hiccup…captured a nightfury. The unholy offspring of lightning and death itself!”
“Who knows what other dragons might bow to him!” Mulch nods.
Mildew smirks. “You see, Spitelout? We haven’t a clue what the boy is capable of. We can’t risk shipping him off to Alvin!”
On that singular note, Stoick agrees. He is not all in favor of shipping his–of shipping the boy off to Outcast Island, either. Why hand Alvin a potential tool to use against them? Why set Hiccup free…if he would only turn to that man again?
Though, Gobber’s glare unearths a question in his mind. Would the boy seek to harm them?
“What would you have us do, then, Mildew?” Spitelout demands. “Our cells aren’t built to hold criminals for life. Exile to Outcast Island is the usual route.”
“Nothing about this is usual.” Gobber grunts.
Stoick feels inclined to agree.
They have already arranged for the Night Fury’s death. Stoick would slay the beast at dawn in the Kill Ring. Mildew had argued that the boy ought to be present, an idea backed by a few vikings on the council but shot down by Stoick. Currently, the midnight beast writhed in chains inside one of the Ring’s holding pens. It was a monster unlike any Stoick had ever seen, every inch of its scaled hide living up to its short description in the Book of Dragons. Even now, with the memory of the dragon’s slitted eyes and the shriek of purple budding in its throat, the faintest traces of apprehension stir in Stoick’s gut. It would certainly be the finest fight of his life, the sort his grandchildren’s grandchildren might have told of by the fire–except he would have no grandchildren now.
As of hours ago, he no longer had a son.
The thought of that boy exercising his will over the Night Fury baffled him still. It had been obvious that the lad was the dragon’s master, for his shout had kept the ball of purple flame from fleeing the beast's jaws. Still, it was impossible. The sort of feat only Odin might have accomplished, and only Loki would have dared to achieve.
Would the boy mourn the beast?
In his anger, Stoick had initially agreed to see the teen’s attendance when the Night Fury was slain. Now, however, with hours to cool his rage, Stoick had changed his mind. The boy would remain in his cell. The dragon would die.
“--all saw him with the dragon!” Mildew was arguing. “What use would a trial serve, except to allow the boy more opportunity to manipulate us? And who would stand for him? He’s been disowned.”
More eyes flick to Stoick.
Mulch lifts an eyebrow. “What are you suggesting, Mildew?”
“The boy is too dangerous to send to Alvin, and Berk is not fit to hold him. What he’s done is an affront to the gods. Seems to me that the only option is to–”
“Hiccup is only a boy!” Gobber growls. “You can’t seriously–”
“The boy has seen nearly eighteen years! That is eld’ enough to know evil from not! The gods will not forgive this! We must–”
Only then does it dawn on Stoick what Mildew has suggested.
He rises from his chair.
The Hall goes silent, the squabbling of men dying away.
“Berk,” Stoick speaks–carefully, controlled–to the council for the first time since the sun set, “has not executed a prisoner in many years. And certainly, none of those prisoners were children.”
“Stoick, we must–”
“Enough, Mildew.” Thankfully, his tone finally silences the old man. “There will be no more talk of executions. I agree that exile to Outcast Island is out of the question. The full extent of the boy’s power over the Fury is still a mystery. We cannot risk delivering him into Alvin’s hands. Surely, the cells can hold the boy for now–”
But fate would disagree.
The doors of the Great Hall fly open once more, though this time it is not the wind but Gunnar, wide-eyed and out of breath. His sword is drawn, but hangs useless at his side.
“Sir!” He shouts. “There’s been– something happened in the cells—”
Stoick’s heart leaps into his throat. “Is Hiccup alright?”
Any number of things could have happened.
Almost all of Berk had been in the Great Hall when Johann…almost all of Berk had seen the Night Fury. Heard Hiccup defend it. Saw the saddle, and the way it bent its head to the teen’s shout.
Anyone might have snuck into the prisons with a sword or an axe.
“He’s gone, sir!”
Hiccup has escaped. Hiccup has run. Hiccup is gone.
Hiccup could not be allowed to speak to that…that man again.
“Show me!” Stoick thunders. “Now!”
And they are sweeping from the hall. Gobber hurries after them, moving at a speed impressive for a man with a wooden leg, but not faster than Stoick himself. Spitelout, too, strides to catch up to the Chief, but he is already stepping out into the blizzard, taking to the great stone steps. The wind buffets him from all sides and tries to rip the bear cloak from his shoulders. It is nearly enough to make the chief stagger as he races down the steps. Nearly. The white is so thick that Stoick can scarcely see the torch before him as they barrel through the snow, and the cold is already freezing his breath onto his beard.
Hic– the boy could not possibly last long in such a storm. What was he thinking? Nothing, likely. The boy never thought, was reckless and brash and foolish .
It’s not long–but still longer than Stoick would have liked–before they come upon the prison. A long building of old stone and older wood, it is the one building never attacked by dragons in the raids, for it has nothing to offer except cold walls and iron bars. And tonight, the boy.
The door is already thrown wide, Gunnar’s footsteps swept away from the entrance. Stoick shoulders his way inside, the storm falling quiet through the stone. The labor of his breathing makes up for the quieter scream of wind. It whistles still through the hall as Stoick strides down it, towards the only cell currently occupied…or not.
Outside the bars, two guards lay sprawled on the floor, unconscious. Stoick stoops to feel their heartbeats in their throats, but barely registers the thrumming under his fingers. The door to the cell is open, the space behind it empty. The cot is untouched, blankets un-mussed, as if the boy did not once sit upon it in the hours since his imprisonment.
Down the hall, an abandoned cell spits in snow through its broken window. In the small patch of white that has gathered lies the unmistakable print of a prosthetic leg, one Stoick knows all too well. It is the only sign that the boy was ever here, and the only sign that he is gone.
Stoick whirls to stand, an odd mixture of rage and fear drowning his mind like too much mead. Gobber and Spitelout are slowing their gaits behind him, eyes on the unconscious guards and emptied cell. Their expressions are unreadable, but Gobber’s eyes find the print in the snow and linger there.
“Call a search party.” Stoick demands. “Pull men from their beds, if you must. Find him.”
Gobber’s face grows stony, but Spitelout nods.
“Stoick–” Gobber begins.
Stoick cuts him off. “Now, Gobber. The fool will freeze to death in this storm, and may birth a disaster before he does. Find him.”
Wisely, Gobber says nothing more, following Stoick and Spitelout as they exit the prison. Gothi needs to see the men who were guarding the cell–how did he even escape?– but for now Stoick throws himself back into the cold, leaving Gobber to fetch the old healer woman and Spitelout to arrange a search.
Stoick’s feet carry him, unbidden, to the Kill Ring. He hates the thought that this is where the boy would go, that he would race to his…beast upon his escape…but he follows the path anyway. He trudges through the snow, bearing a torch and squinting. Stoick knows he is a large man, strong and quick despite his years. He could outpace a lanky teen in a snowstorm. He only needs to hurry. He can cut him off, stop him, lead him back to a cell, apologize- No.
Yes?
Stoick isn’t sure.
All he knows is that he has to beat Hiccup to that Night Fury. Gods, he should have killed it straightaway!
Finally, the great iron dome of the Kill Ring rises through the storm, and Stoick races recklessly across the wooden bridge despite the strong winds. His stomach sinks. The gates to the Ring are raised. In the storm, who would have heard them? Nevertheless, he races into the Arena.
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…
But his hope shrivels and his anger surges high, mixed again with that familiar fear as he finds the center pen of the Ring open, trunk lifted and doors thrown wide. He doesn’t need to examine it to know that it is empty, that the dragon is gone, but he does anyway.
He stares into the darkness of the pen for several minutes before, slowly, he drags his eyes to the night sky. There is only more falling snow, not even a twinkle of stars or the faint whistle of a Night Fury.
Hiccup is gone.