I’ve been posting this How to Train Your Dragon fic over at dA and also at a HtTYD forum, but TDIT mentioned maybe I should post it here too, since there are quite a few members who loved the film as much as I did.
This shouldn’t get any longer than eight parts, hopefully. (Though knowing me, I can go overboard with my writing sometimes. 
) As of yesterday, it’s only four parts long, but I’ll post them one at a time.
Questions, comments, critiques? I’d love to hear them. 
This is set before the film, and I’m pretty sure it doesn’t have any spoilers in it. If you have never seen this movie, I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: go see it. It’s a beautiful film, with so much heart considering it’s a Dreamworks movie.
Enough of my rambling! Here’s Part One. 
All fell completely silent in the small Norse village called Berk while snow steadily fell upon the frozen ground, as if the gods had commenced the silence themselves. Not one voice whispered a single word, not one foot crept out unto the freshly fallen snow, not even one curious face poked out of their warm homes as all waited in anxious silence to hear some news. From everything they had heard, things weren’t turning out as well as they had hoped and prayed.
Small families crouched in front of their warm fires, praying to the gods for protection over the chief’s wife, Eira. Her cries and gasps could be heard echoing throughout the village hours before, but had since fallen to complete silence. No one dared to ask what was happening - they believed that her fate was left up to the gods, and it would be unholy to inquire of their reasons for allowing her to fall so ill. All they could do was plead mercy on her and on her distraught husband, Stoick the Vast: chief of their tribe.
Pacing back and forth in front of their home was all he could do; the nurses at his wife’s side refused to let him in. Every so often he could hear one of them speaking softly to Eira, encouraging her to stay calm, but not once did he ever hear his wife’s tender voice break the stillness of the quiet night. With a deep sigh, he lifted his teary eyes up to the glistening heavens, slowly shaking his head.
“Oh, Frigg, protect my dear Eira,” he whispered. “I beg of you, please bless this childbirth.”
Not long after he had offered up the simple prayer, the silence was shattered by a shrill, mournful wail. Yet amidst the cries of his newborn child, Stoick never once heard his precious wife utter a sound. He turned around and burst into the house to find Eira laid in front of the fire, wrapped in blankets and surrounded by nurses. Her normally sturdy frame had become so thin and fragile, and her once-ruddy face so pale and hollowed. He hardly recognized her as he stepped inside. He walked closer and glanced over to see a nurse wrapping a small bundle together in her arms. She immediately turned around to face him, giving a small smile.
“You have a son, Stoick,” she softly announced, tiptoeing nearer to him. He could hardly pay attention to the tiny face buried under the blankets, and his gaze turned back to Eira. He placed a hand on his son’s head and gulped down a sob.
“How is she?” he asked the nurse who was still holding his baby boy. She glanced away and didn’t reply. “Will she pull through?”
No one answered his question. All seemed hesitant to reply. His breath came harder the longer they remained silent, and he finally abandoned his infant son to kneel by Eira’s side. He placed his hand atop her head, which was still drenched in sweat but unnaturally cool to the touch. With his other hand, he took her limp left hand and rubbed her delicate fingers.
“Eira?” he choked. His voice came out weak and frail, like a frightened child’s. “Wake up, dearest, and see our son. A son, Eira! Frigg has blessed us with a firstborn son, with hair so rich and thick, and your perfect little nose and lips.”
Eira made no reply. Stoick gripped her hand harder and held back tears the best he could. A nurse who had been attending her placed a hand on his shoulder, slowly shaking her head as she did so.
“She’s… gone, sir,” she managed to say. “She passed moments after the birth was over.”
For several painful moments, all he could do was stare at the lifeless body of his wife, his mind and body gripped with shock and frozen with disbelief. Of all the battles he had fought, of all the wounds or blows he had ever received, he couldn’t recall a single one that took his breath away like this. It was as though Thor himself had thrown a war hammer into his stomach. Dazed, he pushed himself to his feet, finding that his eyes never wavered from Eira’s body. A soft and pitiful whimper was the only thing that diverted his attention, and he turned back around to see that nurse still clutching the baby close to her chest. He timidly walked forward, doing his best to steady his shaky legs, and held out his arms for the baby.
Now holding his son in his arms for the first time, he noticed that the boy’s flushed cheeks were graced with tiny blemishes - freckles, as they were often called. His little round nose was so perfectly like his mother’s, and his ears the image of his father’s. He ran his fingers through the baby’s thick head of hair; so soft to the touch and chestnut-colored from birth. His little boy pushed his arms out from underneath the blankets, and with one hand he reached up to grab one of his father’s fingers.
Stoick would have been astounded and amazed at the sight of his perfect only son, but one thing kept him from deeming the child perfect: he was tiny, thin-framed and sickly; nothing like the other children born to Viking parents, who, from birth, were brawny and broad-shouldered, as he himself was from the moment of his own birth. And he, the chief of the tribe and the most experienced fighter and dragon slayer, was cursed with a son that in no way resembled his Viking ancestors.
Tears finally crept from his eyes as he studied his baby boy. “Odin, why have you cursed me with this… this, tadpole of a son?”
The room remained quiet for an uncomfortable amount of time until one of the nurses finally cleared her throat and spoke up.
“Eira told us she wanted him named Torer, for the blessing of his future as a warrior,” she said, but as she spoke the name, Stoick closed his eyes and took in a deep, painful breath.
“He is no warrior of Thor,” he bitterly whispered. He held the boy up, and his tiny frame was silhouetted by the back light of the fire. With another shake of the head, Stoick heaved a sigh. “This sickly child will never be one of us.”
As he spoke, he heard the door creak open behind him, and the familiar pad, thunk, pad, thunk of his childhood friend Gobber echoed through the mostly empty house. Almost ashamed of his child, he held him close and obscured him from view as his good friend stepped closer to get a look at the baby.
“Aye, there’s hope still for the boy,” Gobber noted, pointing to the squirming infant. “He could very well grow up to be a dragon slayer like you, Stoick. You just gotta feed 'em well and be patient. Who knows? Maybe he’ll surprise you.”
Stoick set his jaw. “I refuse to name him something he will never grow into.” Gobber stroked his chin and thought.
“Well, you know, some parents give their children names enough to scare off trolls or smaller dragons, sometimes even evil spirits,” he pointed out. “Why just last month, that good man Haakon and his wife named their son Snotlout in hopes that he won’t be carried off by a troll while he is still a wee boy.” Stoick raised his eyebrows, and Gobber held up his palms. “It’s been known to happen!”
For a long time, Stoick narrowed his eyes at the baby in his arms, only listening to him gurgle and whimper every so often. He held him up once more to study him, then shook his head again and growled. He nudged Gobber out of the way with his shoulder and walked towards the door, then pushed it open and stood in front of his home overlooking the village. Immediately, people began to stream out of their own homes, holding candles in their hands, and gathered at the bottom of the hill to get their first look at the chief’s son.
“Odin has blessed me with a son,” he announced, and at the words the village erupted in cheers. Gobber came to stand at Stoick’s side again and took him by the shoulder.
“Aren’t you going to tell them about dear Eira?” he whispered. “And they’ll be wondering what you’ve named your child, too. That is, if you’ve given him a name at all.”
“I can’t tell them about Eira… yet,” Stoick replied with another sigh. “And as for the name… I’ll be keeping that between me and you for now.”
Once the village had seen the new child, Stoick and Gobber walked back into the house and watched in silence as the nurses wrapped up Eira’s body and discreetly brought her away to be prepared for burial. Stoick hardly had the chance to mourn before his son would cry or squeal, and it only made him more upset to be reminded that his wife, once a warrior and dragon killer herself, was taken from this life; and he had been left with one child - and not even a strong, healthy one, at that.
“So you did name him, then?” Gobber wondered, once again breaking the uncomfortable silence. “Hopin’ it’s a nice one, like Ran or Inghart. You know, those names have been known to carry a lot of luck-”
“His name… is Hiccup,” Stoick firmly said, staring hard at the boy, whose eyes opened slightly at the sound of his father’s deep voice. They gleamed a brilliant emerald green in the firelight, for however short of a time they were opened. Gobber’s eyebrows shot up, and he had to stifle a laugh.
“Hiccup?” he repeated. “Is that it?”
Stoick nodded in decision. “That’s it. That’s his name.” He placed the baby in a wooden cradle by the fire, covered him in blankets to keep him from getting chilled, and sank into a chair. Gobber followed suit and sat across from him.
“Interesting name, indeed,” he mused. “You can rest assured no trolls will be after him with a name like that.” He paused, watching the fire as it slowly died down. “How do you think the village will take the name? After all, you are the chief of the tribe, and they may be expecting some great name in honor of the warrior gods. Come to think of it, they’re probably expecting a robust little boy instead of…” He waved a hand at the cradle. “…You know. That.”
Stoick angrily glanced over at Gobber, growling again as he did so. Gobber pretended not to notice.
“You can’t be so hard on him, Stoick,” he continued, tapping the cradle with his foot every now and then. “He’s an infant, and only an hour or so old, at that. It’s not like he’s being forced to fight dragons first thing tomorrow morning! He still has lots of time to grow, and if it helps you any, he can come work with me and make weapons until he gets bigger.” He shrugged again and held up a hand. “It all takes time. Just be patient with him.”
little chef
Oh, whyy???