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❛ sᴛᴏʀᴍʙᴏʀɴ​​​​​​​​​​. ❜ ° . ༄
- ͙۪۪˚   ▎❛ 𝐎𝐍𝐄 ❜   ▎˚ ͙۪۪̥◌
»»————- ꒰ ᴀ ɴᴀᴍᴇ ᴡᴇʟʟ-ᴇᴀʀɴᴇᴅ ꒱


❝ BUT YOU JUST
POINTED TO ALL OF ME ❞

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Hiccup has made many mistakes. Every time he's tried something new, it has gone terribly wrong. Maybe it's because most of what he's attempted hasn't kept his attention and he let his mind wander instead of listening to the instructions. Maybe it's because whenever he tries to help he always ends up making things worse. Whatever the reason is, he's caused enough catastrophes within the small archipelago of Berk to be christened with the epithet 'the Useless.'

As much as he'd like to, he couldn't really begrudge the villagers this moniker, but he felt that a part of it was due to how. . . disliked he was. After all, he was the least-Viking Viking there ever was. His skinny build was merely a shadow to some of Berk's strongest warriors. His higher-pitched voice (though he swore it would deepen at some point) couldn't carry like his father's. His logical mind governed most of his actions rather than jumping headfirst into battle like the other villagers. These differences set him apart and his lack of strength allowed him to be easily pushed aside.

While some wouldn't mind this, he felt the need to prove himself, to show that he wasn't as useless as everybody thought he was. But it seemed like the Fates had something against him as he was never given the chance. Every time the opportunity came up, he was shoved behind the armory where his boss, Gobber, kept a close eye on him as he tended to the weapons. What was this opportunity, you may ask?

Well, Berk wasn't like other archipelagos.

Instead of having mice or mosquitoes like most places, Berk had dragons. It was every good Viking's duty to kill the monstrous beasts. Hatred for dragons was bred into children from the moment they took their first breath and became their life goal to protect their island from them. Killing a dragon was everything to Berkians; a high kill count gave the best Vikings bragging rights and exotic trophies to show off on their walls. Hiccup wished that he had a chance to just kill one.

A Nadder would at least get him noticed. Gronckles were tough. Taking down one of those would definitely get him a girlfriend. A Zippleback? Exotic. Two heads, twice the status. And then there was the Monstrous Nightmare. Only the best Vikings went after those; they had this nasty habit of setting themselves on fire. But the ultimate prize was a dragon that no one had ever seen. They called it the Night Fury. The thing never stole food, never showed itself and never missed. No one had ever killed a Night Fury. That's why Hiccup was going to be the first. If. . . only he could actually get out there and have a shot at it.

"Oh, nice of you to join the party!" Gobber called to him as he entered the blacksmith's. "I thought you'd been carried off!"

Hiccup sighed, his attempts to stake his claim once again foiled by his father. He pulled on his apron and hastily tied it behind him. "Who, me? No, come on, I'm way too muscular for their taste." He grunted as he lifted a mallet to hang it on the wall. Once he'd set it down, he turned to Gobber and lifted his arms to show himself off. "They wouldn't know what to do with all this!"

Gobber, while an intimidating-looking man, had a very good sense of humor (at least, at his apprentice's expense) and chuckled at the boy's words. "They need toothpicks, don't they?"

Hiccup had worked under him ever since he was little (well, little-er.) Despite his gruff appearance, the large man was warm and friendly— much like a second father to him. Their banter didn't last long as the line of impatient Vikings outside the shop prompted them to get to work quickly. He took some of the swords from the villagers to the back where a fire roared in the hearth. He dropped them on the hottest part of the flame before taking the handles of the bellows. With a jump, he pushed air into the coals to increase the heat.

He could hear the chaos continue outside, though the smoke from the armory prevented him from seeing the action clearly. From the sounds of it, another house had been set on fire. That was the thing about Berk: while his ancestors had settled on the archipelago nearly seven generations ago, their homes had a bad habit of, well, not lasting.

The large shape of Stoick the Vast became outlined in the light of the newest flames. The man's loud voice resounded clearly over the commotion as he bellowed: "FIRE!"

The call caused Hiccup's attention to be taken by the sight of younger Vikings— teens his age. Their job was to control the spread of fire as they worked in an efficient line, each handing a full bucket of water to the next. While Hiccup had grown up with them, their interactions had been mostly based on being in the same age group; it was practically social suicide to be seen hanging out with him.

Fishlegs was arguably the most friendly, if not long-winded of them. At least he never actively pushed Hiccup out of the way, unless it was by accident. While he didn't have the athletic build of his friends, he certainly had the most knowledge about dragons out of all of them combined. Then there was Snotlout, who, while most similar in build, had the complete opposite disposition. He was mean and cocky and Hiccup sometimes daydreamed of punching him in the face (a notable statement from someone who preferred the more diplomatic route.)

The twins were always good for a laugh. It was nearly impossible to tell Ruffnut and Tuffnut apart until they talked; their blond hair was the same length and they had the same narrow, mischievous face. They weren't too bad since their arguments were mostly with each other rather than with him. Finally, there was. . . Astrid. She was hands down the best out of the teens; the strongest fighter and the most promising Viking of their generation. Although she never had a kind word for him (and preferred to pretend that he didn't exist), he found himself drawn in by her beauty.

While she would undoubtedly shove him off Berk's tallest cliff if he tried to compliment her appearance, he couldn't help but admire her. But that was just as well since she was so out of his league it was laughable, even to him. The only way he'd have a sliver of a chance would be if he proved himself a Viking worthy of the title. (And even then it would be a cold day in hell before Astrid would be interested in anything besides her axe slicing through her next victim. . . which would probably be him.)

Hiccup wished that they would include him in the raids. Their job was so much cooler. He leaned out of the window to get a better look at the passing teens, only to be caught by Gobber's hook as the older man heaved him back inside. He groaned with disappointment. "Oh, come on. Let me out, please. I need to make my mark!"

"You've made plenty of marks, all in the wrong places," his boss replied in a dry tone as he set the boy down.

"Please," Hiccup pleaded. "I'll kill a dragon. My life will get infinitely better. I might even get a date."

Gobber scoffed. "You can't lift a hammer. You can't swing an axe. You can't even throw one of these!" He lifted up a nearby bola.

His example weapon was snatched up quickly by a passing Viking, who easily swung it around his head a few times before he launched it into the air. It wrapped around the passing Gronckle, which promptly caused it to fall to the ground.

Hiccup had to admit that the blond man was right, but his spirit was hardly dampened by the reasoning. Instead, he leapt over to where his newest invention stood waiting for him to use. "Okay, fine, but this will throw it for me." He patted it lightly only for the device to spring into action, launching the loaded bola towards an unsuspecting villager.

Unfortunately, his impromptu demonstration didn't help his case as Gobber rounded on him. "See? Now this right here is what I'm talking about!"

"I-it— uh— mild calibration issue. . ." he protested weakly.

"Hiccup," Gobber cut across him sternly. "If you ever want to get out there to fight dragons. . . you need to stop all this." He waved his arms in the general direction of the boy.

He frowned. "But you just pointed to all of me."

The man poked him in the chest. "Yes, that's it! Stop being all of you."

"Oh, yes," Hiccup pretended to agree with him. "You, sir, are playing a dangerous game. Keeping this much raw Vikingness contained? There will be consequences!"

Gobber merely shoved another weapon in his apprentice's direction. "Sword. Sharpen. Now."

He obligingly placed the sword on the whetstone. Sparks flew off it as the metal was pressed against the rock. Without warning, a supersonic whistling sounded from above. Cries of "Night Fury!" sounded throughout the village as people ducked to avoid its blast. The sword he was supposed to be sharpening was easily forgotten in the face of the latest arrival.

Unaware of his brewing plans, Gobber changed out the attachment on his hand before he grabbed his hammer. "Man the fort, Hiccup. They need me out there." He stopped just before the entrance and turned to the brunet, pointing a stern finger at him. "Stay. Put. There. You know what I mean." He took off with a yell.

It took less than a second for Hiccup to completely disobey the orders he'd just been given.

As soon as Gobber left, he raced his contraption out of the blacksmith's and into the red glow of the fiery morning. People called after him in scolding tones, to which he gave the barest acknowledgement.

🏹🏹🏹

It was an easy task to set up his invention once he'd gotten to the cliff face he'd picked out earlier. It had the perfect vantage point: a clear view of the sky and far enough from the village that he didn't have the risk of being set on fire. But now, after all the turmoil that had surrounded him from the start of the day, the stillness was almost. . . eerie. The wind blew in his hair as he searched the sky desperately.

"Come on. Give me something to shoot at. Give me something to shoot at," he muttered to fill up the silence.

A roar sounded in the distance, causing him to lean forward and narrow his eyes. It was nearly impossible to see in the darkness, so he waited with bated breath for a silhouette to appear. The distinctive whistle of the Night Fury sounded again, prompting him to adjust the direction of the contraption once again. The blue-violet blast illuminated the night as the explosion went off behind him and briefly, the outline of the great beast could be seen.

Hiccup reacted on instinct and released the bola from where it had been wound up tightly. The recoil sent him flying to the ground with a startled grunt. The weapon whipped through the darkness— amazingly— straight towards the dragon. At the impact, the Night Fury let out a furious roar as it fell from the sky.

It took him a moment for the realization to sink in before he let out a gasp. "I hit it. Yes, I hit it!" He scrambled to his feet as he cheered estatically. "Did anybody see that?" A growl answered his question, causing him to freeze. He sighed as he reluctantly turned around. "Except for you. . ."

The Monstrous Nightmare reared back its head and Hiccup wasted no time in turning tail back down the cliff, screaming all the while. With his mind consumed by the panic of the chase, he can't help but make the not-so-smart decision to hide behind a wooden pillar. He squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to catch his breath. This is it, Hiccup thought miserably. I finally prove myself as a Viking and the only thing I'll have to show for it is a burned pile of ashes. The Fates must really have something against me.

Before he could meet his certain doom, however, Stoick appeared out of nowhere and slammed into the eager snout of the dragon. It roared back a challenge, but the goal had been achieved: its attention was now off the boy. It burped out a couple of fire-y embers. The chief of Berk grinned at the reaction. "You're all out. . ."

He wasted no time diving for the beast's snout, landing punch after punch. Defeated, the dragon turned and flew off to rejoin the pack. The pillar Hiccup had chosen to hide behind finally gave out, falling to the ground with a heavy thud. The flame-filled basin landed on the wooden stairs (why was everything made of wood when dragons that breathed fire attacked them nightly? If there was one thing to say about Vikings it would definitely be that they didn't have much going on. . . well, upstairs.) Distant sounds of more catastrophe echoed as the basin tumbled into the sea, each disaster causing Hiccup to wince guiltily.

He could barely look the man in front of him as he shrank under his intense gaze. "Sorry, dad. . ."

(Yeah. . . to top everything off, he had the great honor of being the chief's son.)

Sheep brayed in the distance as the dragons carried off this evening's catch. Before Stoick could say anything, Hiccup rushed to defend himself: "Okay, but I hit a Night Fury!"

Unfortunately, this did not impress his father, who snatched him up and began to drag him through the crowd of villagers. His protests continued as he tried to explain, "it's not like the last few times, Dad! I really, actually hit it! You guys were busy. I had a very clear shot." As expected, his dad didn't seem to believe him. "It went down off Raven Point. Let's get a search party— "

"Stop!" Chief Stoick's angry bark brought his words to a halt. "Just stop. Every time you step outside, disaster follows. Can you not see that I have bigger problems? Winter is almost here and I have an entire village to feed!"

"Between you and me, the village could do with a little less feeding." Hiccup tried to ease his father's anger with the lighthearted comment, which caused a few of the Vikings to look down at themselves self-consciously.

"This isn't a joke, Hiccup!" the chief bellowed. "Why can't you follow the simplest orders?"

"I can't stop myself. I see a dragon and I just have to kill it. It's who I am, Dad."

Stoick slapped his hand against his forehead, almost embarrassed by his son's determination to follow in his footsteps. "You are many things, Hiccup. But a dragon killer is not one of them. Sometimes I wonder if you have caught the Targaryen madness."

Hiccup's gaze dropped down to the grass at his father's words. The villagers who were watching their interaction let out a few gasps and began to mutter amongst themselves. Being compared to a Targaryen was one of the worst insults someone could use; though the memory was now faint, the feeling of being betrayed by fellow Vikings was something that the village would never forget. Even Stoick looked regretful of his statement after he'd uttered it, but the brunet could only stare at his feet as shame washed over him. This certainly wasn't the first time he'd messed up, but it seemed that everything else paled in comparison to tonight.

Despite his regret at his words, the chief refused to lose face in front of the village, so he turned his attention to Gobber. "Make sure he gets back to the house. I have his mess to clean up."

As the blacksmith followed his father's orders, the boy's shoulders hunched and he wrapped his arms around himself as the other teens jeered at him on the way back to his hut.