This is where I belong ||httyd fanfic||

60. US or THEM

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The former chief of the Hooligan Tribe sat slumped in his chair barely seen in somber shadows near the hearth. Reduced to scattered flames crackling and grasping for uncharred wood to burn, it kept the aged man warm aided by a leftover bowl of soup at a table for one. Wisps of the morning chill seeped through gaps in the layers of patchwork off his once great home, with signs of another day's struggle. The flames withered to embers from the wind but braced on the log and endured reforming. Old Stoick and the Haddock Hall needed something to keep them going.

The chief stirred when the faint sound of chatter slipped into his halls. He squinted and rose from his seat, a crack in his bones and an ache in his brow. Even in retirement there was little peace.

Age dulled the strength he'd maintained from his prime as he pushed open the door. He rubbed away the bumps growing on his arm, a snort from his nostrils.

Clear skies, decent climate, and good tidings were all rare on Berk now. A dull cold pervaded as the Gods rumbled their disapproval in the cloud cover close to black as brimstone. Stoick made no glance toward his village as he moved down the hill-all that would be there was husks of houses dropping brittle planks to the ground. Even the wood steps marking the path to his house cracked with his descent. None would ever believe such a lively tribe filled its now empty streets weathering the long centuries. At least today's semi-excitement was a change in the norm.

He joined his people all gathered at the edge of the cliff, clamoring in weary stupors threatening to push each other off the edge with tired tempers. Stoick couldn't discern one voice over another as to the source. Instead he turned to his friend the blacksmith. "Gobber, what are these people looking at?"

Gobber shrugged. "Eh, beats me. All's I know is they ruined a perfectly good dream. Did a jig on my two feet with ma old goat, bless his tapping hooves."

"Is that—"

Stoick's height was a boon as he shoved through the crowd at the front. At the bottom by the docks was an unknown ship, even rarer a sight given the wasteland on water their island now was. A familiar figure on board. A large black shape with wings and a tail stood by his side. That was enough for the more aggressive Hooligans, charged with ever-honed instinct and hunger-driven desperation to draw their blades.

But Stoick homed in on the man atop the beast. He drew his arms to block them. "Wait!"

The two shot from the deck of their ship to over the Hooligans' heads in a heartbeat. Almost in a godly leap more than flight, the unholy offspring of lightning and death crashed at the center of the barren plaza behind them. Some almost forgot the cliff at their backs stepping back.

Stoick never took his eyes off the young man atop his nightmarish steed. He wasn't fooled even as the figure wore a mask adorned with spikes with narrow slits and clad in black leather armor. His son's forest green eyes shone like the flash of Mjolnir through the spiked plate. He pushed through and stood face to face with his child, a strange breathlessness overcoming him.

"Hiccup..."

His expression remained unseen. "Stoick."

Snotlout came bumbling through shoving his perceived 'subjects' aside. "Well, well, well. Look who came back to kiss our boots. Knew you couldn't keep up the act."