The Man Whom They Called Fury

Chapter IX

"Alright, alright. Settle down." The old smith stood up, looking rather bemused by the shenanigans the youngster he had known from their birth was making, nostalgic even. "You two, knock it off, will ya. The lad can't handle anymore teasing. And get some shower while yer at it. Wipe that yak milk off ya before Astrid here have any funny ideas. We all knew what happened last time she got her hands on that now, don't we." That got the twins on their feet and run straight for the shower at a speed even an Olympic runner would be green from jealous of. Why in the name of Odin's bushy beard, Astrid wondered, does everyone keep using her culinary skills as a threat. They were limited, yes, but that was one time. Unless if you count that one time... and that time with the spatula... and some other times here and there... Ok, point taken.

"And Snotlout, for Heimdal's sake, lad, put some decent trousers on before ya blind the whole District." That got him racing after the twins, no doubt to grab his extra extra extra something pair of trousers that he swore for the umpteenth honest-to-Odin-I-swear-it time was the last pair before he put Hookfang up for adoption. Not that he could, or would.

When they all gathered back in the living room, Gobber was taking swigs from the second bottle of rum Fishlegs got him because apparently, normal meads just wasn't cutting it. "Ok, Gobber, I'm still waiting for that story." With a heavy sigh, Gobber finished up the bottle and set it aside, the pain in his eyes grew ever deeper by the seconds. "Maybe it's better to leave it, Astrid." Fishlegs spoke up as he closed the book he was reading. His bruises, with the help of Meatlug's healing ability, was quickly disappearing.

"It's alright, lad. Me keeping it all inside won't make it go away." Turning his sad gaze at the distance, Gobber began.

Two Years Ago

"Yer outta yer damned mind, Stoick." Gobber shouted at his longtime friend, barely able to keep his rage in check.

"It is done, Gobber. The elders have decided." Stoick's voice was so sad and cold that even the eternal inferno of Muspelheim can hardly thaw it. "That place is a menace. That blasted 'Fury' already got to Stackard, Speedifist and Asgardians only know how many more. Sooner or later, we would find our heads not being attached to our necks."

"And just for that yer willing ta kill off half ta damn tribe? We're vikings, Stoick. Occupational hazard, remember?" Gobber retorted, dead set on convincing his old friend into coming back to be his old self. "Since when did ya lose that massive back bone of yer, huh?"

"Don't, Gobber. Just because we are friends does not mean I appreciate being lectured." Stoick, the boar head he was, glared at his best friend. "Huh, like how you appreciated Hiccup? Ta lad tried, Stoick. He genuinely tried ta be the son you wanted him ta be."

"Don't..."

"Sure, he made a mistake. But that's what made him yer son. Yer not exactly a shining beacon of wise decisions either now, are ya?" Gobber kept going, ignoring Stoick increasing panting, sign he was losing the strength to hold back his anger. "Stop it..."

"So please, for once in yer life, think Stoick. Ya failed yer son already, don't fail the tribe too." The moment the last word left his mouth, Gobber flew backward a couple of meters, his nose a bloody mess. Still standing in his place was a panting Stoick, his arm extended, fist clenched. "Gobber, I..." Coming back to his senses, Stoick lowered his fist, trying to explain, but Gobber shook his head.

"If yer gonna burn 'tis tribe ta the ground, then I ain't gonna be here watching." And with that, the venerable old smith got to his feet and left. Little did he knew, however, was that their conversation did not escape the ears of Mildew, an elder of the tribe. Looking to his aids at his sides, he cocked his head toward Gobber, only to receive the nods from them.