Chapter Text
Prologue:
The ground-road has slowly but surely been turning to mud ever since the first carriage emerged from the distance, each passing of the horses and carriage wheels caking the steady terrain further into a marshy, sloppy mass. Luckless greenery striding from the sides of the narrow path has been alloyed together with the silt, making the lane a hard task to walk across, if one were to do so.
The last of the numerous carriages of the day arrives. It screeches to a halt in front of the imposing manor. The wheels and hooves of the tired horses pulling them cut through the tracks left by the last few vehicles, slicing the ground once more.
From a small, thin pole at the side of the transport, a small flag with several distinguishable signs to those familiar with the concept of Newberk’s family crests, waves in the gale. A quick look designates it as the one belonging to the Louts, one of the original family clans.
The Lout’s, a father and son of coal-black hair and large bodies, step out of their method of transport. The latter complains, as he has many-time that day, asking why he has to attend today's festivities, if they could even be called that way, having in mind who the festivities were for.
His father only grunts, a closed expression covering his features, and Jeorgeson says nothing more. His shoulders stand a little more uptight, a little more in place.
“You have it, yes?” the older man asks, although it isn’t really a question, and the answer can definitely not be ‘no, sorry, I forgot, my bad’.
Jeorgeson pulls out an item from one of the larger pockets of his coat. It’s thin, not much bigger than a hand, and it has a thin string attached to two end-points of the piece.
“Course I do, dad. Who do you think I am?”
The father doesn’t answer, opting to pull out his own mask out of one place or another, and Jorgeson nods. To himself, maybe. Side by side, they walk into the Haddock manor, masks now in place. A couple of servants usher them inside, following in tow.
The large, centuries-old doors at the entrance close, leaving nature to nature.
The wind is bristling outside the large and fogged windows of the Haddock estate—the large building housing a family of importance and growing wealth, numerous staff right behind. There is no denying that the Haddock manor is the biggest, largest, and the oldest residence of all the high-end families of the present berth of land.
Although 'landlords' was the technical title to which they adhered to nowadays, the Haddocks were, and had always been, responsible for the ancient land and its people.
The land had long ago been baptized as New Berk—new from what, one could only guess—and with little complaints over the title, the name stubbornly remained rooted in place. And so, Newberk became a place to call home for all descendants to follow.
About 10 miles west of the Isle of Mull, Newberk stands tall, unyielding despite the passing of an age. Once solitary except for a lone village from times beyond historical knowledge known to current man, Newberk is now a settled, populated, yet still developing community of ancient culture spanning generations after generations old.
. . .
Chapter One: A Stab in the Dark
From within the large picture windows, torches and candles lighten the space indoors. Silhouettes can be seen from the inside the building, dark outlines slipping from one shape to another as they churn around, muffled to the outsider’s eye against the window-glass dew.
From in-between, two shades differ from their peers: Close to one another, they snake through the crowd of gathered people and their shadows. With ill-intentions in the making, it happens quick and sharp: The sounds of a crash blares through the vast hall, glass shattering in its wake, high-pitched. And then, silence.
At a roundabout corner of the large main hall—a room built for discussing and deliberating that had been altered throughout the years to appear more charming for events such as these—stood a boy of twenty-two, although incredibly short for his age.
His back is arched forwards, not aiding his case, and Hamish ‘Hiccup’ Haddock the III clutches his chest, shock written in pale, maskless features.
His eyes are shot wide open and his fist is tight, smeared a deep crimson red. The color slips from one finger to another, sliding like hot butter, leaving traces behind as if claiming presence. Behind his white fingers, his once pastel, ocre-dyed shirt, isn’t anymore as the fabric drinks the dark dye, creating an ugly blotch that grows with each second.
And, well. That was that, he thinks. As far as things go, this finally seemed to be the end of the road; his road, the prize to pay finally coming down to collect his long-persisting debt. And it’s surprising, really, how long it’s taken to arrive and take trouble by its own hands.
He thinks he can see Sven ‘Snotlout’ Jeorgeson out of the corner of his eye. Mask or no, he could recognize that frame and dark-black stalk of hair anywhere.
He finds himself looking down, dimly taking notice of his only, singular, shoe; which is slowly becoming tinted with each drop, drop, drop of scarlet spattering into the fine, leather material, swallowing the droplets whole.
He stares. He stares the way people do when there's nothing else to do.
That won’t get off, he thinks, faintly. Meanwhile, his grip tightens.
His metal leg also gets her fair part of the drenched deal, although it might be easier to tell that she won’t suffer the same affliction as her counterpart. That's one good thing about having a pegleg, he supposes; one swipe and she’ll be good as new. Silver linings, as they say: No leg, no problem.
He blinks. The lights are becoming too bright. The voices, too loud. He staggers back a step, hand against his head, the other at his chest. Still red, still dripping,
Perhaps it would be presumptuous of him, but in truth, he was fairly sure this’d be today’s outcome all along; or at least, something vaguely resembling it, as long as it had trouble as the frontline title.
He’d known he would be tasting dull, oppressing defeat from the moment he walked into the hall that evening; or even earlier, way back at daybreak when his toes hadn’t touched the ground below his still-warm-bed. Yet, to say that he'd felt it in the air would be, to put it quite frankly, ridiculous. But that had always seemed to be his brand; so to the air being at fault, it was.
Sometimes, there simply is no way to escape the circumstances. That’s what his father has told him time and again: especially the ones that had come here today with fiery vengance. So, he doesn’t escape. He can’t.
Hamish takes a short, sharp inhale and his ribs throb in protest. Yet still, he searches for an opening, a crack, an opportunity to flee. It’s to no avail, as all exits have been blocked, people and more people in masks grid-locking his chance at freedom. It really seems there is no way out of this one. In fact, things had just about gotten worse.
It's at that, utterly and finally trapped, that he knows there is only one thing left to do.
“Ugh. Great.” he grumbles, although it sounds much more like a childlike whine. “Just great.” He cranes his neck towards the devilish sniggers that are getting away at impressive speed, sliding through and in-between the masses of distinguished nobles and highborns with cunning grace.
All Hamish manages to catch is but a blurry glance at a braided lock of blond hair and an awful pair of masks that are the caricature of fiendish grins, and then he’s alone once again. With his messed up, wine-spattered, ugly ocre vest, and his now murky, ugly shoe, and a lot more attention than what he was hoping for this evening.
Hamish thinks he should be used to it, by now: Having unnecessary attention drawn to him was nothing out of the ordinary—it sort of came with the territory of having a peg leg and the luck of a troll on fire—the wine, however, was not.
He didn’t even like wine. The smell of it was terrible, the taste even more so no matter how many times he’d tried it for the sake of pleasantries, and now it was all over him. Which was perfect, of course.
He tries dipping his handkerchief in someone’s unfortunate glass of water, swiping the hey, look at me target written on his chest, but it only makes the smudge stretch further. Hamish stares at the smudge, and the smudge stares back miserably.
Fun, that. It’s a portrait now.
He shakes his head. “Those two. It’s always those two.” he says, and to be fair, that statement wasn’t exactly true. Hamish got into more than enough trouble single handedly all on his own, meaning neither of the twins, Ragnild ‘Ruffnut’ Thorn-Stone and Thorolf ‘Tuffnut’ Thorn-Stone, needed to be involved for Hamish to make a major fool of himself. The assistance was most definitely not appreciated, though.
Then there was Jeorge, of course; it would be a crime to forget him; his headlocks were scarcely the kind of thing one could forget, especially when they came close to being the number one reason for his numerous almost death’s and the couple of times he passed out here and there. Children's play, clearly.
Hamish gives up. He huffs, the air leaving his lips as if marching out of the house after a heated argument, slamming the door along the way. Then, he pulls his neckerchief inside one of his pockets, not caring to fold it in first, stuffing it in with no decorum, and looks down in an attempt to willfully ignore everything and everyone.
But his feet are still there: Still ugly and still stained, and still irrevocably Hamish the Hiccup and Hamish finds himself sighing.
He keeps his eyes down and remembers that this will be over, soon enough. Only a few more hours of being surrounded by people who won’t even pretend to care, and then he’ll be able to go back to his room with Toothless, and his books, and his drawings and his notes and his all time consuming loneliness. And it’ll be fine. He totally doesn't have anything better to do, really.
Hamish looks over at the windows and stares at the skies, a tug of longing wrapping over his chest.
His ribs creak in protest once again, suit far too tight. He looks away.
Hamish tugs at the collar of his asphyxiating getup, as if any of the previous times had helped any in lowering the pressure that was threatening to make something pop out of its place. Perhaps, if his liver gives away, perhaps then, he'll have a good excuse to leave early. But that would be considered rude in the eyes of his father, so that's sadly off the table.
Hamish pinches at his sleeve instead, eyes on the helms. He scrunches his brows.
Because, seriously, why ocre? Hamish can see himself at the reflection of the marble flooring, his eyes traveling a rickety road to his terrific outfit: a bad idea in all but name.
Ocre was so not his color. Cobalt, maybe, he'd played around with that color in his earlier years, but yellow ocre? Gods. Why on earth did his dad have designers for, if not to make him look even more ridiculous than he usually felt, isn’t that right?
That’s how he stays, trying to become one with a corner he’s come to know almost intimately with the passing of years, when a large shadow topples over his lanky figure, and then some more, just because it can. Hamish doesn't need to look up to know who it is. Only about two or three people talked to him willingly on events like these after the compulsory hi’s and evening's—and that was pretty much it really—and only one of them had shoulders like genuine boulders three times the size of his head.
The shadow gives in to a pair of sizable feet covered in black, elegant boots, followed by an almost unnaturally immense man, dressed in a three-piece suit and a chestnut-shaded frock coat; the fancy kind meant for the chilling weather as much as it worked as an elegant solution. The shadow doesn’t speak for a long moment until it attempts to, an equally-spaced sigh taking up space instead.
Stoick, underneath the mask that looks almost like a metal shield, sounds very tired all of a sudden. “What…” his hands gesture at Hamish’s ruined vest. "What."
“Oh, this?” Hamish says offhandedly, but with an edge. “The twins thought it’d be a fun joke to pull. It’s very funny, of course. Got to love the stares sent my way.”
Stoick takes off the mask, bringing a hefty hand to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I told them–” he grumbles. Hamish lifts an eyebrow.
“You told the twins not to do something?" Hamish laughs, although it doesn't reach his eyes. Nor does a smile reach his lips, for that matter. "Right. You know, I was wondering why they'd gotten so brave all of a sudden, but I think I can see now, where the bravery comes from."
Hamish crosses his arms, shakes his head. “Dad, shouldn’t you know by now just how damn well reverse-theory works on them? If you say it's white, it’s black. If you try right, then it's definitely on the opposite side of the country. And if you tell them not to bother me, the most likely thing to happen is: surprise surprise, that I'll probably end up at the bottom of a well. So thanks for the help, but seriously, no thanks.”
Stoick looks like he wants to say something but stays quiet, knowing that for every thing he says, Hamish will have three coming his way. However, Hamish knows how to lay out his cards, and with today of all days, it wasn’t the time or place for that sort of direct method.
Hamish doesn’t say anything to spark the conversation along either, preferring the father-son awkwardness that was spurred from long-suffering silences rather than the few short sentences doomed to rise and fall. It was leagues better, truly. And usually, Hamish notes, Stoick will accept this, and move away if there isn't anything strictly urgent to say. Except, there’s usually a but somewhere as well. There especially will be one there now.
"You're supposed to be enjoying this," Stoick tells him. "Not—staying at the corner, sulking."
Hamish rolls his eyes. He does not sulk. If anything, this was a strategic retreat. "Oh, I'm enjoying it, alright." He shifts his shoulders, "for as long as I stay in the corner."
Stoick sighs once more, only apparent in sound. His face betrays nothing. "It is in your honor that this festivity has been arranged," he says, "it's not intended to make you feel…"
“Miserable? Anguished? Utterly doomed?”
Stoick gives him a look. Hamish, incapable of backing down, gives him the same one in exchange, although his expression softens. Hamish knows this is his father’s way of trying to be considerate. Key word on trying.
"Dad, face it. I already have." Hamish says, "half the people here don't even know who I am," he nods his head forward, "and the other half knows me far too well, which is exactly why I'm here: in the corner, talking with you, when I could be perfectly content to be upstairs."
“It’s a masquerade party, no-one has to know it’s you. Just wear a mask.”
“Dad,” Hamish tells him gently. “I’m the shortest one here and I have one leg. Mask or no, I’m pretty recognizable.”
Stoick looks away for a minute, lips pursed, and attempts a different approach. “That doesn’t mean this party isn’t being celebrated in your honor.” It’s a terrible approach. All diplomacy seemed to escape out of his fingers when it was his son that was involved at the other end of the speech.
Meanwhile, Hamish looks behind his father, at the people who are dancing the methodically at the most boring, tedious speed, alongside the most boring, tedious sounds that are supposed to be music, and feels sorry for himself—and maybe a little bit sorry for the people out there, who Hamish can’t be sure aren’t held at sword-point.
He wrinkles his nose.
“Dad, respectfully, I think I’ve seen livelier faces at chamberpot duty,” Stoick makes a face at that. “And also, for the record, this is scarcely a party in any shape or form.”
Stoick grunts. “Event, then. Your event. It's your birthday, by God’s teeth.”
Hamish continues as if he hadn’t heard a thing. “I presumed that people smiling and having fun is sort of a main requirement for anything to be called a decent celebration.”
Stoick won’t agree openly, but as he searches with his eyes at the bleak room, a result both deriving from the gloomy weather outside, as well from the dull feeling coming from the inner sides of the windows, he might see where his son’s words are coming from.
“Right.” Another stretch of silence. “Then, talk to someone. Perhaps—”
“I really don’t—”
“Hiccup—”
“—Think I’ll just stay here, actually. It’s a very nice, uh, interception. Great sights, really. See? If you stand here, you can really see the grays of the walls pop.”
Stoick looks tired. He parts his lips, then presses them close. Seeing as there was nothing to be done, Stoick places his mask back on and pivots around himself, leaving without another word.
Hamish—not even halfway done with his list of admittedly bad and even worse excuses—pauses. Hamish looks up at his father's retreating back with a strange tug of his brows. He was beginning to believe that this little chat had been way easier than expected…only to take it away immediately after, seeing as Obber with a little gold mask that only surrounded the eyes, was making a bee-line straight at him.
Hamish curses at his father, the traitorous informer, and tries to get away. With his father, he could deal. With Obber, he'd be the one getting dealt with. He steps to the side only to get discretely grabbed by the scruff of his suit, a small noise escaping his throat.
“Ah, ah,” says Obber: Gobber to Hamish. The man had a passion for hardware metal arts that Hamish hadn’t been able to pass away, hence the familiar moniker. “Leaving so early?”
Hamish struggles to get disentangled while remaining what little composure he hopes he still has. He clings to it with an iron grip.
Obber steps in front of the boy, acting as an organic wall made of flesh, bones, and jokes of bad caliber. It doesn't take much time for the man to zero onto Hamish's ruined suit. When he does, the corner of Hamish’s mouth strains, knowing what’s to come.
Obber chuckles, amused in a genuine, annoying sort of way that’s unequivocally Gobber. "Managed to break that bone, eh? Having fun, I take." Obber raises his rather bushy unibrow. Hamish notices with faint amusement that Obber appears to have combed it for the occasion.
Hamish twiddles with his feet and looks to the side. "Uhuh. Lots of it, can't you tell?"
Obber grins with mirth. “So,” he says, straight to the point, as always.
“Ah, here it comes.”
Obber pays him no mind, more than used to his quips and jabs, which he seemed to enjoy far too much for anyone’s liking. In fact, one could argue it had been Obber the one to cultivate that trait of his. “Here’s the deal,” the man brings a toothpick to his mouth with his right hand. “You talk with one person tonight, at the very least, and I lay your dear father off of you for the rest of the day.”
Hamish stops squirming. He squints at the man. “Just like that?”
“And then you can scatter back to your fancy tower, yes. Sing to the little birdies and sigh against the window sills.”
“Uhuh. What’s the catch?”
“No catch, I’m afraid.”
Hamish stares at him. “One person.”
“Correct.”
Suspicion clings to Hamish like a moth to a flame, but Obber waves him away. “There’s no need to look at me like that, lad. Take it as a happy birthday present, if you will.”
Hamish still isn’t convinced.
“Any person?” He asks, and Obber nods. “None of the…” he wiggles his fingers, “usual, swanky people dad seems to think I’d be a great fit for?”
Obber grins. “You might as well take your pick. At this point, I doubt your father is going to be fussy about it.”
Hamish finds himself smiling a small thing. Just a tiny quirk of lips. “Is this your version of ‘I need to make friends’?”
Obber brings his hand up in a stop motion. “You’re the one that said it. God knows you need more of ‘em,” he pauses, “Your kitty cat doesn’t count.”
Hamish shoots him a confused look, “I don’t have—”
“Yes yes, technically the cat doesn't exist, lest your father has a fit, and I’m not telling: but I know, you know. We know.”
Oh, Toothless. Right. The totally harmless, totally just a cat Toothless.
Sure, Hamish thinks, give or take a few sharper teeth at the end of your throat. Not that Toothless would do that, of course. First off, because he currently only had a single tooth, and two, because he was too much of a giant softie to do anything. At least, unprompted.
Ugly memories cling to Hamish’s eyelids. He pushes them away.
“Well, go on, then. Mingle.” Obber says, taking the decision for Hamish before he can think of agreeing, and pushes him towards the crowd. Hamish cringes at the way his metal leg clangs, echoing.
“Please do not call it that.” Hamish suspires, and he’s already begun to walk through the opposite side his father had strided through, when Obber calls his attention with a tap at his shoulder. The boy turns around.
“Take a minute to check everyone out, will you?” Obber winks at him. “Who knows who one can find.”
Hamish furrows his brows. His shoulders rise in questioning gesture, but all the man has to say is nothing else but a mysterious chuckle that’s already fading away into the crowd.
Hamish narrows his eyes at nothing. Now that Gobber has gone off to God knows where, a pinched expression settles on his face. He can hear his foot (the real one that still has an entire leg attached to it) tapping against the tiles, making fair company to his ruminating thoughts.
With an air of resignation, he gives up for the second time that night, and urges himself to find someone quick so that he can leave as fast as possible. It’s just one conversation. How hard can that possibly be?
Before he can continue forward towards the closest person to get this over with, however, he stops.
He sighs, Gobber’s odd yet knowing look flashing at his mind. He swings in place for a moment, undecided of what to do: to approach someone who’d want to get over with a conversation with him as much as he’d want to get it over with in exchange…or wait for a while, and see if perhaps, and only perhaps, there was something worth of interest happening tonight. He highly doubted it. Nothing ever did, not between these four walls, at least. Outside might be a different story entirely.
He licks his lips, pressing them down with a tug at the corners. His suit is still uncomfortable. The lights are still far too bright, burning his retinas with each passing minute. He's uncomfortable and he wants to leave, the murmur and sounds of people drilling into his head.
But Hamish knows Gobber. If Gobber says there is something worth looking into, there might just be a good reason to do so. If anything, Gobber was not an ill-intended person, and Hamish trusted his, although sometimes strange, judgment.
So, Hamish damns himself and he damns Gobber’s choice of word that was sure to make him tick and most of all, he damns his own curiosity, one of the main sources of his life predicaments.
. . .
Gobber walks back to Stoick’s side, heavy, sonorous steps parting the sea of people as he goes. Both men stay in silence for a minute or two, watching the guests stir between them, gossiping about one thing or another away. From the corner of his eye, Stoick sees Hiccup slip into the room, stiffly, pressed as close as he can against the tall walls and columns. Soon, he’s out of sight, his petite frame hidden under the crowd of high status-men and women.
Stoick can’t see how this was the best course of action, and makes sure to voice his concerns to his long-life friend. “Remind me again why did I agree to this? He’ll barely speak two sentences to the nearest person before he’s already bolting out of the room.”
“Call it a hunch, if you will.” Gobber hums, and doesn’t say anything for another moment. “Do you know who’s coming over today?”
The larger man sighs. “Who isn't invited today, Obber? I sent an invitation to anyone who’d be willing to come.”
Gobber shifts, eyes laying on Stoick. “Come on now, Stoick. You must know by now how your son is. Hiccup is not the kind of boy who’ll be interested in someone who’d ‘be willing’ to come. He’ll gladly spend his time cooped up in his bedroom than make small talk with any of the snobs.” Gobber nods towards the people ahead of them.
Stoick glares at Gobber. “In case you hadn’t noticed, we are those snobs. Also please keep your voice down, we don’t want to offend anyone unnecessarily.”
Gobber rolls his eyes, and Stoick can see where Hiccup got that bad habit from. Stoick’s expression doesn’t truly change, but he knows that Gobber can see the way his jaw tenses, and his muscles tug a little tighter between themselves.
When Stoick speaks again, it’s with heavy lead crawling down his tongue. His face darkens and his hands clenches before loosening. “I don’t know him. I don’t know what he wants.” He runs a hand through his ruby red hair, a nervous gesture, “he’s articulate and clever, and he’s nothing like me, even when I want him to be, he can’t. It’s not in him, and I’m trying to learn that it will never be.” He turns to Gobber, “and I don’t know what to do with that.”
Gobber stares, his expression unreadable yet non-judgemental. “What do you think you should do?”
Stoick lets go of his hair, aware of the tell, and shrugs. “I dunno. In truth, I worry about that boy.”
“Aye. Shows that you care. He does too.”
“Hopefully, he’ll find a lass here or anywhere that will at least understand him.”
A pause. Gobber shifts. “And if he doesn't?” He says then, in that strange way of his: Guarded, careful, always careful.
“Why wouldn’t he?” Stoick turns, furious on Hiccup’s behalf. “He could. He’s clever and many girls admire that—if he’d just get out of his room more, he’d see it. You would see it.”
Gobber doesn’t say anything to that. Instead, his tone is back to normal when he says: “The Bennetts.”
A look of pure confusion blooms on Stoick’s features from the sudden change of subject. “What of them?”
“The, uh…” Obber waves a hand, “the new ones. Seems like nice people, don’t they?”
Stoick looks at Gobber, unsure at the change of subject. After a silent moment, he gives Gobber a slow, thoughtful nod. “That Joyace Lady, and her kin, yes. Won’t be coming today, it seems, still busy with their arrival and such.”
Stoick squints when Gobber sips his drink nonchalantly.
“You know something.”
Gobber grins.
. . .
Twenty-Five Minutes Prior
Drink in one hand and food in the other, Obber walked into an empty room that served as a connector between several rooms and passageways, save for a forfeited shoe nearby the open window, just laying there on the floor tiles. His first thought was that it surely was Hiccup’s; there were only two people in this residence with one leg on them, and Obber knew perfectly well where he kept his own singular shoe's—socks, not so much—That thought was immediately overturned, however, at the sight of the other shoe that came soaring inside the building from outside the aperture and then followed by a dark blue, grinning mask that skid across the floor.
Obber stared at the pair of polished boots that had come to lay close to each other, as he began to hear disheveled sounds coming from outside, slowly coming closer to the entrance.
Obber stayed as he is, besides a convenient corner that holds a little more shade to it, and in extension, to him. He lay the weight of his sizable body on the marble surface, nonchalant. Of course, he could’ve scared this person before they even got to step foot inside their walls, but on the other hand—he’d be a fool to miss this.
So, he waited, distorted sounds beginning to sound more like grunts, and wheezed gasps, until he saw a slim, trembling hand grabbing the edge of the window sill for dear life.
Obber might have not been privy to who this person was, but he couldn’t help the way his eyebrows rose, seeing it was only a young man, barely out of his boyhood, who hung mid-way in the open window, one leg awkwardly in and white-grip fingers digging into the wooden frame.
The boy, who was oddly well dressed for a thief, pushed through and stumbled onto the floor, catching his breath. He snorted before he finally noticed the other man in the room with wide eyes—a man who was slowly coming close to him with hefty steps. Still, the boy didn’t move, and Obber walked past him. The boy blinked in startled confusion, craning his neck back, following the man’s figure.
Obber, who had precariously balanced his near-forgotten drink on top of his plate during the boy’s climb, used his newly-free hand to look out the window. He looked back to the boy, who couldn’t be more than twenty, and said, “This is on the second story.” He looked outside again, for good measure. “There’s no branches or anything. Barely even a wall to hold onto. How did you even get up here?”
And that seemed to be enough to snap the boy out of his frozen state.
“Climbed.” He replied, like a smart-ass. When Obber gave him an unimpressed look, the boy also said, “the wind can be helpful, if you’re on her good graces.”
“Right,” Obber said, like that wasn’t a load of weird shit. “Of course.”
The boy met his expression with a strained grin. Obber eyed the young man, who was currently barefoot, shoes still laying around, and realized that he only fit one description.
“Bennett? Jackson Bennet?”
A small wince curled at the boy’s features. “Am I that infamous?”
“Not so much as infamous as you are new.” He eyed the boy again, then the window, then settled back to the boy, who’s still on the floor. “Consider you and your family a current topic of interest.” Then he said, “you realize that you were invited, yes? You could’ve used the door. That one big thing with a handle that opens and closes?”
Jackson smoothly rose from the ground and said, “now, where's the fun in that?”
Obber wasn’t impressed. “I don’t recommend changing whatever profession you’ve settled on. You’d make a shit thief.”
Jackson opened his mouth wide as his eyebrows climbed up. “Not a thief,” he said, affronted in an odd, personal way. Touchy subject, then.
Obber rolls his eyes. “Aye, I reckon that. So does the second story window.”
“To be fair, I just got unlucky. I would be a better thief if I was a luckier one.” Obber stared and thought the boy really needed to work on his excuses. These ones were complete shit.
“A better thief would’ve known that it’s better to pretend to be a guest and take something amidst the confusion. You could use some strategy,” finally, Obber closed the window, turning the latch so it remained that way. “Though I’ll hand it to you, it’s still one hell of a climb. You have promise.”
“Huzzah?”
Obber shook his head. “I’m hoping to assume you’re the only one out here climbing tonight.” He looked back at the boy, “no little brothers tailing along?”
Jackson huffed, a kind smile to his face, one of whom spoke of dear ones close to one’s heart. “Trust me, if he’d known, he would have followed. But, no. James is at home.” He thought this over before he shifted his body toward the window, “I…think.” The boy shaked his head, ridding himself of the thought, self-assured. He’d made sure, it seemed.
Obber’s gaze doesn’t stray away from Jackson for a few seconds. Then, he went straight to the meat of it. “What are you doing here? You’re certainly not a burglar. And you were, I can not stress this enough, invited. I can’t think of any reason why you’d sneak in.”
The boy’s grin sharpened. “Would you believe it’s for the challenge?”
“I’d believe it if you were from these parts and not from the land of the ninnies.” Right. So the boy most likely didn’t want his family to know that he was here alone, and that’s why he broke in. If nothing else, at least he’s smart enough not to tell Obber that out-right.
“You mean the British Isles.”
“Of course, where else?”
The boy, surprisingly, laughed at that. The good natured and easy kind that took no offense.
“Think there are no good tricksters in England?” Jackson said.
“Not like we do here in Norway. Not the good kind, no.” A beat. “That’s aside the topic, though. What exactly are you doing here?”
The boy rested his shoulder against the wall, as Obber had been. “Was I not invited?” Deciding he wasn't comfortable, he pulled away again.
“I’m not above throwing you out the same way you came in lad.”
“Fine by me.”
Obber pinched the bridge of his nose, just right above the mask. Youngsters, always choosing the hard way of doing things; he’d know, he’d been a teenager, a young man once. And an annoying one, at that. “Aye, fine. Keep your secrets. The party is shit anyways, you can’t make it much worse.”
Jack looked surprised by that. Obber had always been quite blunt, he supposed. “Isn’t it your party? Or, uh, organized by…you…guys?”
“No, I’m not the keeper of the house.” That would be his idiot, Stoick. Yes, said Stoick, I can plan a party for my son. No, said Stoick, I’m not asking what my son wants, why would I do that? It’s a surprise, he said. What could go wrong? He said.
There was a stretch of thoughtful silence.
“Right…actually, this works for me.” Jackson murmured.
Obber raised a brow, hand lowering away from his face, “oh?”
“Yes, this is perfect.” He turned to Obber, a clear, open look on his expression, “alright, real reason?” He waited, eyes strained onto Obbers, drilling. The silence took space as if to cause an effect. Regrettably, Obber had to admit it sort of did. “I’m here to practice my etiquette.”
Obber blinked. Strangely, it didn’t feel like a lie. Though, it was a gods-awful reason if he’d ever heard one. And highly bizarre. Last he checked, there were teachers for etiquette. Whole schools dedicated to the craft. Breaking into a piss-poor party to know what’s-what seemed unnecessary, as well as straight-up foolish.
“Ah, yes. Breaking in through windows. First rule of etiquette, can't go without it.”
“See?” Said Jackson, “I’m shite at it. Right now, nobody really knows who I am, meaning? I can just walk in and try out all that I’ve learned. If I fail, I’m new enough here that nobody will know who I am and I won’t leave my family in like…disgrace or something.”
Obber could find out at least five-to-seven different flaws in just the first sentence alone. For starters: “I knew who you were.”
Jackson, however, carried on, unrelenting. “One, you caught me without my mask. Two, that’s different, I’ll have a new name and everything.”
“Alright,” said Obber, dragging an airy sound. “What is this dramatis personae you crafted?”
“...Honestly, I was going to play it by ear.”
Many, many flaws. “Hmm.” Obber raised a brow, “and what about future events?”
“What?”
“What if people here recognize you later? At future parties?”
“Why would they remember me? Again, I’ll be wearing a mask and I have no distinguishable features. I’m in, I’m out, I learn what I can and take notes for the future.”
“You,” Obber told him, honestly trying not to laugh, “are highly recognizable. Your family is the only one from the British Isles that would come to this party. Your accent alone is a dead give away. As are your mannerisms.”
Jack looked like the epitome of dumbfounded. “Alright,” he confessed, “I—may have not thought that far…”
And that was what made Obber laugh. Instead of looking ashamed, affronted, or caught—Jackson, to his credit—only looked a little embarrassed, his smile taking it in stride.
“In my defense, I didn't have time to—uh, to think about the details. Logistics. It’s been busy these last few days, you know.” The grin then fades, he pulled in his lips, “admittedly I haven't had much sleep, either.”
Obber noticed it, then. The bags under his eyes, the exhaustion that clinged onto his frame.
“Aye,” he said, “being far from home can be stressful.”
The boy looked away, a far-off look that clouded his eyes. “Yes,” Jackson said slowly, “that’s it.”
Obber gave the boy an odd look, but didn't push.
“Could’ve stayed home resting.”
Jackson ran a hand through his hair, “I could’ve. Maybe I should. The plan is already going to shite.”
Obber eyed him, the faintest of ideas prodded him to say something. An odd gut feeling that said that this boy right here is the right kind of right. Obber thought the boy reminded him of someone.
Rather, he knew he did.
“Not going back out through the window, are you?” Obber said.
“Ha! Not with you here as witness, no.”
“I already saw ye bust your arse once. Twice is not going to make much of a difference, trust me on that.”
“Speaking of personal experience?”
Obber could see visible smugness in his features, the nitwit. Yet, he found it was in good humor. Obber smirks in a similar gesture.
“A few.”
Jack laughed, and the feeling at the back of Obber’s mind grew, begged to come to the forefront and make itself known.
Suddenly, the boy’s shoulders turn up a hitch, as if he’d just been reminded of something. His eyes blinked a little faster, shifting a little closer to the ground. Eventually, he seemed to gain the confidence to say what was on his mind, “you’re not going to snitch on me, right?”
Obber, just because he could and thought it was well-deserved, paused as if he was thinking long and hard about it, bringing his meaty arms to a close. Eventually, when the look at Jackson’s face began to look less funny, more miserable, Obber relented. He was kind like that. “Depends.” Very kind.
Jackson, his misery forgotten in favor of showing his displeasure, groaned, and Obber made his shot in the dark: “Meet—have a solid conversation with one other person, and I’ll consider us square.”
Jackson eyed him suspiciously, “just one?”
“Afraid so.” He said, “there’s a catch, though.”
“There it is. What is it?”
“You’ve got to wait for them to speak to you, first.”
Jackson paused and thought for a moment, tilting his head quizzically. Curious. He knew there was a reason behind Obbers odd…request, but must have decided it wasn’t worth asking. He wasn’t exactly in the position to. “That…shouldn’t be too hard? Isn’t that what people do at these things? Talk? Gossip like their lives depend on it?”
“More or less. There’s the occasional brawl or two if we get lucky." Gobber shrugged, "Some friendly advice to the newcomers: Better stay away from the decorative maces.”
Jack blinked, dumbfounded. He stared into space as if deciding whether the piece of information was a jest or not. It must have not mattered, because the boy looked back up, the end of his lips curling up, eyes doing just as much.
“Ninnies, you said we are." Jackson smiles, a wry thing, "There's a good reason for that, I'm beginning to see.”
Obber, in turn, chuckles. He takes a look at the boy in front of him, with his ruffled, yet discernible fancy clothing dusted with grit and dirt from climbing a building that weathers the elements of such a region, and thinks that, yes; he too, is beginning to see.
. . .
Once their chit-chat had ended, Obber ushered the boy, giving him directions to the main hall after making the boy clean himself up a little, shaking flakes and granules and the odd spiderweb off of him. Made sure he had his shoes and mask on. It was common decency, to at least look the part, Obber told him.
As soon as the boy was out of sight, clumsily walking through the halls until his destination was found, Obber stayed as he was for a moment longer, drinking in his latest and rather unexpected interaction. He stifled a small chuckle which made its way out anyway, in favor of turning around himself to go do what he initially came here to do, as he reached the second passageway to the right side of the room of a kind. A few meters in, he came to a stop at a large white door, and knocked.
One knock, two…a pause…three, four, five. And, he waited.
Obber heard some rustling from the inside, so he knew not to push, knowing he’d only need to wait. Today, particularly, he could give the birthday boy some extra leash.
After a minute or two, the door opened, revealing a small body dressed in a vest that, quite frankly, didn’t appeal to his lanky figure at all. Not in color, shape or form. It must have showed in his face, because Hiccup raised a hand.
“Not a word.” He grunted, “you can tell dad I’ll be down shortly, I’ll keep my end of the bargain, I swear, I’m just—trying to get inside this thing without tearing anything. Like, a bone, or my dignity. Whatever may be left of it.”
“Aye. Will do.” A pause. “Are you going to wear the mask?”
Hiccup twitched his shoulders in what Obber can interpret as a shrug. “Yeah,” He said, “I’ll wear it. It would be a waste if I didn’t.” With a nod of thanks, the boy rushed inside again, leaving it open by a crack. Obber closed the door for him.
The man turned away, choosing a different pathway from the one he’d come from, off to Stoick’s bureau.
. . .
Now
Obber held the same glass he’d been holding a good half an hour ago, the only difference being the amount of refills it had gone through.
When Stoick screws his eyes in thought, ruminating Obber’s undisclosed any mysterious plan, Obber brings his glass to his lips, gulping down the latest contents—whatever might they be. Obber’s not counting.
“You know something.” Stoick tells him.
Obber smiles at the thought. “Just a hunch.”