Sep 9, 2025
What if I Am just remembering right now where “put your tits away, no one wants to see that” comes from after taking it into my vocabulary for literal years? What then??
seen from Australia
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What if I Am just remembering right now where “put your tits away, no one wants to see that” comes from after taking it into my vocabulary for literal years? What then??
You should reference open flames anyway as if it’s something from pop culture that everyone should know.
Some open flames idioms for your consideration:
That’s like two buff guys in a prison cell, missing their wives
That boy doesn’t know his own last name (when encountering a real life himbo)
The classic “put your tits away, no one wants to see that” to be paired with a physical attack
Sometimes you’ve got to bomb your boyfriends fiancée (said as in the context of getting your hands dirty)
I...should probably reread to come up with more, but this is a good start
I dont know why, but I have the feeling that in "open flames", the character of Stoick is going to grow up to be the kind of guy that dosent have a problem to shout out the mistakes of everyone, no matter who is it, like his brother and sister for example, about all the story between Astrid, Hiccup or Eret, for example.
Honestly, Stoick doesn’t give a shit about what happened with his parents, like, in Open Flames, he’s 13, he’s always been cared for, first by his sister and then by Astrid. He doesn’t remember his mom. He likes having all the Hofferson siblings around because especially Ingrid and Arvid tend to dote on him.
Mostly, he just has like chronic...rich kid syndrome, I’ll call it. Omg, Stoick II has affluenza.
He knows there’s no consequences. He’s the chief’s kid and he has a near zero chance of ever actually inheriting responsibility. I mean, Eret III kept getting in trouble for killing warlords and Stoick like, steals his boots and feeds his dragon out of them. It’s not even a chip on his shoulder, it’s just an almost delusional mis-understanding of the fact that his actions could potentially come back to bite him.
Like if he thought it’d get under someone’s skin he might dish on the family drama, but he’s much more likely to like, steal. And break laws for the sake of breaking them. And antagonize Eret III because even though he’s chief, he’s just his dumb big half brother and he can’t do anything about it, he can’t even let anyone that he pisses off hurt him in good conscience.
Open Flames: Part 19
I...I mean...my baby boy, guys, my son. My child.
Ao3
I’m as familiar with the traditional Berkian wedding as I am with all of the other traditions I’ve never explicitly followed but have had the chance to assist in performing. I mean, sure, both my parents were there when I was named, but one was operating in the capacity of chief as I was named after the third parental figure present, so it wasn’t business as usual.
I didn’t go to dragon selection because Bang chose me a year early. I didn’t finish my apprenticeship because I learned I was Berk’s long-lost heir and started chief training before I could.
Really, nothing about my life has been according to tradition, down to the fact that Fuse is very obviously pregnant on our wedding day and I got arrested for grave robbing for a ceremonial sword, but explaining all of this to the chief doesn’t get me out of the ceremonial bath.
In a different period of my life, this group of people existing within the same hot spring would have been an utter impossibility. Hel, half of these people existing in proximity to each other would have been an inevitable brawl.
At the time, I would have been horrified by my own chances in that fight, but right now I’d take the nude, six-way brawl over sitting here surrounded by the chief, my dad, Snotlout, Arvid, and Rolf while waiting for their marital advice.
“Well,” Rolf clears his throat after a long, brutal silence, and I look at him, silently willing him to not say whatever he’s about to say. It doesn’t work. “You don’t need fertility advice.”
“I don’t,” I agree almost solemnly, hoping beyond hope that Rolf’s ability to kill any conversation he comes across applies in this setting. “I really don’t need advice.”
It doesn’t.
“What are you, like eighteen?” Snotlout asks and I raise an eyebrow, glancing at the chief. “I didn’t know anything at eighteen.”
“I don’t doubt that,” Arvid mumbles under his breath, too comfortable like he always is.
“Twenty-one, why are you here again?” I ask.
“My fault,” the chief admits from his place on my left and he accepts my half-hearted glare with grace.
“I’m your second uncle, or something,” Snotlout crosses his arms, puffing up in an obvious way that looks dumber next to my dad, “plus, as the only relation who’s managed to stay married to one woman for thirty years, I figured you could use my expertise.”
The subtle swirl of the hot mineral water is the only sound and I consider leaving, not for the first time.
I could get out of the spring, grab Bang and hide out in a cave somewhere until the ceremony later. The chief would perform my marriage anyway, Mom would make him, considering Fuse’s condition.
But the reason I didn’t do that the second Stoick woke me up pounding on my door and offering kissing advice still stands. Everyone else on the island is busy pulling the feast together and the last thing I want to be is alone right now.
I don’t feel any closer to ready to be a husband or a father and hours with nothing but the heavy silence of my own company would amplify those thoughts, and that would be bad for my composure and even worse for Fuse, having to spend her first night as my wife having to talk me off of yet another ledge of my own creation.
I look to my right at Arvid, hoping for some advice or something and he offers me a bottle half full of mead that he had the foresight to bring.
I think a second longer than usual before accepting the bottle and taking a sip.
“I don’t think any of us believe your marriage’s longevity is your doing,” Rolf holds his hand out for the bottle,’ and I hand it to him, eyebrows stuck in an awkward half-raised position.
The chief snorts.
Today is already out of control, and the thought makes me anxious to grab onto it and slam it back to Midgard, to ground it in my intention and force everything the way I want it, but it’s too late for that. It was too late for that when I got into this hot spring, it was too late for that when I came back with a sword, buying into the madness.
At least through this round of inevitable chaos thrust upon me, I get Fuse, and no one should be in any danger.
That is unless Stoick challenges me at the altar or something, but I’d like to think no one would see that as legitimate.
“Are you nervous?” Dad asks, steady and kind enough that I don’t bristle at the suggestion.
“I’ve seen plenty of weddings.”
“It’s different when it’s yours,” Dad shrugs. The chief agrees.
I kind of want Rolf to say something mean again. It almost seems like he’s enjoying this, and that makes sense, he’s always been most comfortable when everyone else is miserable.
“I got so drunk that my wedding night didn’t happen until the next day,” Arvid jokes, taking his bottle back from Rolf and having another sip. “Aurelia still won’t let me live it down.”
Everyone else chuckles.
The chief, of all people, opens his mouth and I snap.
“Gods,” I squint my eyes shut, finding a foreign leaf in my tangled, wet hair and steeling myself for the potential fallout of what I’m about to say. “Given that it’s my wedding day, can I possibly request that none of you remind me that you’re…” I avoid Arvid’s eye-line even as I accept the bottle of mead again, “um, happily married to women I’m related to—”
“Or previously married to,” Snotlout elbows my dad and when I look at Arvid, he’s also wondering if we’re about to have to exact Hofferson justice on Snotlout while naked.
“So, we start at the generic little man in the longboat and work from there?” The chief asks, clapping his hands together and splashing like he’s trying for a diversion and I nod, happy for even the nonsensical distraction.
“Ok, sure, I don’t know why we’re talking about boats but—”
“Poor Fuse,” Snotlout mutters under his breath and Rolf nods in cringing commiseration.
“I should have brought my diagram—”
“What diagram?” I ask carefully, Rolf and Snotlout agreeing even temporarily enough evidence that I said something stupid. “What am I missing here?”
“Not what you’re missing,” Arvid teases, “more about what Fuse is missing.”
“I never thought I’d miss you two hating each other,” I snap, hoping the hot water hides how red my face is getting. “What is Fuse missing that I don’t know about? Is it some married secret I’ll spontaneously understand after the ceremony?”
“Not spontaneously,” Arvid says cryptically and Dad laughs, trying and failing to conceal it, eyes the kind of pitying I hate that indicate I’m left out of some wealth of common knowledge.
“She is pregnant,” Snotlout shrugs, “women do not like that when they’re pregnant.”
“Not in my experience,” Dad brags, and he sounds like Arvid and I look at my brother to gage his reaction but he’s pulling a familiar grimace that takes me a second to place.
It’s wildly similar to my expression whenever he reminds me that he’s every definition of married to my sister. And he’s making it at Dad while Dad is talking about what women like while pregnant, of all things and I shake my head.
“No, that’s—I know that’s about Mom unless I have some other half-siblings you want to warn me about.” I wince, “no, don’t answer that—I just…do I want to ask about the boat?”
“That’s just um,” the chief clears his throat, gesturing aimlessly above the water, “colloquial term for, the uh, sensitive—between a woman’s legs, on the front—”
“I know about that!” I snap, but my voice cracks so it’s more of a squawk.
“He’s just saying that to not be embarrassed,” Snotlout whispers.
“I’m not—”
“It’s ok if you don’t know about the man in the boat, kid, that’s why we’re doing this—”
“I know about it!” I whisper yell so that the entire village doesn’t happen to hear this mortifying conversation, “I just don’t have a stupid name for it.”
“Then what do you call it?” Arvid asks, and if I’d known that we’d have to have this conversation, I would have had it in jail, away from the prying eyes and ears of dads.
“I don’t call it anything,” I hiss, “I’m usually not talking when it’s—when I—I’m doing things, not talking about them.”
“You aren’t talking?” Dad gets in on the fun, and it strikes me that I’m the last son he gets to embarrass this way. “Didn’t know that was possible.”
“Dad,” I plead, eyes wide, and Arvid snorts.
“Now that I think about it, I don’t know if I’ve ever heard you and Thorston—” He blocks me with a hand on my forehead when I go for the headlock, frustration overcoming our unfortunate nudity, “that’s impressive.”
“Boys,” the chief makes the mistake of putting his hand on my shoulder and I shrug it off too hard.
“Must be because of how used to the open-door policy I got,” I can’t really glare at him with my eye twitching, but he at least tries not to laugh at me.
Tries being the operative word.
“That was supposed to be a preventative measure.”
“Didn’t work,” I huff, “obviously.”
“I still don’t think he knows what we’re talking about,” Snotlout whispers in front of a cupped palm aimed at the chief.
“How would I not—who doesn’t—don’t answer that!” I clear my throat, trying to dial it back to a murderous whisper and ending up with an indignant squeak. “In case you haven’t noticed, Fuse is pregnant, how would I have managed that without knowing about…things.” I finish lamely, trying not to think about it.
Oh Gods, Fuse is probably enduring the same right now.
She’s the one I should have asked to hide in a cave with me.
“I mean, it’s not essential knowledge for her to get pregnant,” Rolf says, instructional and glad for his trapped audience and I splash him, cutting across the sputter when he chokes on mineral water.
“I have knowledge,” I insist, and he glares at me, looking far too disturbingly much like Mom as he pushes wet hair off of his forehead. “Plenty of knowledge, in fact. Zero complaints. Probably too much knowledge, now that I think about it, given that the wedding isn’t until this afternoon.” I look around, wishing everyone were more embarrassed about the topic than my reaction and coming up disappointed, “which, just to re-iterate, Fuse kept coming back for more enough that she got pregnant, so, I think it’s safe to say that I’m covered in that department.”
“If you’re measuring by quantity over quality—” Rolf starts and I threaten to splash him again.
“Both!” My voice cracks. Again. I take a sip of the mead and sink down further into the hot spring like I can hide, “it’s both, aiming for both and I’ve got good aim, so…”
“The twins prove that,” the chief tries to compliment me, or something, and if I weren’t in water, I think I’d spontaneously combust.
“I get that I’m not escaping your advice, but is there any way I could get advice I might actually need?”
I look between him and my dad, trying to see myself in either of their expressions.
The chief as mortified as I feel. My dad as pissed off and reluctant. Both trying.
“I have no fucking idea how to…even begin being a dad?” I deflate, sinking into the water until it laps at my shoulders, “like I don’t know the first thing about babies or kids or—I spent the last few months freaking out because I didn’t have a place to put a crib—”
“The house is ready,” Arvid interjects and I nod, hand limply gesturing at nothing.
“I never thought past crib placement. I didn’t even get to crib acquisition—”
“Made you two,” Arvid adds and I glare at him, oddly glad for our bonding in jail, because I’m absolutely certain that he can read my face well enough to know I’m not really mad. He holds his hand up in a casual, joking surrender that makes me wish I’d invited him to hide in the cave with me. “Just an extra wedding present, congratulations.”
“Get all the sleep you can now,” Rolf rolls his eyes, “because you won’t be getting any more after you have twins in the house.”
“No, it’s the last time you can stay up all night without kids crying,” Snotlout complains, “and then the grandkids move in—oh wait, you guys wouldn’t know about that.”
“And none of you know about twins,” Rolf wins the special edition Thawfest misery competition and his smile is smug. “Not to mention with a third around—”
“How do I put on a diaper? Why do I have to hold the baby’s head when I hold it? What happens if I don’t?” The questions start pouring out like the aquifer feeding the spring at our feet and maybe it’s good that I couldn’t possibly be more embarrassed than I am, because it’s freeing me to be as stupid as I need to be. “How do I know when it’s time? How bad does it really hurt?” My voice drops slightly, and I ask the question I haven’t even really asked myself, “Is Fuse going to be ok?”
“Eret,” the chief says in the voice he uses when he’s everyone else’s chief, and I’m strung out enough that I let myself be comforted, “Fuse is strong.”
“I love her,” I shrug one shoulder, feeling young and narrow, like I’m going to slip between the bars accidentally, unable to help anyone. “We didn’t—I mean obviously, this wasn’t planned. What if something goes wrong? What if—”
“Fuse is going to be fine,” Rolf brushes me off, “statistically—”
“Oh, statistically? Women die in childbirth all the time—”
“Before my son was born, I familiarized myself with three generations of Thorston-Ingerman women’s birthing records.” He shrugs, “statistically, she’ll be fine.”
“Thanks.” I say after a long, dragging pause and the chief looks up at the sky, the sun migrating ever so slowly through the top of its arc.
“And the rest of those questions, you’ve got time for.” He points at me, “the big question now is what are you going to do about your beard?”
“My beard?” I reach up and touch my face, “what’s wrong with my beard?” I slide my fingers through the admittedly overgrown hair, right to left, stumbling upon the issue at the same time the chief continues.
“It’s um, half-burned.”
“Oh.” I wipe at the patch of unevenly stubbled chin I haven’t assessed in what might be years, my hand coming free with a few crumbles of black charred hair, “must be from the explosion at the jail.”
“So…what are you going to do about it?” The chief asks, the question sounding a little weird, like it’s someone else’s words in his mouth.
“What do you mean?” I laugh.
“It’s your wedding day.”
“Yes, that’s why we’re all doing this horrifically awkward thing.” I nod to the group at large and Dad and Rolf nod in agreement.
“Half your beard is burned off,” the chief repeats, elbowing Snotlout for backup.
“And it looks like shit.”
“Thanks,” I shake my head at him, “this has all been such an ego boost, is it over?”
“I think what Snotlout was trying to say is, don’t you want to fix your beard before you get married?” Dad tries, and I get that feeling everyone is leading me towards something obvious again, so I look at Arvid.
“Don’t make Fuse marry someone with a half-charred beard,” he shakes his head, “because it does look like shit.”
“See?” Snotlout snorts, “that’s what I said.”
“Oh, come on,” I gesture at myself, “Fuse—it’s been what? Four years? Fuse knows what mess she’s getting into.”
I’m not quite sure where that argument fails to gain support, but next thing I know, I’m sitting on a tree stump in half damp pants with Snotlout holding a mirror in front of me while the chief sharpens a razor on a nearby stone.
“It’s fine,” I rub my hand over my admittedly shaggy chin, covering the burned spot with my fingersand staring deep into the slightly warped reflection of my own eyes. “I’ll just trim it.”
At first, I think I look tired, but that’s not quite right. I look…serious. Even. If I weren’t surrounded, I’d smile to see if it drew out a hint of the goofy face I used to stare at in the surface of the pool by Raven’s Point, waiting for it to turn into someone else’s.
I always thought it would be Dad’s, and then I despaired over the fact that it would inevitably be the chief’s.
Right now, though, under the wet hair slicked back from my forehead and the shaggy, half-burned beard, it might be mine.
Suddenly, the beard is stifling, not as much of a choice as a bandage disguising a problem, and my hand is steady when I take the razor.
“Thor knows if you started wearing an asymmetrical beard, half the village would follow suit by tomorrow,” Rolf rolls his eyes, almost dutifully angling the mirror in Snotlout’s hands for me to see the damage better.
“You think so?” I grin, holding the razor to my cheek and sweeping down with a deep breath, taking off the burned patch. The skin underneath seems too pale, too fragile, like an enemy could see my pulse under my skin. “Like this?” I gesture at my cheek like it’s a fashion statement and Rolf rolls his eyes.
“Is that really the face you want Fuse to see at the altar?” Dad asks, teasing eyebrow raised and I shrug.
“I don’t have another face.” I ignore the groans and start on the opposite corner of my jaw, shaving down towards my chin.
“Wait, goatee,” Arvid suggests, leaning on my shoulder and looking at my reflection.
He has my eyes. They’re Mom’s, of course, but right now they look like mine, wondering when playing adult became permanent.
“Oh Gods, you’re right,” I laugh, scraping the razor down both sides of my chin and evening out the sides. I probably should have soaped up for this, but I was soaking long enough in my own personal Hel that the hairs are softened, and I clean up the edges with only a small nick on my jaw. “There.”
“That’s not bad,” Arvid squeezes my shoulder and stands back up, looking for Dad’s opinion, but the chief interjects first.
“No,” he laughs though, “that is bad.”
“What? It’s not burned anymore,” I twirl the end of the goatee around my finger, corners of my jaw cold in the unfamiliar breeze.
“I can’t take you seriously like that,” he snorts, and I assess my chin in the mirror.
“Like you take me seriously anyway.”
“I’m trying to,” the chief points at my reflection, “keep going. Please.”
“Fine,” I bite my lower lip to stretch it taut and hold the razor against it before dragging it straight down the center. No turning back now.
The angle of my jaw surprises me, the hardness of the line of it under the razor, the way I have to tilt my head so far back to see the hair on the under-side of it. It’s solid, like the resting expression that I almost didn’t recognize in my eyes.
I look back in the mirror, cleaning up a few straggling hairs and running my hand back and forth across my chin. I thought I’d look like a kid again, baby-faced and absolutely clueless about the world around me, but I don’t. I look clean. I look like I’m not hiding.
My chin is cold already, and I still feel exposed, and just thinking about the ruddy shadow that’s probably going to bloom on my cheeks tomorrow morning makes me think I’m not ready for the upkeep, but the new beard will feel different. A statement, not a costume, not a façade.
“I don’t mind the mustache,” I mutter, a bit shocked at the truth of it, smoothing the hairs on my upper lip with a still wrinkled fingertip.
“Are you serious?” Snotlout snorts before looking between the chief and my dad, “did my mustache look like that? Why didn’t any of you talk me out of it?”
“It most definitely did not look like that,” the chief looks over my shoulder in the mirror and the resemblance isn’t any more obvious without the beard. It’s not less obvious either, it just is. I don’t feel like an imperfect reflection anymore, and even though we have the same eyebrows, they seem less inherited on my face than Mom’s eyes do.
“So, it was better?”
“Worse,” Dad shakes his head, “if that’s even possible.”
“Hey!” I sit up straight, “I think it looks…pretty good.” I weigh the words carefully, testing them out against my appearance.
“What was your mom thinking?” Snotlout snorts, scratching his own upper lip and then curling it at my mustache.
“This again, really?” The chief rolls his eyes and there’s something familiar in his disgusted expression that simultaneously makes me feel very mature and included and very gross.
“Your mom?” I ask him, knuckles white around the razor, “I thought we weren’t talking about women I happen to be related to.” I look at the chief for corroboration but Snotlout keeps talking before it matters.
“It’s not like you knew her,” he scoffs, too smug.
“It’s not like anything happened,” the chief cushions, a little too sternly.
“Mustache goes,” I continue shaving before I can think too deeply into that, wiping the razor off on my leg when my face is bare for the first time in years.
00000
Mom is still gathering the feast, so I spend the next hour or so at the forge, working on a ring. It’s not last minute so much as it’s being perfected at the last minute, an old Hofferson family heirloom being augmented with some Thorston flair in the form of fireproofing. When I’m done, the previously silver ring is a shiny black that reflects purple like Hotgut’s scales when I hold it up to the sunlight.
There are more clothes than I know what to do with on my bed—no, the upstairs bed, as I won’t be sleeping here anymore—at the chief’s house, but I layer up without complaint, sliding the newly polished ceremonial sword into the holster on my hip. I squint at my reflection in the window, jumping when someone touches my shoulder.
“You shaved,” Mom says, fussing with my hair and I turn to face her, feeling paler and more obvious as I swallow hard and shrug. “It looks good.”
“I didn’t really have a choice, it was half burned off, apparently,” I smile, “probably should have noticed that when it happened but…”.
“It’s about time.” She doesn’t lecture me and I appreciate it, nodding slowly to myself and fidgeting with the bottom of the crisp new tunic. The cloak still smells like the dust in the attic, and even though he’s another grandparent I didn’t know, the weight of Stoick the Vast is heavier than usual.
More manageable though, even my half-assed attempts at following tradition helping to center the pressure of the past.
“Four years late, right?” I snort, seams of my tunic tight on my shoulders when I take a deep breath.
“Just on time, I think.” If it weren’t Mom, I’d think she’s just saying what she thinks I need to hear, but as is, it helps me relax.
“Right under the wire.”
“Hey, it’s still a clean finish.” She wipes away a tear and I feel clumsy and too bundled when I hug her. “I’m fine—”
“Maybe I need a hug from my mom,” I swallow hard, looking around the room I never wanted. The footprint on the wall from where I threw a boot at Stoick. The door no one would let me close. The home that fought tooth and nail for the title, no matter how hard I refused it.
I sniff because the dusty cloak is going to make me sneeze.
“You’re just down the road,” she insists, but I don’t let go. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with all the extra food. It’s going to take time to learn how to cook for three.”
“Hey,” I take a step back and pat her shoulders, “like you said, I’m just down the road.”
Yesterdays’s snow is back and picking up slightly, but not enough for people to duck their heads and refrain from commenting on my beard or congratulating me. There are a lot of comments that sound like ‘finally’ and I shrug them off, patting the sword at my side and focusing on keeping my chin up through the threshold to the great hall.
The chief is there, talking animatedly with Tuffnut as Toothless nudges his way between them like he’s part of the discussion. Aurelia is behind them, double checking a scroll, pointing animatedly at it while Arvid leans over her shoulder. Rolf is at his ledger at the table in the back, oldest son bouncing on his knee. Ingrid is reluctant in a new dress, hanging back with Finn while Smitelout talks to Fuse.
Fuse.
As soon as I see her, any and all confusion or trepidation or lack of direction flies out the window. I pat Bang’s head when it appears under my hand, but can’t spare the attention to look at him, not now, not when Fuse’s hair is arranged as a shiny pink curtain around her shoulders, half a dozen intricate braids holding a delicate crown of dried flowers in place on her head. Not when she looks concerned, rolling something between her palms, talking to Smitelout with that direct little frown, everything in me wanting to kiss away the wrinkle between her eyes.
And it hits me that after everything that’s happened to me in my life, everything that’s been thrown my way, every hit I’ve had to take, everything I’ve had to swallow, that Fuse is the only inevitability that I get to choose.
I’m so Odin-damned lucky that I can hardly breathe.
Smitelout sees me first, waggling her eyebrow at Fuse and nudging her on the arm before Fuse turns and sees me, stress melting off her face at the same instant as I feel the goofy smile I’d thought about earlier tug at my cheeks. And before I can cross the floor between us, before I can hug her like I barely got to yesterday, before I can even think about kissing her and home and every awkward, horrible thing I want to tell her about my day, the chief clears his throat.
“We’ll begin the ceremony with the exchange of the bride-price specified in the marriage contract,” he holds his hand out for the scroll Aurelia was reviewing, moving so slowly he might as well be swimming in Monstrous Nightmare gel.
“I accept my Gods-given post as the one true Laird of Thorstonton,” Tuffnut says, looking the chief up and down, “you may bow when you visit me.”
“Why are you saying ‘lord’ like that?” Ruffnut asks from the front of the crowd organizing into semi-neat rows along the length of the hall and Fishlegs grabs her arm, affectionately shushing her.
Maybe it’s the long, torturous morning or the single night’s sleep between me and that cold, damp jail cell, or maybe it’s the unveiled nerves in Fuse’s eyes, incongruous with her placid attempt to hold back a giggle, but standing across from her in front of the chief and the entire tribe feels false somehow. A daydream or a slow building plot moving from the back of my head to the forefront, independent of the rest of the passing time.
It feels a little like being in trouble, to be honest.
Like admitting to something I did wrong but don’t really regret, accepting a lecture that I only half-hear as the chief talks about familiar things like duty and family and how standing here right now has something to do with them all. And Fuse is twitchier than I’ve ever seen her, shifting between her feet, patting her stomach self-consciously, eyes dragging over my face again and again as she bites back laughter that doesn’t make any sense but makes me want to laugh too.
Our eye contact seems to hold a secret. We loved each other before this. We were devoted to each other before this. We knew all this already, and we’re just pretending like we didn’t for the sake of scamming the chief out of a house. And by the look of him, he thinks it’s his idea. It’s the perfect crime, we’re getting out golden with no one the wiser.
“…with the exchange of rings and weapons,” the chief pauses and stares at me for a second before I remember that there’s more to playing along than just standing here.
“Right!” I say too loudly, patting my numerous pockets and trying to ignore the laugh from the audience even though it makes my face heat up, bare jaw feeling more vulnerable than ever.
I’d forgotten about the entire tribe in attendance, lost in that separate little existence with Fuse, where none of this is happening.
“Here,” she finds her ring first, catching my flailing left hand and sliding it into place. It’s cold and I expect it to be heavy, but it’s just a ring, shiny against the scars on my hand.
It’s just a ring until I see Fuse’s face, territorial as Aurelia would say, but to me it’s more of a reflection of how badly I want to be fierce when I think about anything happening to her.
She frowns at her ring when I eventually find it in an inner pocket of my tunic, twisting her hand slowly in the light to show the purple gleam and trying to figure it out, fingers of her other hand tracing over the smooth surface.
“Fireproof,” I whisper, and she looks at me like she can’t believe I remembered and my heart pounds so hard I think I might choke on it.
“And weapons,” the chief clears his throat, taking a step back when I pull the ceremonial sword out too quickly and clanging it against his left shin.
The audience laughs again.
Fuse hands me a kind of dainty short sword that I don’t recognize, Eret the First’s ceremonial sword hanging a bit limply in her grip until Smitelout steps forward and offers to hold it for her while the chief pulls the ceremonial cloth out of his pocket.
I take Fuse’s hands, squeezing slightly when hers are shaking, trying to communicate that our scheme is right on schedule. She bites her lip, shuffling a step closer and it’s not close enough, the urge to grab her and fly Bang to the nearest cave resurfacing alarmingly close to the front of my conscience. But we’re so close to everything we need, and I nod at her, thumbs dragging across her cold knuckles.
She blushes and I grin, but the expression freezes on my face when the chief clears his throat.
“Wait.”
I want to sputter ‘for what?’ or something similarly coherent but all I can do is turn to stare at him, wide-eyed and swallowing hard.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” he waves the ceremonial cloth and Mom’s jaw drops where she stands behind him.
She looks at me like this must be something of my doing and I shake my head as much as I can manage.
“Technically, I mean, I don’t know if I can technically do this.” The chief clarifies, except he doesn’t, because this whole thing is his idea. This wedding, me and Fuse standing here, this ring on my finger and that sword I risked my ass to go get.
“Wha—th—chief?” I shake my head in disbelief as I get something resembling a question out and he just cocks his head at me like I’m the one who sounds crazy.
Which I do.
But that’s not my fault, he’s acting crazy, I’m just reacting.
“That’s the thing,” he shrugs one shoulder like he’s weighing the pros and cons of some hallucination he’s refusing to clue the rest of us in on, even as the audience starts to whisper, “it’s the chief’s job to marry people.”
“Y-yeah?” I stutter, looking pointedly at Fuse and my hands, trying and failing to relax when she squeezes my fingers reassuringly.
“And I’ve decided it’s time for you to become chief,” his mouth moves in tandem with the sound of the words theoretically coming out of it, but it takes another moment for the sounds to mean anything in my brain, “which puts me into a precarious position as I officiate this wedding.”
“Chief?” I ask again, but it’s not a moniker this time, it’s a title floating somewhere between us, a title I’d started to think I’d never reach.
“Over the last few years, you’ve impressed me—no, I think you’ve impressed all of us,” he gestures to the audience, “with your willingness to help and learn and most importantly, to take charge.”
That garners a few claps and I look around, shocked to see people looking as happily surprised as I think I’ll feel when the rush of adrenaline calms down. Fuse lets go of one of my hands to rub my arm and when I look at her, one eyebrow is quirked to silently ask me if I’m ok and I nod so fast it feels like my head is going to pop off and roll away.
“But the last few months, and even more, the last few weeks, you’ve convinced me that you have a direction for the tribe in mind,” he takes a step back toward the fire pit, dragging his thumb through the char on the old stone, “a direction I’m excited to see you take us in from my happy, well-deserved retirement.”
He jokes and people laugh and he nods encouragingly at me as he draws on my forehead with the soot. Large half circle. Small half circle. Line between my eyebrows. The Berk seal etched onto my skin like fire only I can feel, a secret weight that feels lighter in Stoick the Vast’s cloak with all three of my parents staring at me like they trust me.
I look out at the audience then, trying to soak in the cheers that feel more like a cold bucket of water over my spinning head. Fuse’s hand in mine is the only thing that feels real and her smile is half pride and half ‘I told you so’, just enough to ground me in the moment when I was so sure I’d wake up and find myself still stagnant. Eternally a step and a half behind where I finally am.
“Now,” the chief—the ex-chief—Hiccup, maybe, if I can get used to it—clears his throat to quiet the crowd, “Chief,” he addresses me and it feels huge and right and terrifying all at once. He waits until I nod. “How would you feel about granting me chief’s power back for a second to finish this wedding?”
I don’t think that’s explicitly necessary, really, and any other time I might have argued with him about being ridiculous and dramatic and scaring me half to death but right now all I can do is cling to the idea that the chief’s power is a real thing, a thing I’m holding. A thing I can possess and hand off and be trusted to care for.
“Good,” I nod, and that doesn’t quite make sense, but it takes me an extra second to find the air to say more, “granted. Please finish the wedding.” I grab Fuse’s hand again and she’s really smiling now, fingernails biting into the my palms as the—Hiccup wraps the cloth around our hands.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” his smile relaxes like he feels the absence of the very real burden he handed off to me, “Chief and Chieftess.”
Fuse doesn’t wait for the ceremony to allow her to kiss me. She flings her arms around my neck, the ceremonial fabric wrapped somewhere in them, dragging across my jaw as her fingers tangle in my hair and yank me down to her.
The audience cheers, again, like this has something to do with them, and when I pull back to breathe, she has a sooty smeared chief’s mark cutting across her eyebrow, highlighting her smile like the dust of so many bombs. I smile and kiss her again, one hand cupping her chin, the other sliding down her back, pulling her as close as I can with the bulge of our future between us.
The chief—Hiccup, the retired chief—clears his throat, and I reluctantly pull back, dropping one more kiss on Fuse’s forehead and licking the familiar charred taste off of my lips as I look up.
There are more traditions.
I lift Fuse over the sword simulating a threshold at the mouth of the aisle as we’re already inside because of the weather. It doesn’t make much sense, but for once, I’m in the game of appeasing the Gods with the hope that they let me live in this moment a little while longer. I throw the ceremonial sword into the old splintered pillar at the front of the hall, relieved when it sticks in the wood with a thunk, splitting the old pine an inch on each side of the blade.
There’s a first drink of mead and a hundred raucous jokes about not needing to sacrifice a lamb for fertility. Smitelout punches me too hard in the arm and asks if I like the ring, assuring me that she melted the needle I ruined down into it, since it held me together once maybe it can do the trick long term.
The first ten times someone calls me ‘Chief’, I feel like I’m flying unassisted, the goal I’ve spun out towards for so long finally in my grasp. The next couple dozen times prime me for getting used to it, my ears pricking at the sound of the title, turning towards well-wishers with an automatic ease I didn’t expect, especially given the fact that my hand is absolutely refusing to let go of Fuse’s, even as she carries on her own conversations.
Then the title starts to be a question, a few workmen dropping the mood of the feast for just a moment before they leave, asking about dams I haven’t thought about in weeks and buildings showing strain under the slow accumulating early snow.
“I don’t know, Ack,” I gently push the man’s drawing back towards his chest, tugging at the collar of my cloak where the back of my neck is starting to sweat in the crowded hall as dancing starts up near the fire, “I’ll have to look at it later, I’m a little uh, distracted.” I squeeze Fuse’s hand and Ack looks a little too purposefully at her stomach, triggering a very un-chiefly urge to step between them and demonstrate just how new the ceremonial status of my weaponry is.
I swallow it, using the chief title’s weight as an anchor in the moment.
“Is there a problem?”
“I just figured you aren’t going to be getting any less distracted,” the man shrugs and I sigh.
“I’ll get to it,” I promise, and I think it’s the end of it until I notice the line forming behind him.
The next questions are similar, and there are enough of them that Fuse eventually kisses my cheek and whispers in my ear that she needs to sit down. The pull to go with her is almost too much to ignore and all of my questions from earlier start welling back up in my head, this time with a new addendum.
How do I put on a diaper when I’m busy being chief? What happens if I don’t hold the baby’s head because I’m busy being chief? How will I know when it’s time if I’m busy being Chief? Is Fuse going to be ok when I’m not with her because I’m busy being The Chief of The Tribe?
“Is everything ok?” The ch—Hiccup appears at my shoulder, looking between me and Gustav, who’s doing his trademark best at being difficult.
“The wood pile—”
“Can’t you let a guy enjoy his wedding?”
It creates enough of a pause for me to get a word in edgewise, “I’ll talk to you about this later.” My tone doesn’t leave room for questions, but I know Gustav would try anyway so I start walking, scanning the crowd for Fuse and trying not to feel babysat when the—Hiccup follows me.
Babysat. Baby. Babies who will need taken care of when I’m this busy all the time.
“Chief,” he calls me, and the title is still as exciting as ever, even with the nerve-wracking cord woven through it, and I turn to face him, hands in my pockets, “there’s one more wedding present I want to give you.”
“Is Chief a wedding present?” I laugh, an edge to the sound that I don’t quite hide, “because trust me, that is enough. I’m good, fully accounted for gift wise.”
“I think you’ll like this one.”
I open my mouth for a second, hoping something snarky will fall out, but when nothing does, I deflate slightly, gesturing him forward with a limp hand.
“Fine, what is it?”
“Now, I want you to know that I meant everything I said, and I absolutely think you’re ready to be chief—”
“I’m sensing a ‘but’,” my heart stutters, “and to be honest, I’m not a huge fan of the cryptic, last minute way you’ve been dropping things on me today—”
“But given the circumstances—”
“Here it comes,” I mumble.
“What would you say to my services as Acting Chief for hmm, I don’t know, three or four months?” He offers, so nonchalant that it takes me a second to make sense of it.
I hug him when I do, arms moving faster than I can account for, lifting him clear off the ground. I laugh when he yelps, kicking out in an attempt to find the floor again, before setting him down and standing up in a way that I hope is slightly more chiefly.
“That’d be…appreciated,” I straighten my cloak and look around to see if anyone saw. If they did, they’re giving me a pass, and my first most important order feels strange coming out of my mouth. “Put a notice on the door before you leave tonight?”
“Can do,” the Acting Chief accepts the order and lowers his voice slightly, “when are you getting out of here, by the way?”
“The feast is still going on,” I look around the room that’s slowly getting rowdier, barely spotting the back of Ingrid’s head as she slips out the front door holding Finn’s hand.
“Ruffnut and Fuse’s mom already walked her back home.” When he says ‘home’ I remember he doesn’t mean his, he means mine. The house of mine and Fuse’s, the one I haven’t seen, and my eyes widen slightly. “As Acting Chief, I’d say I’m a pretty reliable witness who can report that I saw you to your bride’s front door.”
“You mean leave?” I look at the heavy front doors of the great hall where Bang is sleeping, “now?”
“The feast is for everyone else, really,” he shrugs.
“You mean I can leave right now?” I swallow, the motion sticking in my suddenly dry throat, “and go home. To Fuse.” And no one else, I add silently, the thought of the quiet making my head spin.
“I mean, you are the chief.”
I take a big step back at that, remembering that the title comes with more than work.
“And you’ll put a notice up—”
“Yes, Eret, I said I would,” he laughs, “now go enjoy your honeymonth before someone else asks you something.”
“Right,” I nod, waving goodbye and taking advantage of my new title as I wake Bang and slip out into the slow falling snow.
He seems to know where the house is, coasting downwards before I see the new structure at the bottom of the hill that houses the Thorston-Ingerman complex. It’s smaller than the chief’s house, built more cleanly and painted what I imagine will be green and blue in the daylight. There’s a trickle of smoke pouring out of the chimney and Bang hops easily into the attic hanger sized for a Thunderdrum, grunting a greeting at a lump in the back that must be Hotgut.
I don’t knock and the door opens smoothly, whisking across a clean wooden floor to reveal a small common area with a padded bench and a chair that looks like my Dad’s favorite must have when it was new in the corner. There’s a handful of smoke-bomb casings on the table by the hearth and my axe is hanging on a rack by the door.
The door shuts tight and I flick the lock closed, breathing into the click and letting the quiet crackle of the fire displace the echoing cheers of the evening in my brain.
“Eret?” Fuse interrupts my moment and when I look up, she’s barefoot in the doorway to what I presume is the bedroom, flower crown slightly crooked, hair pulled forward over one shoulder.
“Hey,” I smile, crossing the room to hug her, burying my nose in her hair and ignoring the crackle of dried flowers against my chin.
“I figured you’d be out later.” She slides one cold hand under all my layers of shirts, tracing the divot at the base of my spine and breathing against the side of my neck. “You seemed busy.”
“Well, there are perks to being chief,” I pull back to look down at her, “like leaving when I want.” I smile, pushing some of her hair away from her face and looking around the room, “feel like giving me the grand tour?”
“Main room,” she points at the fireplace then back over her shoulder, voice flat as her eyes flick between mine and my chin, the vulnerability finally feeling like a good thing as she licks her lips, “bedroom, other room.” She points up on the way to tangling her hand in my hair, “loft.”
“Descriptive,” I laugh, hand sliding against the side of her stomach, hoping for a kick, but too overwhelmed to be disappointed when it doesn’t happen, “it’s like I was there.”
“It’s just a house,” she takes the tie out of my hair and lets that drop to the floor before reaching for the clasp on my cloak. I catch her hand and squeeze it.
“Our house.”
“Our house,” she concedes with a smile that quickly fades back into a determined expression, “don’t think I forgot that I didn’t have a chance to check if you upheld your half of our bargain.”
“Bargain?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Did you get hurt while getting the sword, or do I have to be disappointed in you?” She leans into me, hair smelling like the flowers in her crown and the soot on both of our foreheads and I smile.
“I didn’t realize you checking was part of the bargain.”
“Oh,” she frowns, tugging her hand from mine and going back to the closure of my cloak, “I figured that was obvious.”
“You know me, I’m oblivious.”
She weighs that for a second before nodding and dropping the cloak behind her on what I assume is the bed. Our bed. I start working on the little braids holding her flower crown in, heart racing when it comes free and I lift it off carefully before hanging it on the handle of my axe, all traditions but one finally over with.
One that’s not necessary, per say, especially with family commentary coming back to me all at once.
I groan, resting my head on her shoulder, hands fisting idly in the soft fabric of her dress at her sides as I nudge her backwards until she’s sitting on the bed.
“What?” She asks, at first concerned, then laughing as I flop down next to her, pawing at her shoulder for a second before she lays down next to me, hair half covering her face as I groan again.
“It was awful,” I whisper, kicking my boots off before curling one of my legs around hers, “I barely made it out alive. Hel, I didn’t make it out with my beard, they made me shave, they wouldn’t let it end until I was presentable.” I shudder for effect and she runs a curious finger along my jaw.
“Your family?”
“The men in my family, to be clear,” I rest my hand on the side of her stomach, “I thought the women were the ones to worry about, but I was wrong. They wouldn’t stop trying to advise me on how to…” I pause, because she’s my wife and I wasn’t good at talking about this before it felt so important, but this is our house and the privacy settles like a thick blanket of snow keeping the outside world away, and I lower my voice, “make sure you enjoyed yourself. Sexually.”
I cringe but Fuse looks down at her stomach then back up at me, expression deadpan.
“This wasn’t evidence enough?”
“That’s what I said,” I hollow my back around her stomach to rub my nose against hers, new blanket on our new bed soft against my cheek. “And they’re all married to women I’m related to. Snotlout was there.” I shudder, forehead against hers as her hand slides further under my shirt to rest against my heart. “It was awful. How about you?”
She pushes me onto my back, knees hanging over the side of the bed as she leans over me, hair tickling my face and surrounding us like another curtain of privacy.
“My aunt was there.” Her expression is battle hardened and I smile at her, hand rising habitually to her hip.
“Ruffnut?”
“Yes.” The word is clipped and I either can’t or don’t want to suppress the urge to tease her, watching the patchy blush on her cheeks spread down her neck when I smile.
“What was that even like?” Maybe my embarrassment quota for the day is so full that I can’t physically add more to it, because I don’t stutter. In fact, my smile widens when she bites her lip and breaks eye contact, looking at her hair as her fingers stiffen against my chest. “What did she even say? I’m sorry I just—the possibilities—”
“She gave me some suggestions,” Fuse mumbles, pulling her hand out of my shirt and fiddling with her hair.
I sit up, one leg curled on the bed so I can face her as I grab both of her forearms, kissing her briefly to get her eyes back to mine.
“Did you say you’d take them? Or…”
“I said that we’re fine,” she bites her lip, cheeks glowing in the soft light from the torch on the wall. “And that I have no complaints.”
“Did that make her stop?” I laugh, “because that kind of assurance did not work for me.” I wince again and she shakes her head, loosening slightly into the conversation like she feels the privacy I do, leeching into my bones as I think of how the chief said ‘honeymonth’ like it’s something I get to have. “Then what?”
“Nothing,” she lies, badly, smile off kilter as she distracts herself with the ties on the neck of my shirt, loosening them enough to guide it over my head. Or as far over my head as she can reach before her stomach shifts her balance and she braces herself on the bed. I get my shirts the rest of the way off, dropping them on the floor and catching her hand before she can probe my chest for any sign of bruising. “Eret,” she chastises, on the cusp of a whine and I raise my eyebrows.
“I had to endure sex advice from not one, but two people who have been married to my mom. Snotlout said something about my grandma, at one point.” I set her hand on my chest and reach for the fastening ties at the neckline of her dress, fingers shaking against the careful knots when I think about the fact that she’s my wife and this is our bed in our house. “What did you say to get Ruffnut off of our case?”
“Well,” she swallows hard, hand inching down my stomach and lingering at my belly button, “I told her I didn’t think you were that flexible.”
“Flexible?” I pause, cocking my head, “is that like a code for something or—”
“Not in this case.” Her face twists slightly like it does when she’s trying to conceptualize a really complicated bomb and I can’t help the laugh that bursts out of me, chest deep and relieved in a way I can barely comprehend.
Relieved that today is over. Relieved that we’re alone. Relieved that after all that talk, this does still just feel like us, comfortable like it always has been even with rings on our fingers.
Fuse laughs too, hands on my shoulders as she kneels to kiss me, stomach firm and unfamiliar and welcome against mine as she leans into me on our bed, the endless haze of privacy thrumming in my veins. Her hand lands on my knee and inches upwards, thumb hooking in the waistband of my pants and tugging, sliding towards the center and making me shiver as I pull back.
“I’ve been thinking,” I mumble against her jaw, hands fumbling with the laces on her dress.
“Still?” She loosens my pants and I swear.
“Hear me out,” I pull back just enough to try and think straight, the ring on her finger cool against my lower stomach in a way that makes my hands shake, “I’ve got to be more flexible than Fishlegs.”
She blinks at me, licking her kiss swollen lips and cocking her head, hair tickling my chest and making me shiver, “you want…”
“I’m curious, I guess.”
“You guess?” She raises an eyebrow, kissing my jaw and leaning hard on my shoulder, dress loosening when I finally get the ties undone.
“I know that I only get more curious the more evasive you are.”
“Ok, Chief,” Fuse’s voice dips as she says the title, and everything about me stands at attention, warmth flooding my chest when my reaction makes her smile like she just discovered a new favorite form of ignition.
And for possibly the first time in my entire life, I feel like all points of my foundation are anchored deep enough into bedrock that I can trust my direction. Like my future is accounted for, finally out of the fire but still warm from the flames.
Open Flames: Chapter 20
Also known as...the epilogue
Ao3
If I asked Fuse what her favorite part of our honeymonth was, I’d guess it was when I told my mom to ‘go away’ a little less than charitably because she thought she could interrupt our second day of wedded bliss to ask some question about some random thing that Acting Chief Hiccup could obviously handle. If Fuse asked me the same question, I’d probably say what happened immediately after I told my mom to ‘go away’, because that was a memorable way to accidentally knock the weapons rack off of the wall and then realize no one could yell at us because it is our wall.
If this hypothetical conversation happened in the first few days after the wedding, in that wave of the novelty of true, uninterruptible privacy that momentarily made Fuse do her best and mostly succeed to forget that she was pretty miserably pregnant, my answer would have garnered an enthusiastic response. Any other time in the last month she probably would have rolled her eyes and asked me to rub her feet.
Which I would have done. Happily. Without question.
As always, I’d do anything to make Fuse safer or better.
But this morning, when she assured me that burning Snoggletog breakfast didn’t make her sick while her hands curled into white-knuckled balls of pain at her side, there was nothing I could do. She told me to get the midwife with the same even voice she uses to guide shaky hands into building bombs, and I did it, moving mechanically like she always wants me to around explosives.
All day, for the first time, I haven’t been able to stop what’s hurting her. My axe hanging useless on the crooked weapons rack, fists clenched against the urge to try and take control of the uncontrollable.
“Does he need to wait outside?” The midwife asks, yanking me out of my panic, and Fuse – Fuse, who I put into this situation – has the gall to look worried about me for a mortifying second. “If he forgot how to move, I can get Arvid to drag him out by his toes.”
Not a good look for a Chief. Or a man.
Or a dad.
“Fuck,” I swear at the situation. At the house. At myself. At the obligation to compose my face, to be a Chief, to be there for Fuse even when I want to apologize over and over every time I see the contents of one of those medical buckets. “I’m good. I’m good.”
And then Fuse is breaking my hand and the midwife is encouraging her and then silence. The worst thing I’ve ever heard.
It stretches. Seconds. Years. Eons.
My useless axe couldn’t cut the tension.
My knees shake.
Then there’s a cry.
A baby’s cry.
A shrill, instantly recognizable cry that makes me want to get that axe and face outwards from the doorway, but I can’t, because the baby is wrapped in a blanket and shoved hastily in my arms while the midwife works.
“It’s a girl,” she says, offhand, like it’s not the most important thing she’ll ever say.
And the silence in my head is the loudest, longest, beat of my life, looking down at that red little face.
The baby’s furious. Beyond pissed.
I get it.
Hel, I just spent a month with nothing but Fuse and after being forced into the world I feel like sobbing. And I have distractions.
There’s something Fuse-like in the twist of the little girl’s anger. Something righteous and unhinged and the weight of my two Fuse’s slams into my chest like a battering ram.
I don’t remember sagging down against the wall, bundle in my arms. I don’t remember crying. I just know I have to wipe tears from my eyes when I hear the second cry, this one higher pitched as a wriggling, arching little thing is wrapped in another blanket.
“Another girl,” the midwife says, holding the screaming bundle in my direction.
“You mean,” I jump upright as carefully as I can, still supporting myself on the wall, scared to take even a hand off of the bundle in my arms, “both? I—”
“You’re going to have to get used to having your hands full,” she adjusts my arms with brusque, bloody hands and sets the second baby in them.
In theory, she pats my shoulder in a matronly way. I theoretically feel it and nod like her words made some kind of sense. In practice, I float, lost in two tiny, indignant faces I almost recognize.
Here they are.
After all that, here they are.
“Hand me the older one,” the midwife prompts and I reflexively shake my head, holding both bundles closer to my chest. Her eyes are irritated but kind as she raises an eyebrow, “she needs to eat. Unless you were intending to feed her.”
“I’ll feed her,” I insist mindlessly. “How—I mean, how do I feed her?”
“By handing her to your wife, Chief.” The midwife says the title like a mild admonishment, and I flush.
“Right. I knew that. I know that.” I reluctantly allow her to take the older twin, clutching the younger one to my chest as I appear by the bed, my feet insubstantial against the floor as I allow myself to take in the scene.
Fuse. Obviously exhausted, pink hair stuck to her face, head back against a pile of pillows. A baby in her arms, expression placid and overwhelmed as she listens to the midwife and tries to position the squirming bundle against her chest.
I clear my throat. She glances at me and there’s all that understanding, all that coping, all that resilience that’s always left behind after the blast. It’s all familiar, all such a relief that I can barely breathe as I sit on the edge of the bed before my quaking knees dump me on my ass.
The older twin goes to sleep after she eats, a squishy little bundle with red-brown hair tucked under Fuse’s arm as I reluctantly hand over the younger girl, her hair just starting to show blonde where it’s brushed clean on the blanket. I was hoping for pink, but she has Fuse’s nose and I don’t remember the last time I was this lost for words.
Probably when I was our babies’ age and didn’t know any words.
Gods, they don’t know any words. I have to teach them everything and keep them safe and I cradle my head in my hands, trying not to dwell on how easy it’s going to be to mess up.
“I’m going to let you two get settled while I go tell your families,” the midwife starts picking up her supplies and I sit upright.
“You’re leaving?” I fumble for the words, “does that—what if—it’s over?” I look at Fuse, all three of my Fuses, impossibly safe and tired and terrifying, because of how much they need me. Because all that’s left in me is how much I need them.
“Unless you think there’s a third.” The midwife raises that eyebrow at me, and I get the feeling she’s thinking about moving to some other island with a chief who makes sense. “I’ll be back.”
“You’re alright.” I let myself say it once the heavy front door is shut and we’re alone, let the relief bleed around it, let my hand shake now that I can’t drop anything.
“That’s one word for it,” Fuse mutters under her breath, but my expression makes her pause and she sighs, shifting a bit uncomfortably, “I will be. Just…a long day.”
“Why?” I snort even though I don’t think it’s explicitly a joke, scooting a little closer and barely biting back a sigh of relief when she lifts her head for me to slip my arm behind it, like she doesn’t hate me even after what I just put her through. “Been busy?”
“A little bit.” She glares at me, eyes blue fire, and that’s the same too, like I really managed not to lose any of her in the multiplication.
“I’ll trade you for the next one,” I glance between the two babies, still more than a little in awe of how persistently they’re existing here, “I can do the hard part while you freak out and the midwife makes fun of you.”
“Next one?” She huffs, intact eyebrow raised.
“I was operating under the impression that the grumpiness was supposed to end when you weren’t pregnant anymore,” I joke, kissing her forehead, happy pang in my stomach when that little blonde head nestles against my chest.
“To be fair, I said I’d be grumpy as long as I couldn’t see my toes,” she leans back against my arm a little harder, circles under her eyes prominent as the other baby fusses, less furious than before, little hand fisting in the blanket.
I glance at Fuse’s foot peeking out from the blankets and laugh, “and you haven’t looked yet?”
“I don’t intend to.” She almost laughs, breathy and exhausted as she leans a little harder into my side. The older twin fusses again, bordering on a cry. “Can you take her?” She asks, a little unsure of herself, holding the little blonde bundle like some rare and exciting mineral she hasn’t worked with before, but believes will combust especially impressively.
“Sure. Yeah.” I nod, apologizing at least a dozen times under my breath throughout the clumsy shuffle as Fuse adjusts the blankets and picks up the older baby, steady hand gentle against the back of her neck.
My hands feel too big, too rough, ill-equipped and shaky as my thumb brushes a blonde curl away from a tiny furrowed eyebrow. Fuse’s eyebrow as if it had never been burned, focused on something no one else can see.
“Gods, she looks like you,” Fuse mumbles, looking down at the older twin in her arms, temple on my chest.
“Are you kidding me?” I kiss the top of her head, “did you hear her screaming? All you.”
“This is your morning face,” she insists, “exactly.”
I look down at the babies, the older one’s grumpy face and the younger one’s blonde curls, seeing Fuse in every twitch of tiny fingers.
“We have to name them,” I say a bit slowly, awkwardly, trying not to show how nervous I’ve been for this part. It’s obvious that Fuse picks up on it anyway because she kisses my shirt and sighs, settling in for a conversation she’s obviously too tired to want to have. “I can’t keep referring to them as ‘older’ and ‘younger’ in my head.”
“One and two?” She offers and I shake my head.
“Of course, when I have my first opportunity to mess a kid up for life, I double down.” I can’t imagine shoving some of my own generational baggage down onto either of the nameless girls’ beautiful, wrinkled faces. I’m not going to lie, I feel like I’ve gotten off the hook a little bit because Eret IV, Hiccup IV, and Stoick III are all out of the running just due to gender.
“Sounds like you,” Fuse wakes up enough to mull the problem over properly, “they don’t look like Nuts to me.”
“Do twins names have to go together? Like a set?” I love how our house feels like an extension of my mind, like anything I think, I can say out loud and it’ll find purchase, not judgement. “Thunder and Drum. Or rhyme? Inga and Helga.” Nothing sounds right, and Fuse agrees from the way she shifts, silence heavy, shoulder digging into my ribs. “Purchase,” I gesture to the baby in her arms, “and Free Gift The Merchant Threw In For A Loyal Customer.”
“That’s a little wordy.”
“Maybe we should work off your name?” I don’t bring up mine and she doesn’t either and I love her so much I don’t know where to put it all. I’m glad for the girls to collect the love that feels like it’s spilling over. “Fuse, Grenade, and Aftershock. Casing and Powder. Blast and Shrapnel.”
She snorts half a tired laugh before sitting up a little straighter, “wait, Shrapnel.”
“I was kidding.”
“I’m not,” she tickles a chubby foot that has escaped the blanket bundle on my lap, “she is the second wave of destruction after the explosion.”
“Fuse and Shrapnel.” I mull it over and nod, “I like it. Halfway done.”
“The easy half,” she bounces the little girl in her arms.
“Just because Shrapnel is a side effect of an explosion doesn’t mean she’s not destructive,” I chide gently, that heavy bond in my chest deepening when I look at the baby on my lap and tie a name to her.
“No, I—whatever we choose has to sound good with Chief in front of it.”
“Oh.” I swallow, “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“The future Chief of Berk,” Fuse says quietly, messing with chubby fingers until the baby girl’s face furrows.
I want to deflect. To say something stupid about how Shrapnel could stage a coup at any time. I want to tell Fuse that she doesn’t have to worry about that now, just how I want to tell her that she doesn’t have to worry about the mantle of Chief’s wife.
But she’s right. And as much as I hate needing it, especially now, her support makes the hazy future feel possible.
How much can I really mess up this dad thing if Fuse is helping me?
“So, it’s got to be easy to pronounce,” I swallow hard, “you know how Christians have problems with Viking names.”
“And it has to be strong. If she looks like you this much already, of course she’s going to be strong.”
I don’t see any of my scrawny, freckled mess in the baby’s perfect little face, but it’s not the time to argue.
“I hope she’s smarter than me,” I rest my cheek on Fuse’s head, “a little quicker on the uptake, maybe. Some of your common sense couldn’t hurt.”
“So, something with some strength, some wisdom.” A smile leaks into her voice, the kind of sly smile that usually only follows billowing smoke and destruction, “something that looks good in an Edda claiming victory over an enemy.”
“There are a few Sigrids in my family tree,” I offer, “victorious, wise, easy for Christians to pronounce as they run away screaming.”
“Sigrid Haddock, Heir to the throne of Berk,” Fuse whispers like she’s scared to say it louder, like I’m not the only one who feels like I’m going to wake up to some other, worse reality. “How do we make it official?”
“I think I just tell Rolf to write it down,” I kiss her ear, the top of her head, trying to communicate how amazing she is and knowing I’ll never quite get there, “one of the perks of being Chief.”
Fuse hums in agreement, half asleep, and I’m settling in for a shift as her dedicated pillow when the front door swings open and the midwife steps inside, asking how Fuse is doing and leading a small group of people along with her.
Tuffnut is first, holding a stuffed Zippleback toy half his size with a white knuckled grip and a worried expression that I recognize as similar to my own before I realized that Fuse was ok. My mom is white faced but excited, eyes widening when she sees the baby on my lap. My dad is with her, also searching for the babies, counting really, like he also doesn’t trust the good news until he catalogs everyone.
Hiccup trails behind a little bit, as unsure if he’s invited as his name is in my head, and I kiss the top of Fuse’s head as I wiggle my arm out from behind her, standing slowly, carefully, Shrapnel’s tiny body more precious and fragile than anything I’ve ever held.
“Can you shut the door?” I ask when the Snoggletog wind whips through the room, trying not to panic when the gust of cold makes Shrapnel’s face screw up as she lets out a single, indignant cry. “It’s ok,” I bounce her like I’ve seen Rolf do, but it doesn’t seem to cheer her up any, “your grandpa is shutting the door.”
“On it,” he says too quickly, and if I weren’t so busy trying to prevent my baby from crying, I’d comment on how Hiccup sounds like he’s about to join in.
“Two healthy baby girls,” the midwife assures as the door clicks shut and my dad tosses a log on the fire without me having to ask, “one healthy mom.”
Mom.
Fuse is a mom.
It’s the first time I’ve heard it and I look up at her, again searching for some sort of change, something that’s getting away from me. But she’s still Fuse, thanking her dad for the Zippleback and rolling her eyes when he ruffles her hair.
“One overwhelmed new dad,” Hiccup jokes and I nod, willingly admitting to that much.
Dad.
I’m a dad. It’s different when people say it out loud.
“Do you want to hold her?” I ask, glancing at Fuse to double check that it’s ok, but she’s already handed off Sigrid to her dad, who’s cooing enthusiastically over her and saying something about the chaos she’ll cause.
“Y—Absolutely,” Hiccup nods and I carefully rest my daughter—I have a daughter. I have two daughters—in his arms.
“Hold her head.”
“Of course,” he says, humoring me, even as Mom steps up beside him and gives me a fond, exasperated smile.
“He has held a baby before.”
“You haven’t been a dad before,” he tells her gently, voice low as he rocks Shrapnel, “he’s got to be protective, he can’t help it.”
“She’s beautiful.” When Mom looks between her husband and me, there’s a ghost of that old ‘what if’ I used to hate on his face, but now it just makes me think about what it would have felt like not to be able to hold my baby the second they came into the world. “Older or younger?”
“Younger,” I nod, “by all of a few minutes, so I don’t know how much it matters but…”
“It’ll matter to them,” my dad points out, very carefully taking Sigrid from Tuffnut and smiling at her.
“Ruffnut never forgave me for beating her on the way out,” Tuffnut shakes his head, “you’ve got a long life of guilt trips ahead of you, little miss.” He frowns, “assuming this one is the girl twin.”
“They’re both girls,” I correct him, risking the few steps of distance from my parents to stand next to Fuse, hand on her shoulder.
“Yeah, but which one’s the boy?” He asks and Fuse sighs, exhausted.
“Dad, there’s no boy.”
“But they’re twins.” Tuffnut looks around the room confused and for the first time today, the midwife is looking at someone other than me like they’re the dumbest person on Midgard.
“Twins who are both girls,” Hiccup cradles the head, like I asked, as he hands Shrapnel carefully to my mom.
“Yeah, but which one’s the boy?”
“Neither,” I say, the room feeling a little smaller than it did a few minutes ago. A little more cramped. “Because they’re both girls.”
“No, really,” he laughs, “which one’s the boy?”
I look down at Fuse, her pale face barely sustaining her irritated expression, and sometimes, the Chief mantle isn’t as heavy as I feared it would be.
“Ok, everybody out,” I clap my hands together before reaching out towards my dad, “baby please.”
“I’m just asking—”
“Tuffnut,” I nudge my chin towards the door as I accept Sigrid, “get out of my house.”
“Mom needs her rest,” the midwife is finally my ally, helping me herd the extra family towards the door.
“Are you sure you don’t need any help?” My mom asks, hesitant to hand Shrapnel over.
“I’m good,” I insist, feeling overwhelmed but symmetrical when she sets the baby in my free arm.
“Come on,” Hiccup takes her hand and tugs, and I don’t know what to do with how easy it is for him to be on my side right now, but I’m glad for it, “let’s get back to the feast, I have a lot to brag about.”
“If you’re sure—”
“He’s sure,” Dad helps move her towards the door and then we’re alone again. The four of us.
My family within the family.
Fuse yawns, scooting down in bed a bit with a wince that makes my chest hurt.
“Get some rest,” I look down at the babies in my arms, both of their eyes closed, their barely there weight soothing. “I’ve got this for a while.”
“You could put them down and come rest with me,” she offers, already comfortable in the center of the bed and I smile.
“Maybe later,” I shrug, barely, my always moving hands finally forced still like Fuse is always trying to do. “I’ve got a lot to tell these girls, might as well get started.”
“They need to sleep too,” she says like she feels like she has to, but she’s looking at me with a soft, hazy expression I can’t possibly deserve before she yawns again.
“I’m not stopping them.” I adjust my grip and Sigrid’s little hand escapes the blanket, fingers curling reflexively against my shirt. “They like my voice, remember?”
“I love you,” she says, quiet and sleepy, tugging the blankets further around her shoulders.
“Love you too.” I’m not sure if she hears me, because her light snores start almost immediately, chest rising and falling evenly under the covers.
I walk to the small front window, mostly to check on the snow, but the torchlight in the village catches my eye. My village.
I look down at my daughters. Our village.
“This is Berk,” I whisper, swallowing hard and watching the fluffy snow drift towards the ground, casting shadows across my babies’ faces when it passes in front of the moon. “Our home for eight—well, nine generations. It snows so much that the only way you can really tell that it’s winter is when you haven’t seen the sun for the better part of a month. The food is…mostly mutton, I’m not going to lie to you. Lots of mutton now that we have fewer dragons than ever, but that’s alright, the ones sticking around are family.”
I’m unsure what to do with the feeling that this day, this conversation, this moment is the first of many, not part of a countdown, but I’m glad for the change.
So wait a minute...I finished Ripped, and then I wrote Once Upon a Christmas Wedding at Berk Manor in like a week...and then I finished the smut...and now I’ have to...choose something else to work on? That doesn’t seem fair.
Like...what am I going to work on now? I have to decide? Lame.
Open Flames: Part 18
Alternate name for this chapter: The time Eret III invented Nuclear Deterrent (and Fuse Helped)
Ao3 (the masterpost is horribly behind...I should deal with that...but it’s all organized on Ao3 so I might...not)
00000
I would never say this in front of Fuse, but I’ve been blown up before.
A few times, really. Some of them because I hadn’t learned to duck and cover quickly enough, some because after the volcano, grenades and mining charges didn’t feel like they mattered much. Between those exposures and riding Bang for most of my life, maybe I’m acclimated to explosions and the waves of pressure that come with them.
Or, maybe, as big and hardy as everyone in Dad’s village is, they’re weak in the face of a concussive blast.
I’m the first one on my feet after the jail walls fall down, spitting metallic dust from the ancient gate out of my mouth and staggering towards the pile of clothes that I hid the sword under. It takes a couple of tries, my feet not quite listening, my shoulder throbbing from its impromptu use as a battering ram.
Arvid groans, dabbing at the blood dripping out of his nose, too red in my slightly blurring vision.
“Get up,” I try to hiss at him, but it comes out half-shout, ears ringing when my throat rasps. “Before they do.”
“Thought you said those didn’t work,” he curls into the fetal position and dry heaves, and someone under the rubble that used to be the wall around the door shifts, a crumbled brick falling to the side.
“I thought they didn’t.” I get the sword, arms aching from the weight as it seemingly drags me in a tight circle, foot catching on the something and nearly tripping me.
But I’m up. I’m the only one up.
“Idiot,” Arvid wheezes.
I look around for Bang and see Wingspark slumped by the nearest edge of the forest, shaking her head slowly, cocking it off kilter when she dares to open wide, disoriented eyes.
My nose must be bleeding too because the metallic taste in my mouth gets worse as I raise the sword into a trembling defensive position.
Berk wedding traditions couldn’t include axes, could they? That would be way too convenient.
“There!” Someone shouts and I spin, forcing my eyes to focus on the cohort of half a dozen men running at us over the nearest hill. The one in front is big, holding a spear back and aiming in what I think is my direction and it’s sheer luck when the spearhead hits the flat of the sword instead of my arm, chipping off a piece of generations old rust and sending a tremor up through my sore shoulder.
“Get up, there’s more of them.” I hiss, planting my feet in the rubble and fixing my grip tighter around the sword. “Lots more.”
“What are they going to do, put you in jail?” He rolls almost reluctantly to his knees and I’d tell him that he’s never been less intimidating, except I’m thinking of Fuse and my promise and how impossible it is to keep as the band of men starts running at us in earnest, shouting names and curses and threats.
“Since that’s off the table, I guess I’m going to have to go with plan B.”
“What’s plan B?” Arvid staggers to his feet, wiping his nose on his sleeve, black eye green around the edges, and I realize, with a terrifying jolt, that I’m the only even moderately intimidating one right now.
“Make them think the fight’s not worth it.” I decide all at once, forcing my expression serious.
“You’re going to bluff?”
“Hardly,” I grit my teeth, “I’m going to tell the whole truth.”
Because even though Fuse isn’t here, her bombs were. Even though she can’t back me up, her legacy can. No one would have to look too far to corroborate my story.
I wait until the cohort is in ear shot and swallow hard, trying not to think about how bad a spear would hurt piercing my chest as I lower the sword, one hand held towards them in a gesture asking them to stop. I’m trying for casual, even as Arvid stares at me incredulous, hand shaking, smooth tongue stuck limp in his mouth as I essentially hand us over to the enemy.
Except they aren’t an enemy.
I let them look like Dad, let myself see the origin of his features in their faces. Ingrid’s eyes. Rolf’s scowl.
“Hey,” I call out when they don’t stop immediately and a couple of men at the back falter. I raise my hand to my mouth and let out the most piercing whistle I can, wishing Ingrid were here to do the honors, but I’m still glad when it’s enough and the man at the front stops, obviously confused. “If we can just pause the charge for a second, that’d be great. Thanks.”
I wipe the dust from my hand on my pants and it comes away dustier.
Arvid stares at me in a way that makes me sure if he were holding the sword, he would have knocked my dumb ass out by now in an attempt to salvage the situation.
“Thanks,” I repeat, twirling the sword in my grip just for something to do as I take advantage of the silence, “I know we got off on the wrong foot here—”
“You were desecrating our ancestral burial ground!” The man just to the right of the leader yells and I weigh the accusation.
“Not exactly, actually.”
“You were in Eret’s grave—”
“Oh good, I did get the runes right,” I laugh, and it doesn’t so much ease the tension as it confuses everyone so much they don’t know how to respond, “Eret III, future chief of Berk.” I switch the sword to my left hand and hold out my right, even risking a step forward towards the shocked group.
None of them move.
Arvid snaps his fingers, summoning Wingspark closer, but it doesn’t work. I still don’t know where Bang is, and when I find him, we’re going to have a long talk about his rescue etiquette.
“Ok,” I take my hand back, switching the sword back to it and twirling it a couple of easy times where it hangs down by my ankles. It’s not intimidating like an axe, but maybe that’s a good thing. “Where do I start? Ok, well, you might be wondering what happened to your jail cell. And while I could claim that it just spontaneously crumbled because of bad upkeep, I’m going to stick with the truth here—”
“Your dragon, that blue blasted beast—”
“Don’t, alliteration goes to his head,” I ignore Arvid’s glare, “and it’s not quite true, he had help.” I think of Fuse and the walls I’ve seen fall, the craters I’ve seen gouge themselves into hard rock. “I’m engaged.”
“What he means is—” Arvid tries to cut me off and I give him my most chiefly look, the one that makes him puff up even as he stands down.
“I don’t know what you’ve heard about Berk, and I know that stories about us get warped and blown out of proportion the futher away they’re told,” I lower my voice, hoping that nasal can be deadly in the right circumstances, “but I’m not exaggerating when I say that your jail cell was just obliterated by the smallest arms in my future wife’s arsenal.”
“Is that a threat?” The man in front bristles, reaching for the spear of the follower at his left and I take a step back to retrieve the spear that barely missed me a moment ago and toss it to him.
If I somehow talk my way out of this, Arvid is going to kill me and enjoy it.
“It’s a warning,” I wave vaguely to the south, “either I tell you now, before you’re stupid enough to kill me, or you learn the next time you near the archipelago to trade.” I watch the leader contemplate his spear and shrug, sword waving carelessly through the air, “you might hear the rumors before she strikes, I don’t know, it all depends on how long it takes for word to get back to Berk, and with my dragon probably on his way there now, without me, it won’t be more than a couple of days.”
“Strikes?” The question is a whisper among the men, their eyes flicking between me and the pile of rubble just starting to move with their men regaining consciousness from the blast.
“I’m sure you’ve heard rumors,” I grin, “the dragon island blown entirely off of the map, whole dragon trapper posts gone up in flame and rubble.” I shrug, “not rumors.”
They look at the building. Arvid looks at me and Wingspark, and the single dull sword that we have between us against at least a dozen men.
“I’m a nice guy,” I promise, left hand held up in simulated surrender, “really, my dad’s from here, I appreciate your history so much I just wanted to borrow a little piece of it and maybe I could have been a little more upfront about it. I wish I had, given how many of your lives that would have saved.”
I feel it now, in their eyes on me, that chiefly aura that I’ve always struggled towards. The feeling that when they look at me, I’m more than just myself, I’m larger, scarier, impossible in a way that makes people wish they were behind me instead of against me.
“The way I see it, if I’m going to keep my conscience clear here, I’ve got two options.” I number them off against the rusty sword, “one, I consider you warned. If you kill me right now, there will be more than Hel to pay. Your entire village reduced to a pile of rubble so thorough that those graves will be all that’s left and even then, only the ones buried deep.” I swallow, hoping I’ve laid a big enough foundation to bluff on even as I assess the group.
The guy in the front is biggest, but looks slow, and aside from his spear I only see a short dagger. There’s a smaller man in the back row with a heavy iron axe in his hands, and if I could just get to him, I’d have a chance at some of them, maybe enough for Arvid to get to Wingspark. With a little fire on our side, the odds are better, and I plant my heels to spring in case this next line doesn’t work out for me.
“Or, I kill all of you now before you can hurt me, because trust me, even a scratch, even a bruise won’t make her happy. That’s the only way I can think of to save your families, your history.” I gesture with the sword, “our history, really.”
The pause drags on, too long, rubble shifting and crumbling as men underneath it try to sit up. The new cohort’s eyes drift repeatedly to the pile, obviously wanting to help their brethren and I watch them weigh the utility of the next few minutes.
“Aw Hel,” the man to the leader’s left swears, “let him go, he’s fucking crazy.”
“That explosion knocked down a shelf at my house a half mile away,” another man mutters, “he said it was small arms—”
“He stole from us,” the leader insists and I gesture with the sword again.
“Oh, come on, you guys weren’t using it.” I adjust my grip, preparing again to charge if necessary, “and it has my name on it.”
“The other graves are untouched,” someone else argues in a tense whisper, “what if he’s telling the truth? He said his name was Eret—”
“He’s a thief, he’s probably a liar too—”
“Trust me, if I was going to lie about my name, I would have started years ago.” I laugh, even as Arvid takes a calculated step back towards where Wing is inching forwards. She’s close now, maybe a run for it would be better.
“Let him take the damn sword,” the man to the leader’s right booms, “if there’s even a grain of truth in what he’s saying it’s not worth it. No one liked Eret that much anyway!”
“I heard that Bronn!” A shout from the sky takes everyone else’s concentration away from the stand off and the bubble of relief in my chest swells to near bursting when Skullcrusher lands on the other side of the crowd, Dad sitting on his shoulders.
Stormfly lands next to him, followed by a panicked Bang who immediately charges me, cool claws on my shoulders as he knocks me back into the dirt and starts frantically licking my face.
“Bud!” I yelp, squirming away from the piece of what used to be a prison wall digging in to my lower back, “missed you too! Missed you too!”
“Is that Eret son of Eret?” The question is bouncing around the group of men when I finally get back to my feet, holstering the sword clumsily in my axe’s place against my back.
“Hi Dad,” I call out, driving in the point as I swing onto Bang, relief flooding through me when his wings twitch to the sides, preparing for takeoff.
“Go on ahead, son,” Dad says pointedly, waving me away, “I’ll catch up.”
“I don’t think I was done talking to them,” I shrug and the man dad recognized, Bronn apparently, looks between us with wide eyes.
“I think they’re done talking to you,” Dad laughs, “I’ll smooth things over.”
I want to stay but the half-relieved, half-furious, all guilt-inducing look that Mom gives me convinces me otherwise. As I take off, I hear the first few questions echoing on the breeze, all concerning the validity of my claims that if they’d touched me, they all would have found themselves blown sky high in less than a week.
Dad’s laugh answers them for me.
Flying does little to blow the stink and dust off of my clothes, but my mind is far clearer by the time Mom guides Arvid and I down to a small camp maybe fifteen minutes outside the outskirts of the village.
“What the Hel were you thinking?” She asks as soon as we’ve landed, launching herself off of Stormfly and flinging her arms around me in a hug so tight it might as well be a chokehold, given I’m not quite off of Bang yet.
“Mom,” I wheeze and she yanks me off of my dragon and to my feet, bracing her hands on my shoulders to analyze my face.
“Flying off like that when Fuse is seven months pregnant,” she starts listing the compilation of my crimes, but all I can hear is Fuse and pregnant and the fear settles back into that collar around my heart, “getting arrested in a village you’ve never been to—”
“Is Fuse ok?”
“As of a day and a half ago,” she softens slightly at something in my expression, probably the raw desperation flooding across everything I’ve kept together for the past…however long I was in that cell, “everyone’s watching her, I’m sure she’s fine. Unmarried, but otherwise fine.”
“As soon as I get back,” I pull the rusty sword from my back and hold it out for her to examine, “I’m ready, I just needed—”
“Something of your dad’s,” she sighs, “something from where he’s from. I know.” She smiles, a little crooked, younger looking than usual with her hair windblown and her panic receding from an otherwise open expression, “and before you ask, no one told me, I guessed. I’m sorry it took me so long to guess. If I’d been more on top of it, maybe we would have caught you before you were about to fight off an army—”
“An army?” I shrug, “half a company, maybe. Hardly even a small militia—”
“Eret.” She squishes my cheeks, dirty beard itching against my face.
“I was talking my way out of it,” the words come out slightly muffled and Arvid steps up beside me, and I feel guilty for forgetting him in the rush of the reunion.
“By telling them how his future wife would blow them up if they touched a hair on his pretty head.”
“Delegating,” I clarify as Mom lets me go. “And can you please stop with the pretty?”
He doesn’t hear because Mom is hugging him, chin over his shoulder, which is too bad because she misses his shocked expression, eyes wide on my face like he’s looking for help.
“And you, I expected better of you,” she jabs him in the chest with a finger when she pulls away, “going along with a plan like this. And what happened to your eye?” She pokes at the green bruise and wipes the still trickling red under his nose with her sleeve. “Who did this to you?”
She looks accusingly at me and I raise my hands, gesturing at the dried blood on my own lip, even though it’s probably far less obvious caked in my red moustache.
“The nose was the explosion.” I nod, “which was an accident, the bombs had been soaked a bunch of times, it was Bang trying to blast us out that set them off—”
“Did you ice this?” She’s back fussing over Arvid who blushes, hands in his pockets.
“I was a prisoner, Mom, no one was really offering medical care.”
“If we’d been an hour later…” she looks between us, shaking her head, and we both hug her at the same time, Arvid lifting her a couple lopsided inches in the air.
“We’re fine,” I insist, “a little deafened, maybe, but the ringing in my ears is already fading.”
“Speak for yourself,” Arvid grumbles, stepping out of the hug to twist his pinky in his ear, wincing.
“You’ve got to get home,” Mom tells me in particular, earnest instead of chastising and that makes it worse.
“I know,” I nod, “I didn’t think that’d take more than a week, but—”
“You should take Stormfly,” she pats her leg to call the Nadder over, “she’s faster. I’ll wait for your dad and fly back on Bang.”
Bang protests weakly, nudging my leg with his wing and looking up at me with big, pathetic, watery eyes.
“I’ve got to get home too,” Arvid perks up, a little frantic for the first time since the explosion, rolling his shoulder like he’s just now remembering why he pulverized it. “Aurelia—”
“Wing can keep up with Stormfly, can’t she?” Mom asks and Arvid seems to center himself on the words before nodding.
“I think so.”
“We took a roundabout way to get up here to avoid trouble,” I say a bit sheepishly, “not that it mattered, but by any chance, did you guys come direct?”
“We took as straight of a shot as we could,” Mom nods, “no trouble to be seen, seems like you guys had it all corralled.”
“I do my best,” I nod, faking somber as the weight of the sword against my back starts to mount, the pull towards home and Fuse overwhelming the desire to stay here and dwell.
“Straight home,” Mom points at me and I nod. “I mean it, if we get there before you—”
“Hel to pay, I get it.” I swing up onto Stormfly and she fidgets as I adjust my seat to her comparatively narrow shoulders. “I’m shocked you’re even trusting me after well,” I point at the sword and she sighs, a little sheepish in a way I’ve never seen directed at me.
Maybe at Dad, once or twice, when one of us broke something and she decided not to punish us for it. Never at the chief.
“I’ve got to start sometime.”
“You do?” I raise an eyebrow, trying to ignore Arvid’s impatient expression as Wingspark paces in a small circle, ready to take off.
“You’re going to be chief,” she reminds me, and it makes my negotiation of sorts at the blown jail cell feel silly and more official all at once, “and you can’t do that with your mother questioning your every move, can you?”
“Oh,” I frown, “I guess I’d assumed that was part of the program.”
“Go,” she pats Stormfly’s haunch, “you being this far from an unmarried Fuse right now is giving me gray hairs.”
“Fine,” I nudge Stormfly forward, ignoring Bang’s pathetic croon to the best of my ability, “see you at home.”
“We going?” Arvid half checks then takes off before I get an answer, flying due south through a cloud bank, pressed low to Wingspark’s neck.
We don’t talk much. There’s none of that adventurous feeling that carried us North on the way here, this feels far more like drudgery. It reminds me too much of my sleepless flights between Berk and Elva’s island and I’m glad to be on Stormfly, the different seated position keeping me focused on what’s ahead instead of reliving what’s behind.
We take a single, brief stop just before sundown to feed the dragons and Arvid helps me pull the long-healed stitches out of my forearm and wrap it in a length of cloth I rip from one of Dad’s old borrowed shirts that is still layered over my own.
There’s no talk of stopping for the night and we get back into the sky, hugging the coastline for the next part of the journey so that the dragons can glide on the updraft generated by the miles of shear cliffs, preserving some of their energy towards faster flight. The night’s colder than it was even a week ago, winter setting in with a vengeance as a few flakes start to fall on the straight just north of Berk, and I let myself have a moment’s hope for a small feast.
Or no feast. I don’t care.
That in and of itself is refreshing, the general lack of reluctance. After years of digging in my heels while people dragged me places that didn’t feel right, walking apathetically forward of my own volition is freeing. Or not apathetically, that’s not right. I can hardly think of waking up in a house with Fuse, a house that’s ours, because it feels so impossible in all of the best ways, but I can imagine the wedding.
It’s going to be…well, a wedding.
The chief is probably going to make a big, annoying deal of the ceremonial bath. I’ll have to wear whatever my mom says and sign the contract and throw the sword on my back into a rafter. I’ll have to fend off the well-wishers but then I’ll get to go home with Fuse and have some new claim on her and those babies that kick my hands when I talk too much.
“I’m headed home!” Arvid shouts over the wind, gesturing towards the far point of the island and I shake my head.
“Aurelia’s probably with Fuse.”
He hovers for a second, looking down at his clothes and then looking at me with a bright tinge of panic in his eyes barely visible through the fluttering snowflakes, which are picking up speed.
“You look fine,” I roll my eyes and he pivots Wingspark in a frustrated little circle.
“I’m covered in half a building—”
“Aurelia won’t care.”
“I…” He grits his teeth and I see the shadow of his jaw flexing from where I’m hovering on an updraft a few yards away, “I don’t know what to say to her.”
“It’s Aurelia,” I try, sighing when he doesn’t relax, “tell her I was cryptic and weird and said you needed to talk to her—”
“I don’t need you in the middle.” He draws a line in the snow and asks me to stay on my side and I nod. It feels like him taking a step back at his dad’s birth village, falling into a new boundary, and I respect it, nodding. “I’m going to go get cleaned up.”
“Should I let Aurelia know?”
He shrugs, and then rethinks the gesture, “yeah. If she’s there.”
“Alright.” I half salute, sword on my back feeling too big and out of place as Stormfly angles to catch the next draft, snow flurrying from the cliffs below, “thanks, by the way. For this.” I shrug under the weight of the sword.
“Yeah,” Arvid smiles, handsome again, huge again, the black eye a battle scar with a story worth telling, “thanks for this.” He pats Dad’s sword in its holster on his hip and then he’s gliding back towards his house.
I land outside the chief’s house and Stormfly instantly trots off to the barn, tucking herself into a pile of straw and shoving her beak into a bucket of fish. I stretch, scrubbing my hand through my iced over beard and walking towards the door before opening it to a resounding chorus of Aurelia’s frustration.
“How do you keep doing that?” She shouts, voice going shrill as she leans over the maces and talons board set up on the table. “You aren’t even paying attention!”
“I don’t know why you didn’t just do this,” Tuffnut demonstrates some move and the vein in Aurelia’s forehead twitches.
“That’s agains the rules.”
“I thought we were playing Thorston rules,” Tuffnut looks beside him and I edge a little further into the doorway to see the back of Fuse’s head, hair glowing with the reflection of the fire. “So Loki’s revenge is legal, why didn’t she just do that?”
“Because Thorston rules aren’t real, Tuff,” the chief reminds him like he’s said it a few dozen times today.
“Then why do we keep winning?” Tuffnut asks.
“I don’t know!” Aurelia snaps, tossing a game piece at his head and missing entirely. It skitters across the floor and I stop it with my boot, watching Aurelia’s jaw drop when she follows its path and sees me in the doorway. “You’re back?”
“No, of course not,” I joke, “just passing through.”
“Eret,” Fuse jumps up so fast she knocks her chair down, whirling towards me and managing a step before I’m across the room, lifting her into a hug and burying my face in her hair.
“Hey,” I say against her neck, arms tightening reflexively around her.
And she smells like home, usual soot replaced with campfire and warmth. Her hair tickles my nose as she pats my shoulders, asking to be set down, which makes it easier to rest my cheek against her forehead. I want to slip my hand under her shirt to feel her stomach, but Aurelia’s and the chief’s eyes are boring into the top of my head and I sigh and pull away, pausing to kiss her forehead and grab her hand.
Her other hand starts working up my sleeve to check my stitches and I don’t have the heart to stop her, even when the chief’s ever sharp eyes catch the motion.
“Where’s Arvid?” Aurelia asks first, one arm absently around my chest in a side hug as she wrinkles her nose, “you’re filthy, by the way.”
“Arvid went to get cleaned up,” I roll my eyes, “should be at your place.”
“Thanks,” she hustles to grab her coat and I squeeze Fuse’s hand as I turn to face Aurelia on her way out the open door.
“Ask him about the black eye, by the way, funny story.”
“Black eye?” She pauses for a second before shaking her head at me, “whatever. I’ll see you later.” She points at Tuffnut, “for a rematch.”
“Thorston rules next time,” he waggles his eyebrows but Aurelia ignores him, slamming the door shut against the blowing snow and leaving the room in awkward silence.
Or awkward for me, at least.
Fuse seems fine with the quiet, quite obviously checking me over for new injuries until I take both her hands in one of mine, giving her a look that she thankfully accepts to mean ‘later’. Tuffnut is also fine with the silence, looking between me and his daughter with a pleasant smile that grows the more awkward I feel.
Mostly though, the chief doesn’t seem to feel awkward, which is always a bad sign. Worse, it doesn’t feel like I’m in trouble this time, like the concept of trouble has lost some of its meaning. It’s worse than trouble, he’s waiting for me to explain myself, and there’s the chance that if I do it well enough, he’ll accept it.
I never thought I’d miss the fatalistic comfort of no-win situations, but here I am.
I swallow hard, tugging at the collar of my dad’s borrowed coat that should be bigger before reaching over my shoulder and pulling out the rusty sword, angling it in the firelight to show the ancient, faded runes.
“I got what I went looking for,” I start, voice a rush from holding my breath and I clear my throat before continuing. “Eret the first’s sword.”
“You were gone for almost two weeks.”
“Yeah,” I wince and Fuse squeezes my hand, encouraging at the same time as urging me to remind the room at large that she had it handled.
She doesn’t know the half of what she has handled, frankly.
“Did you anticipate being gone for two weeks?” The chief asks me like I’m a council member and it’s hard to remember how reasonable he is as a boss when I was just wrapping my head around him as a grandfather to my future children, but this is yet another chance to prove that I can still handle things and I make myself focus, exhaling as I step forward to set the sword on the table.
Fuse doesn’t let go of my hand.
“I did not, Arvid and I took the long way, traveling at night to avoid running into anyone, so I thought it would be six or seven days at the most,” I scratch my chin and decide on the truth, again, “but it turns out that people don’t necessarily like strangers robbing their ancestral tombs.”
“Really?” Tuffnut raises an eyebrow, “they weren’t happy about you taking this ugly old sword off their hands?” He runs a finger along the rust where it was recently chipped by a spearhead, “honestly, this thing is horrible, how much did you pay for it? It looks like it’s been in a grave for a hundred years.”
“Probably more like fifty,” I correct him, recognizing my own irritated expression on the chief’s face.
“You overpaid.”
“I stole it,” I assure him.
“Good old five-finger discount,” he winks at me or at Fuse, I can’t quite tell, “there’s hope for you yet, kid.”
“So, as I was saying, they weren’t happy that I stole a sword,” I steer the conversation back to the topic that might release me, “and I ended up in jail.” When the chief doesn’t answer immediately, I keep talking, patting my stomach and gesturing to the room at large, “which, by the way, was anyone going to tell me that I don’t fit between dragon cage bars anymore? I’ve been on the moldy bread diet for a week and it still didn’t work—”
“How’d you get out?” The chief asks and there’s the real question, the one that the length of my absence was just hinting at.
“Fuse, actually,” I squeeze her hand and she frowns at me, glancing at my hairline like she’s searching out a bruise or some other sign of head injury, “no, not—some smoke bombs you gave me months ago that I never used—I mean, I actually soaked them about a hundred times, I don’t know how they still worked but at some point, Bang tried to blast the cell open and they flew into a wall and…boom.” I mime the explosion with my free hand and the chief looks at me not quite doubtfully, but waiting for the rest of the story.
“And the village just let you go?”
“After some convincing, yeah,” I nod.
“What’s the body count on ‘convincing’?” The chief finally puts the rest of the question out in the open and I relax, for once confident that I have the right answer.
“None,” I shrug, “I convinced them we weren’t worth the trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Well,” I drop Fuse’s hand to wrap my arm around her shoulders, “I might have said that what blew up their jail was the smallest in Berk’s—and my future wife in particular’s—arsenal.”
“I don’t know that,” Fuse mutters, biting her lip as she does some mental calculation, brows pulling together, “now that I think about it, saltwater curing a smoke bomb might produce…maybe with some black sand—”
“Fuse,” I break her concentration and she glares at me briefly before her expression softens and I’d say about anything to get away from our dads right now so that we can actually greet each other.
“I’ll test it out later,” she blushes, noticing the room’s attention on her and flanking down at her stomach, smoothing a warm sweater over it and shaking her head, “at some point.”
“So, instead of killing them,” the chief raises an eyebrow, “you convinced them that Fuse would kill them if they didn’t let you go?”
“It didn’t take much convincing,” I run a hand through my tangled hair and come back with a palm covered in jail dust even after a day and a half in the wind and snow, “not after the explosion.”
“A ceremonial wedding sword and a diplomatic solution,” the chief lets himself smile and I’d ask him how long he was faking a stern face to freak me out if I weren’t so relieved and impatient with the conversation, “I never thought I’d see the day.”
“Well, it’s the day,” I shrug, unsure whether to accept the teasing as praise or push it off and ask for my next assignment. Whether it’s my empty stomach or aching back or the fact that the dust is really starting to itch, I can’t be sure, but I’m suddenly exhausted enough to go with the first option. “If that’s all, I think I’m going to go wash the prison off before the snow dilutes the hot springs…”
Fuse nods, cold hand slipping under the back of my shirt, and as hard as I try to keep my expression neutral with the repeated self-assurance that she’s only checking for injuries, I’m not sure that it works. Especially because as much as I hate her worrying, I like her checking me over, all thorough attention and meticulous fingers.
And her dad is here. And the chief is here. And I’d throw that stupid sword into the chief’s ceiling right now if it meant house keys in my hand.
“And tomorrow is Frigg’s day,” the chief says, voice sing-song, and I blink at him.
“Ok.”
“Everyone else is on-island and you didn’t mind a small feast,” he looks between Fuse and I, “unless that’s changed…”
“What? Oh!” I stiffen when his meaning clicks, “tomorrow. The wedding? Tomorrow?” I look at Fuse, semi-relieved when she’s startled too, wide eyes flicking between her dad and me. “As in we go to sleep one time, wake up in the morning and get married?”
“Unless ‘tomorrow’ has changed meaning…” The chief smiles at me, embarrassed for me and proud of me in equal parts and I don’t know why everyone is being so nice to me after I went to jail, but I’ll take it.
Especially because it feels different than pity, different than a token kind word to make up for a secret.
“Wait, like tomorrow tomorrow?” Tuffnut jumps up and I nod.
“That’s what I just clarified.”
“It’s your last night in my house!” He yanks Fuse away from me by her shoulders, and I wish I hadn’t set down the ceremonial sword as my own territorial instincts react. “We have to celebrate. Or cry. And tell your mother—”
“The new house is just down the road,” Fuse rolls her eyes, looking pointedly at her dad and apologetically at me like she already knows it doesn’t matter and the offer to throw the sword into the ceiling still stands.
“Wait, you’ve seen the house?” I ask, heart clenching when her otherwise irritated expression twitches into a tiny smile.
“Your mom showed me.”
“Is it—” I stop the flood of unimportant questions and try for the only one that matters. “I mean, did you like it?”
“You’ll have plenty of time to talk about how much you love your new house once you’re done abandoning your old dad!” Tuffnut starts dragging her towards the door and I’m unsure how real his tears are and even less sure how much I care.
“You knew this was coming—” Fuse tries one last feeble time to shirk his arms off, and I get the feeling that as reluctant as she is, she might need this. Especially after the last few months of distance from her dad, and I nod at her that it’s ok.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I tell her, even as everything in me rejects the distance, some new level of chiefly composure thinking of tomorrow and consequences instead of right now.
Or maybe it’s not chiefly composure, maybe it’s the kind of composure that might let me become chief. The sign that I’m thinking of what I want in the future instead of what I’m running from in the present.
Or maybe that’s a load of dragon dung I’m telling myself because braving the snowstorm to the hot springs alone doesn’t sound very appealing after considering the alternative.
“At the altar,” she bites her lip, a little pale but still excited, eyes bright as the door shuts behind them with a gust of snow and the chief and I are alone.
“I’m not going to cry,” he jokes, and all I can think about is how we’re standing right where we were when I hugged him, “I’ve been looking forward to your last night in my house for years.”
“Yeah,” I snort, “finally going to be rid of me.”
“It’s just down the road,” he says, more to himself than to me and my chest feels a little tight. “Stoick will finally stop bugging me that your room is bigger than his, I’m really excited for that—”
“I should go wash up,” I point at the door, barely biting my tongue against blurting out ‘alone’ in Midgard’s most disappointed tone, if only to break the moment. “And get some sleep, big day tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” he nods, “good plan, it’s going to—exhausting, weddings are exhausting.”
I make it all of two steps towards the door when he calls my name and I turn back around, impatient eyebrows raised.
“Just one more thing—”
“Yeah?”
“Where’s your Mom?” He asks, worried in the way that never meshes with my mom in my mind. Then, before I can answer, he winces and catches himself. “Where’s Eret? Also. I mean, Eret—not you, obviously, I mean…”. He swallows hard and shrugs one shoulder, embarrassed as he probably should be, “where are your parents?”
“Oh,” I point vaguely North, “Mom insisted I take Stormfly, because she’s ‘faster’ than Bang,” I roll my eyes and he laughs, “and she was sure that Fuse was going to be having unclaimed heirs any second.” My heart stutters at that and I pinch the outside of my thigh, forcing my focus back to tomorrow and only tomorrow, “she and my dad should be on their way by now.”
“Great.” He waves me off and I make it one more measly, shuffled step, “Eret?”
“What?” I regret the edge in my voice and clear my throat, “sorry, what?”
“I’m proud of you,” he doesn’t sound like the chief and he doesn’t sound like he’s trying to step in as my father either, and I remember how ‘grandpa’ felt right for a second and my throat tightens, “for going after what you want and—”
“And not chopping off a bunch of heads to get it?” I joke, but he doesn’t laugh.
“That’s one way to say it,” he waves me towards the door, “I’m done now, really. Go do what you need to do. Big day tomorrow.”
I was having the internal debate over whether to split this chapter or not but then I figured anyone still with Eret III and Open Flames at this point is used to him talking a lot forever so...8k+ chapter it is. Because Fuck it.