protects his own.

     stoick the vast has his hulking, thick-furred back to the door. the fire’s light flickers shadows into his face and gemstones into his eyes, and his mind is lightly occupied with the state of the village and heavily occupied with listening for his son’s footsteps.

       or, no.

       that isn’t quite right anymore, is it?

       he used to listen for his son’s footsteps-- the light pitter patter of a boy who sneaks more easily than strolls. four little limbs -- two feet and two hands, skittering up the stairs.

        perhaps if he’d listen harder -- and he sees it now, in retrospect -- had seen it then, in the derision of a father who doesn’t truly know his son -- the nervous shame in these sounds. 

       stoick the vast’s gaze flicks down to his fingers, which curl slowly into fists over his upturned palms.

       no -- he used to listen for his son’s footsteps. used to listen to the silence -- his ears craning for anything, anybody. but now he listens for laughter. listens for croons and trills. listens for six limbs -- one squeaky and iron-forged. listens for that classic brazen snark as his son bids his friends -- friends! -- a good night.

       whatever the trigger is tonight, stoick lets hiccup and his dragon get halfway up the stairs -- a nervous habit of his, if anything. wait until he can’t run quickly in either direction. 

        stoick the vast’s head turns, sharp. nothing else moves.

       “--hiccup.”

       a pause.

      stoick the vast clears his throat under the crackling of the fire.

       then a mite softer, with a dip of his chin: