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Spitelout: Did you ever hear the story of when I almost lost the Thawfest Games?

Snotlout: No. I never did.

Spitelout: That's right. Because IT NEVER HAPPENED!!!

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Spitelout: No Jorgenson has ever come close to losing the Thawfest Games. Don't you be the first.

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This scene was interesting. Not only does it reek of fanatic Sports Dad vibes, but he's also threatening Snotlout and demanding that he comes out on top.

Personally, I highly doubt that the Jorgensons have won EVERY SINGLE Thawfest Games in Berk's history. I suspect this is just a myth stated in Spitelout's delusional grandeur to spur Snotlout into winning the games. What I DO believe, however, is that Spitelout has won every Thawfest Game in HIS youth, as Snotlout has. Maybe even their grandfather??? I don't know. We know next to nothing about Berkian history, so it's all speculation and headcanons for us weebs. 🤓😢

Needless to say, Snotlout is under a lot of pressure, and Spitelout is in a stormy mood at the moment. And his threat to his son seemed to imply that, should Snotlout lose, all Helheim would break loose.

Now, what would this entail?

Well, if you want to keep it PG-13: grounding, spanking, taking his favorite weapons, throwing all his medals in the trash... anything petty that I can see Spitelout doing.

If you want it dark and edgy: abuse, disinheritance, or even disownment.

Now, you're probably thinking, what's the difference between being disinherited and disowned? Simple: being disinherited means losing your piece of the pie in the family's wealth. And since Snotlout was the only son, he'd get the lion's share of it as the next Head of the family. Being disowned means the complete severing of familial ties and Snotlout would no longer be a Jorgenson and wouldn't have a family cell to support him; he'd be left to his own devices. In Viking society, that is a BIG deal.

Now, would Spitelout even go as far as to disinherit or even disown his own son? Mmm... unlikely. As far as we know, Snotlout is the only male in Spitelout's core family, so unless Spitelout hands the heir title over to a relative, it's doubtful that Spitelout would even do such a thing even if he were super furious. Plus, I also doubt that Snotlout's mother would allow Spitelout to go that far.

So honestly, abuse would be the more likely outcome, and could explain Snotlout looking to be in utter terror in this next scene:

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Snotlout: [Whimpers] I can't lose. I can't lose. I can't lose, I can't lose!

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Of course, I could very well be wrong and Spitelout WOULD disinherit or disown his son. We just don't know since that event never happened and Hiccup stupidly gave up his winning spot for the idiot.

Now, here's my headcanon.

My Headcanon

Snotlout loses the Thawfest Games, and Hiccup becomes the winner, being the first person in decades who's not a Jorgenson to win the Thawfest Medal.

Snotlout is then left to deal with the thundering storm that is his father, Spitelout, who storms off back to their Hall. When evening falls, Snotlout deals with Spitelout's curses, tirades, and physical and verbal abuse.

Hookfang, seeing that his master is being harmed by his father comes to the rescue and attacks Spitelout, either injuring him or even killing him.

Because of this incident, Snotlout is forced to leave Berk in exile with Hookfang until things can be settled. Which kinda fits the theme of the "Cast Out" episodes in Defenders of Berk.

Conclusion

So yeah, that's my theory and headcanon. What do you guys think? Think any of this is possible? Or do you have your own theories and headcanons? Please share! I can't wait to see what you guys come up with! 😀

Thanks for reading this and I hope you have a marvelous Wednesday!

Long Live the Night!

There’s been talk of repealing the law, but it’s never gotten anywhere past the discussion stage. Many of Atlas’ old families—who often hold political clout, either through wealth or nepotism—have intervened to prevent it from happening. Despite disownments being relatively uncommon nowadays, certain Atlesian families insist on the practice remaining legal, usually under the claim of “preserving their cultural heritage.”

Origins

While the modern-day version of pruning seems senselessly cruel, it did have some practicality, long ago. The ancestors of the Solts were a diasporic group of Matsu settlers, fleeing from the encroaching Mistrali Empire in Northern Anima. Upon making the dangerous voyage to Solitas, they founded two settlements—Evadne and Chequer. In order for their culture to adapt and survive, it relied on reciprocal trust, unity, and altruism.

Anything which threatened that success was dealt with swiftly and harshly. The highest form of retribution—the precursor to disownment—was reserved for murder, attempted murder, and other unspeakable acts. Traditional élagage consisted of three separate penalties: name-erasure, tonsure, and exile.

The criminal would be brought before the god-caller (or high priest) while the members of the community watched. As the acolytes shaved their head, the god-caller would preside over the ceremony that formally revoked their name. Once concluded, the criminal was chased from the territory and left to fend for themself.

While death (either from starvation, exposure, or the Grimm) was certainly one of the intended (and usually inevitable) outcomes, it wasn’t the only one. Stripping a person of their name carried the weight of dehumanization; of being denied their identity. For exiled criminals, it was as close to psychological torture as one could get.

Even if a criminal attempted to hide or lie about their circumstances, they would still bear the physical mark of their punishment. In addition to serving as a visual identifier, a shaved head (especially during the winter months) was painful.

Modern Élagage

Although exile and death are no longer part of the process, they might as well be. As far as some Atlesians are concerned, anyone that’s been legally disowned is pretty much dead to them. This attitude is reinforced by the taboo of refusing to speak the person’s name, and referring to them in the past tense. If pressed on the subject, or forced to acknowledge them at all, a family will substitute their name with a kinship term—“our son,” “my niece,” “her cousin,” and so on.

Disownment can only be initiated by the heads of a family; as in, the oldest members within a lineage who share the same surname as the intended recipient. While this role usually falls upon parents or grandparents, it isn’t unheard for a pair of great-aunts, or even an elder first cousin twice removed, to fulfill that obligation. What matters is that there is unanimous consensus between the family members who share the decision-making privilege. If, for example, two parents disagree on the outcome, then disownment can’t be initiated.

Disownment is not lightly meted out. It’s typically reserved as a last-ditch measure for insubordinate family members who risk harming their family’s sociopolitical status. Nonconformity, counterculture behavior, or a rejection of societal values are the most common causes, especially where they pertain to gender roles and sexuality. The threat of disownment is usually enough to get unruly family members in line. Some amount of deliberation usually precedes disownment. (Believe it or not, Atlesians aren’t keen on using it frivolously, although they will if they feel there’s no other recourse. Disowning someone usually invites some amount of pity or shame, in addition to gossip. If it can be avoided, then it will.)

The studio cameras hadn’t seemed scary in a long, long time. Sirius stared at the white floor, toying with his ring and trying not to run screaming from the building; this is for them, he reminded himself. For everyone like me who never had someone speak up for them. The metal folding chair was cold under him.

“Sirius?” There was no hint of teasing in Marlene’s voice. “Are you ready?”

He had already saved himself and Regulus. Now it was time for the rest of them. “Oui.”

“Rolling in three, two, one…”

“My name is Sirius Black,” he said, channeling all the strength and control he could manage into his voice as he straightened up. “I’m 27 years old, the center and captain for the Gryffindor Lions hockey team, and a Stanley Cup champion.” He took a breath. “And I grew up in an abusive home. Last week, my biological parents officially disowned me for refusing to go back into the closet and under their control. It wasn’t dramatic. There was no media present. There was a lot of paperwork.

“But I’m not here to talk about that.” He swallowed, and felt some of his confidence return. Behind the camera, Marlene gave him an encouraging look with a shine in her eyes. “I’m here to talk to everyone else in my situation and let you know that you’re not alone. You can get out of there, and you can be the freest version of yourself. For the next month, 1/12 of all proceeds from Lions tickets will go to charities supporting abuse survivors and those currently living in abusive situations. My story is not the only one. We can make a difference.”

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Sirius laid on his back on the lobby couch, letting “Radio Gaga” thump in his ears and drown out the tremors in his body. He had never said it publicly before—as far as the rest of the hockey world knew, his family was only rumored to be strict. He had been hesitant to do the video at first despite the tsunami of questions flooding their social media, and it wasn’t until Marlene suggested the charity aspect that he agreed.

Sirius didn’t like press. He liked it even less when it was poking around in his past, and when he had to support it.

The song ended and he paused the music, listening to his own breathing and steady pulse. You’re okay. You’re done. You made it through. He didn’t feel okay.

“—proud of him,” someone was saying inside the studio. Remus. “It was a complicated and painful thing to work through, but he never wavered from what he wanted and what was best for him.”

Six of his other teammates would speak, supporting the charity with a quick mention of their own feelings in case any assholes on the internet got bright ideas about speaking for them and their feelings on Sirius’ disownment. It was insane what people thought they found by digging through interviews.

“Hey, baby.” Sirius opened his eyes; above him, Remus was leaning over the armrest of the couch with a tired smile. He kissed Sirius’ forehead, then his nose, then his lips. “Ready to go home?”

“Don’t we have to stay until the end?”

“Marlene said she had everything she needed from us.”

Sirius blew out a slow breath and stood, wrapping his arms around Remus on instinct. “This feels like it’s going to go badly.”

“I don’t think it will,” Remus said quietly, rubbing up and down his spine. “I think it’s going to help a lot of people, and I hope it means we stop getting nosy comments now that you’ve answered the big questions and made it clear that’s the end.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

They walked to the car in relative silence, hand-in-hand; Remus took the keys without a word, and relief washed over Sirius in a cool breeze. He didn’t feel grounded enough to drive safely. At the moment, he wasn’t sure he ever would. The whole world was hazy outside the passenger window, blurring the city he loved so much into smudges of colors—Remus was a presence next to him, but what Sirius wanted more than anything was some hot chocolate and a long, long nap.

“I don’t feel good,” he said, hardly above a whisper.

Remus glanced at him out of the corner of his eye as he drove. “Do I need to pull over?”

“No, I just…” He sighed. “I thought I would feel better after getting this off my chest and helping people. I feel bad.”

“Can you eat?” He nodded. “I’ll make some soup when we get home if you want to lay down for a bit.”

Sirius’ eyes burned. “Sounds good.”

“Hey, baby, it’s okay,” Remus soothed, reaching one hand down to close around the one Sirius kept on his thigh as Sirius sniffled and shook with the effort of keeping in his tears. “It’s okay. You can call Marlene and ask her not to publish the video. That’s in your rights, you don’t have to—”

“No,” Sirius choked out, wiping his tears away with the back of his wrist. “It has to happen. People have to know that they can help. I—I just—I don’t know how to feel and so everything is happening at once.”

Nobody had taught Sirius how to handle Feelings-with-a-capital-f until Dumo; suddenly, he felt like all that hard work was being undone in one fell swoop. He kept ahold of Remus’ hand and let the tears slide down his cheeks as he breathed through it, keeping both feet firmly planted in some semblance of control. Remus parked the car and turned to him without unbuckling his seatbelt. “Do you want to go inside, or should we drive for a bit?”

“I really want to go to bed.”

“How can I help?” Remus laced their fingers together again and Sirius squeezed his eyes shut. “You really don’t seem alright, love.”

“I’m not, and I don’t know how to fix it.” The words were broken glass in his throat. “I was doing so good. I don’t know how to go back.”

“Oh, baby,” Remus murmured, taking his seatbelt off to kiss Sirius’ temple. “Let’s go inside, yeah? You’ll be more comfortable there.”

Sirius nodded mutely, still pressing his lips together to stifle any sounds that tried to come out. It always seemed like when he started to cry, he couldn’t stop—whether that was a function of never crying for the majority of his life, he didn’t know, but it always felt horrible. No mistakes, his mother had told him. The video felt like a mistake. Still, he knew he couldn’t ask them to take it down. There were people that needed help, and he couldn’t let his childhood hide in the shadows anymore.

Remus turned as if to hug him when the door closed behind them, but Sirius slipped past and headed straight for the stairs. Sweatpants, hoodie, soup, blanket, talk. Talk, talk, talk until you can’t stop. Then sleep. He heard Remus moving around in the kitchen as he stripped down and dug his softest sweatpants out of the drawer, followed by Remus’ most worn-down and oversized Wisconsin hoodie that he always wore when he didn’t feel well. Sirius buried his nose in the neckline and inhaled deeply; the familiar scent soothed the rush of blood in his ears.

He didn’t bother with socks and made a beeline for the couch, wrapping himself in the afghan blanket one of Hope’s friends had crocheted for their wedding. Hope had kept it in the Lupin house so she wouldn’t forget to bring it with her, and it smelled like them, too. It smelled like safety and a happy house and healthy childhoods.

Another tear slipped out when Remus set down some water and the soup—Campbell’s chicken noodle, can’t go wrong—and Sirius curled up against the armrest to make room. “I need to talk to you,” he said. “I need to talk to you.”

The cushions dipped as Remus sat next to him and crossed his legs. “About what?”

“Everything.” His voice broke. “The way I grew up, everything about it. I—Re, I never lied to you, I promise. I just didn’t talk about it because I didn’t want to scare you, but I have to be honest with you.”

“…alright.”

Sirius took a shaky breath; his mouth was dry, and salty at the edges. “My parents—my parents hit me when I wasn’t good enough, and nothing was ever good enough unless I could do it again, and again, and again—”

“Sirius—”

“—and I thought everyone on my team didn’t get dinner if they didn’t get a goal and—”

“Stop—”

“—and Regulus and I, it was like we couldn’t breathe in that house with them scripting every move—”

“Sirius.” Remus’ hand covered his mouth and Sirius closed his eyes as a sob ripped free, but didn’t fight it. “Sirius, stop, please.”

“I have to tell you,” he said hoarsely, trembling from head to toe. “I have to be honest with you.”

“I love you, and I’m glad you can talk to me, but I’m not the person you have to tell.” Remus’ voice was thick with tears. “Being honest with me doesn’t mean telling me every detail, please, please don’t do that.”

“I couldn’t make mistakes,” he blubbered, leaning into Remus. “What kind of fucking freak tells a child they can’t make mistakes?”

Remus shushed him softly, running a hand through the hair at the nape of his neck as he went boneless into Remus’ chest. He could feel the hitching breaths under his face and regret reared up, but he felt so empty. There was so much more he could tell Remus and nothing he could say. “I love you,” Remus began, sniffling slightly. “I love you so much, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Because I love you, I’m going to tell you that I am not the person you need to tell all this to right now. You should talk to someone who knows how to help, like Heather.”

“I’m sorry,” Sirius whispered.

“No, I understand.” A kiss pressed against the top of his head. “And I’m not upset at you. Both our emotions are running really high. I just—this isn’t blaming you or to make you feel bad, but it hurts to hear all the horrible things that happened to you. I already wish I could have stopped it before it happened, but hearing you say it is a lot worse than thinking about it and I wasn’t ready to hear everything.”

“That’s not everything.”

“I know.” Remus’ voice cracked. “I know, and that’s the worst part. This video was a bad idea, I should call—”

“No, no, don’t do that.” Sirius caught his wrist as he reached for the phone. “The video isn’t the problem. It will help people. It’s just hard for me to talk about it without getting overwhelmed.”

Remus hesitated, but left the phone alone and hugged Sirius close again. “I’m here.”

“I know.”

“And I’m not gonna leave.” His chest rose and fell. “But—but if you need to tell me things, not just today, please give me fair warning first.”

“I will,” Sirius promised. They sat quietly for a moment before he sat up and pulled the soup bowl into his lap, letting the steam roll over his face. “Mon dieu, I was doing so good before this. It’s been the best two years and now…”

“Now it’s going to be better,” Remus filled in when he trailed off. A slender hand tucked his hair behind his ear. “It’s going to be better, Sirius. For you, and for lots of other people that you’re helping. But this is the hard part.”

“This is the really, really hard part,” he agreed, taking a sip of broth. It was the perfect temperature. “Thank you.”

“It’s just soup.”

“No, for everything. Everything you’ve done for me.” he rested his head on Remus’ shoulder, then left a lingering kiss on his cheek. “I love you more than I can say.”

A wry smile tilted the side of Remus’ mouth up. “In English or French?”

“Both,” Sirius half-laughed. “Both, I promise. I’m going to finish this, and then can we take a nap?”

“That sounds perfect. Make sure to drink your water, too.”