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Rated: ASR · Draft · Fanfiction · #2255743
Hephaestus is fed up with how Loki and Thor see Hiccup. AUgust day one ancient gods
“A downed dragon is a dead dragon.”

Gobber took schooling seriously, and part of Hiccup’s work at the forge was pursuing studies. Everyone important spoke Latin, and Hiccup had to learn the language. He had advanced to Greater Calculating, learning the math of lines and shapes. He wrote informal letters to Camikazi and Thuggory, and strictly formal letters to their parents, telling them about his studies. He read up on the history of Berk and the Hooligan clans. Once a week Hiccup studied trade routes and treaties. Without fail, he learned about the gods.

Hiccup had doubts about the gods.

He never saw them help him, though others said it was only because of them he didn’t die at birth. He ought to be glad his dad returned from every nest hunt. Hiccup has no cause to complain when he had an apprenticeship, they said, and a father, food, a home. He was grateful, but still wished his dad would come home once in a while and they could eat together. It would be nice if people stopped saying Hiccup was only at the forge to sharpen and polish.

When it came to small things, like having people notice him, having his dad notice him, or not being picked on, the gods ignored him.


“A boy who believes in the Norse gods has received a Mark of Favor, but the local priestess couldn’t divine which god compelled her to do it. A few months later, he was freshly apprenticed to the blacksmith. Are you interested?”

Hephaestus gave Hermes credit—it only took two sentences to get his attention. A boy blacksmith with a destiny stuck with those upstart Norse gods.

“He carries a Mark of Favor?”

“The priestess sealed it in front of prominent members of the tribe. The boy is the heir to his island, a scrawny, brilliant child on an island full of muscle-bound warriors. His name is Hiccup.”

There was a single thing the Greek and Roman gods agreed on: Norse gods sucked.

Norse gods were fickle. They had followers who longed to go to Valhalla, feast, and fight. These warriors made certain to die in battle, holding on to their weapon. How many of them got to Valhalla? Fifty percent. Freya swiped half of them for herself. The flip-a-drachma attitude towards where their people went was bad, and become worse. If you weren’t a warrior, but lived a virtuous life, you wound up in the realm of Hel. It was dank and foggy there, afterlife for the reject crowd.

They liked certain humans, and ignored the rest of them. They answered prayers if they felt like it. A human had to earn their attention. They believed adversity built character, and took a hands off approach. They were snooty and apathetic, and gave other pantheons a bad name. Hephaestus didn’t trust them to assist a puny seven year old, favored one or not.

“Thanks for telling me. I’ll look into it.”

“Good. The child needs help, or he’s going to be wasted in that tribe. All his strength is internal, and the people on Berk care about brawn.”


He left a disk for the priestess. God forged metal was distinctive, and she deserved to know a god visited her tribe.

Hephaestus approved of the smithy. It was clean and well thought out, with enough room to move. The grubby boy beneath all that hair smiled as he worked, never sitting but not exhausting himself. He’d been working here awhile to learn that trick.

“What do you need? I’ve weapons, tools, utensils, and better items, unless you’re here to admire the smithy.” The blacksmith, a balding man with a knotted moustache, waited for an answer.

“I’m traveling with some traders, and stopping on islands to see what they offer. May I spend the night here?”

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