Grief

He was grateful that the Great Hall was empty. The floors and tables were still cluttered from the celebration. Well, Hiccup had trouble thinking of the majority of the village getting drunk and loud (well, drunker and louder) as a celebration, considering the reason behind it. Stoick had only been gone for three days—actually, it was more like four, Hiccup thought, noting the faint light coming from the crack under the door—and the village hadn’t stopped “celebrating” since. Despite the fuzziness from all the mead he’d been given, Hiccup was very well aware of the tightness in his throat and his burning eyes.

Hiccup had been holding it together all week. Barely. He’d survived on giving sad smiles and reassuring speeches to any pitying looks, and he was so, so tired. He was tired of pretending to be strong, of making excuses and swallowing his tears. His beard had grown out over the last few days and thankfully, the itchiness had subsided, and instead was replaced by a sore back and shaking hands. He tried to steady his hands by gripping his mead tighter. His eyes shining, he glanced around the giant room, and once he found it was still completely empty, he let out a quiet keel and finally let go.

His beard became soaked, his face strained and red, and his teeth bared. He wiped the heel of his hand against his eye, feeling kind of relieved and yet still completely lost.