Disclaimer: I don't own anything.

This idea is mostly based on a practice in the books (getting rid of the weakness in the tribe); but since most people here probably haven't read them, you don't really have to to get this (even though the books are hella good, 10/10, would recommend).

If you like this I also have two other HTTYD stories on here. If you want to. You don't have to ykno, whateves doesnt even matter to me. . ... .

The sky was gray there. It had recently stopped raining, leaving the docks slippery and the sand on the shores smooth and undisturbed. Several pairs of boots stomped across the pier, loading and unloading goods from their ships as they prepared for another journey out. Someone pulled the most recent catch of squirming gray sea-life from the craft and onto relatively dry land. The sailors were ready to distribute the catch to those who could afford it.

The smell of rain was still heavy, only partially blocked by the sounds of children shouting and running throughout the village. A dog barked somewhere nearby.

Despite being one of the more barbaric and bloodthirsty tribes in the archipelago, at least while they weren't fighting or talking about fighting or talking to anyone they had a history of fighting, Berserkers shared the calm normalcy as the rest of the tribes on the day-to-day. Granted: their drunken brawls were much more likely to get out of hand and the haranguing in the war room was generally ended with the execution of a member after becoming too. . . disrespectful, but Berserkers appreciated the familiarity of other Berserkers.

Even the most cold-blooded warriors in the tribe would often nod a greeting to another member they passed along the same path.

Even the worst of the barbaric tribes had moments of goodness. Moments of humanity.

They were people.

Members of the tribe will forgive each other of mistakes made as long as they met the proper repercussions. Strict traditions had to be followed. Upheld. Respected.

Every Berserker knew this, from the youngest child to the oldest great warrior.

Only the strong can belong.

The tradition went in and out of style depending on how the chief in power enforced it. Occasionally a soft chief would come along, allowing it to be up to the parents to decide what to do with their baby; but a leader like that rarely lasted long.

Oswald the Antagonistic wasn't a soft chief. He was a Berserker, and he would not have any weakness to be exploited. The weak here were slaughtered long ago. A great shame fell to those reluctant to follow the rules laid out for them since their kind first set sail all those centuries ago.

Hiccups, runts born too small or too early, were to be disposed of. End of story.

Most everyone in the tribe enjoyed this practice. Slaughtering the smallest lambs as babies put a rare treat of delicious meat on the table that afternoon. No one would want the runt of their dog's newest litter as a guard for their home, just toss it in the river. Chickens born under a certain size would never grow large enough to produce good eggs, a savory snack for later that evening.

Everyone agreed.

It was the way they did things.

Only the strong can belong.

It became much more of a chore when the occasional human baby was born so wrong.

They often saw a new mother giving birth to a hiccup as bad luck, and the only way to get rid of it would be to get rid of the baby.

To refuse to do so - - the only other option would be banishment, a choice that almost always lead to the death of both of them.

Many new fathers took care of it themselves immediately, lest their wives get attached and think twice. It would be better for everyone. Just deal with the problem. Over and done with and the tribe would think nothing of it in a year.

The tribe would forgive the parents for the weakness they produced.

This new mother had thought so as she stood on the beach a stone's throw from the docks. The squirming pink thing in her arms once again pulled its arm free to reach out and grab onto its provider.

The new mother had put it off this long.

She had given birth four months ago. Two months earlier than she should have. The thing she produced tugged at her heart even now, soiling what she had so been looking forward to during her pregnancy.

It would always come to this. She knew. The thing in her arms only lasted as long as it did because she wanted its father to know and see their mistake for himself.

The father that had gone on the expedition against the scourged Dragon Island with many other fearless warriors of the tribe. She convinced the chief to let her keep the infant around, to let her husband see for himself when he returned.

A month went by, no sign of the expedition.

Another and the Berserkers prepared, expected their return.

The third month and the new mother began to worry. She would stand by the shore and keep watch for them, hours at a time. Her ears were deaf against the crying of the thing beside her, the thing she so easily resented.

She left it alone for hours on end, leaving it soiled in its own filth. A way of punishing its existence for stealing her real baby from her.

This thing couldn't possibly be hers - - her husbands.

Small and weak. Half the size of a normal Berserker, looking ready to die any day now.

It was an insult.

She pinched the pink exposed skin hard enough it whined and then cried, desperately wagging its arms against her in a futile attempt to push her away.

Four months was the understood time: the longest a ship had been gone to fight the dragon enemy and still returned alive.

One-hundred and twenty-two days she had kept this thing alive.

She grabbed a hold of the basket she'd prepared. The wooden cradle, egg-shaped and hollow. The mother placed the red-faced weakness she'd been carrying with her inside. The blanket it had contaminated with its existence wrapped tightly around like a gift to the sea, brandishing the mother's own crude stitching of a Skrill in flight, ready to slaughter his enemies. As with all cradles made for hiccups, it was waterproof, with their tribal crest carved into the side.

The new mother prayed the Skrill would come alive and take the burden from her.

She carried the basket down to the shore, walking past the fishermen and spare warriors. She nodded greetings to the other women she passed on her path down to the sea and walked off and away from the pier. The undisturbed shore, sand slipping under her boots, marking an indent as she made her way to the water's edge and placed her grievance inside.

The new mother watched as the ocean's tide swept it away from her, turning it so as it went, blocking the pink monster from her pale eyes. She would never have to look it in the face again. No Berserker would never remind her of this year.

Forgiven and forgotten.

She would pick up her sword and go back to the fighting, taking up against the dragon enemy, as she had done before she married.

The sky was gray. It had recently stopped raining, but she had time to get some work done.