A day in the village.

"New orders, Hiccup."

Mirabel was in her casual wear -- a white blouse with a sky-blue dress, all embroidered with patterns and symbols that evoked her pantheon -- as she fiddled with her accordion in the town square. Various adults clapped along to the rhythm while child-godlings and mortal children, their heads full of stories of the Aesir living out their dreaming lives in Asgard's villa, danced to it.

Asgard was no stranger to visitors. Ancient worlds like the ones of Yggdrasil didn't last without acquiring a few theological frenemies. Mirabel however had become a regular sight ever since Asgard had made their treaty with the Gods of the Encanto. She always volunteered to come whenever she was needed, and Alma didn't think much of it as long it kept her from getting in the way.

"Hiccup, the orders."

Mirabel had become a bit of a favorite to the Norse Gods. While lacking some of the typical Feminine virtues expected of them -- like a high tolerance for ****, freezing temperatures and injury -- she had a lot to offer whenever she was there. It was her idea to use the dragons to help gather more fish when their new flying friends upped their need for rationing. She was the one who introduced herbs and spices to their rather bland diets. And then of course she would sometimes bring her accordion which brought a uniquely festive flair to music night. And day.

Seriously, they loved that accordion.

"Hiccup!"

The God-Prince snapped out of his stupor. He found that the sword he was fashioning had went beyond the preferred limits of a simple tune-up and had melted completely. He was too distracted watching Mirabel playing to notice.

Gobber smacked him over the head with his fake-hand -- having been swapped out with a fake palm -- and scowled at him.

"Uh, sorry! On it!"

Hiccup scrambled with the half-melted sword, ready to 'Hiccup' himself back into it.

"If you spent any time sharpening your wits as you sharpen those swords, I'd have a half-wit in my shop."

"Who's half?" Remarked Hiccup. Gobber gave him a mirthless laugh.

It was an old joke they shared. Hiccup was raised on various stories Gobber told him about dwarves, having been part-dwarf himself. Gobber's dwarf-mother had taught him everything she knew about smithing, and when the time came, he was dubbed "God of the Forge." Asgard never had a forge-god before, having outsourced that job to the people of Niðavellir, so it was a big deal at the time, especially back when they spent all their time killing dragons and needed a steady supply of weapons.

As Hiccup managed to straighten out the old sword, Gobber hammered down a new axe before eying his apprentice.

"You know, Hiccup, you should just tell him."

"Hmm? What?"

"Your father. I'm sure he'd understand."

"About what?"

"You and your Spanish friend out there."

Hiccup stopped his hammering, fighting the urge to look back at him.

"She's Columbian. Also, what about her?"

"Don't play that with me, boyo," grumbled Gobber. "I've seen the looks. The hand-holding. How you two always sneak off when you think no one's watching."

"I-I don't know what--"

"I'm not an idiot, Hiccup!" Gobber's fist slammed on the desk counter with a slam. "I'm not here to judge or anything. She's a right n' lively lass, and you're a catch too. I'm just sayin' that you need to play your cards right."

Hiccup had a lot of things to say, but he refrained, finding less and less excuses to make. The jig was up.