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Astrid's Snoggletog

The hearth fire bathed the room in a warm russet glow. The logs cackled, and occasionally bright yellow sparks shot up from them before fading to gray and harmlessly wafting to the floor. Astrid Hofferson silently watched the flames unrelentingly lick the logs and grow slightly higher, at all times appearing as though they were thin arms, bobbing up and down as they reached futility for the inside of the chimney. The gray smoke the fire made did make it into the chimney and beyond it, taking its haze and suffocating vapors away from the Hofferson house and up into the night sky. From a dragon's perspective the island of Berk probably looked like it was on fire or at the very least smoldering.

The hearth fire was infinitely preferable to being outside. It was a crystal clear night. The sky, or at least the section untouched by the chimney smoke, was a deep midnight blue. A million stars shone in it like a million jewels in the sunlight. The moon was nearly full and glowed like a piece of pure white marble, its rays gently illuminating the mounds of relatively untouched snow, which had fallen the night before. In the moonlight it looked almost silver. The mighty ocean that surrounded Berk was black and very smooth, almost like a piece of opaque glass that fidgeted from time to time. All of this beauty disguised the fact that it was incredibly cold outside. Even the lightest breath gave the impression that its breather was smoking. Noses, ears, and fingers turned red within minutes of exposure. As used to the cold as the Vikings were, it was an incredibly bitter night that only the most hardy or stupid would be out in for longer than they had to be. Most just wrapped their cloaks around their bodies, took a deep breath, and made a dash for it to the nearest shelter until they reached their destination.

There had been a lot more activity than normal on this night, for it was Snoggletog, their annual winter holiday. As devoted to Viking traditions as she was, even Astrid had to admit that was a pretty stupid name, but the wisdom of their ancestors was not to be questioned or challenged. Snoggletog festivities included gift giving, a feast, drinking, songs and dances, and all sorts of merriment which Vikings loved to indulge in. At that very moment a feast was going on in Mead Hall. Astrid had gotten out of it on the grounds of a cold. While she was slightly under the weather, the true reason was she had overheard Snotlout Jorgenson boasting that he was going to propose to her that night, and she had no desire to take part in an embarrassing scene in front of the whole village. It was not like she was missing much anyway. There was nobody she really wanted to spend time with except members of her family, and they would be back soon enough.

She wondered briefly what was happening in Mead Hall. Doubtless Snotlout was looking for her, if not to propose than to try and flirt, as usual. Probably the Thorsten Twins were trying to destroy something or start a fight. Or perhaps they already had and had been sent home. Fishlegs Ingerman was likely filling up on as much food as possible. Thinking of Fishlegs reminded her of his love for dragon statistics and that made her hope very much there would be no raids tonight. As far as she knew there had never been a dragon raid on Snoggletog, but there was a first time for everything. She listened briefly to the outside but heard nothing except the faint sound of people singing.

"Good," she said quietly. And the fact that people were singing indicated the Chief's son Hiccup had not messed up, for once. The boy was the worm on the hook and trouble was the monkfish about to bite it. He was always doing something at the moment when he ought not to. Just last week he had slipped and went sliding into a barrel of mead and cracking it opened. Not only had he ruined a barrel and its highly valued contents, but he bruised a leg and smelled like mead for days. He had insisted that he only slipped because Snotlout had pushed him onto a patch of ice, but nobody had believed it. The boy was so clumsy he could slip and fall while standing still. His clumsiness and scrawniness made him hopeless at fighting, so Astrid had mostly contempt for him. She was fully aware he had a crush on her but, while his attention was preferable by default to Snotlout's, she always made it clear she did not return the feeling.

They had been friends once upon a time. Childhood sweethearts, some would say, a comment that would make Astrid snort now. Still, she did not deny that there had been a close friendship. Back in those days it had not mattered that Hiccup was small and weak or that Astrid could easily tackle and wrestle with him. They played with each other, she protected him from the other kids who wanted to beat him up, and he in turn made her laugh and gave her little trinkets he had made. But these were just childhood games and frivolities. They had grown apart as they grew older. Astrid had grown more interested in being a Viking, doing her duty to Berk, and, most of all, learning to fight. Hiccup had been made Gobber the Blacksmith's apprentice and had retained his overactive imagination. Her pragmatic and often violent mindset was at odds with his more intellectual and fantasist mindset, so she had stopped interacting with him. Not consciously, however; it just sort of happened. She did her thing, he did his, and whenever they were together things grew awkward, for Hiccup had also retained childhood worship of her, so bit by bit she stopped spending time with him.

Abruptly she wondered why she was thinking about Hiccup now, of all times. He was not her concern. So she tried to steer her thoughts away from him to more pleasant topics and glanced out the window. It was only now that she noticed one of the windows in the forge was lit up. That was odd. Gobber would never do work when there was a party going on, and Hiccup surely would not be working in there alone. She then saw that there was no smoke coming from the building's great chimney and the visible light was too weak to be coming from the forge itself. A minute later the window darkened and she saw Hiccup emerge, carrying a candle and a package under his arm. She decided he must have been wrapping one of his gifts. Why he did not do this in his own house she did not know, but maybe the forge had the materials he had needed, or perhaps the gift was for his father and he had wanted to wrap it where he would not be disturbed.

Everyone brought their gifts to Mead Hall, where they were then distributed. Where and when a person opened their gifts was up to the individual or family. Some did it on the spot. Others preferred to carry the gifts home and unwrap them there, in a more private environment. This was the tradition of the Hofferson household, so Astrid was not surprised later on to see her parents and younger brother walking home carrying some boxes and packages in their arms.

"Whew!" her father laughed once they got inside and his face began turning rosy. "It's pretty cold out there!"

"I'm freezing!" her brother said as his teeth chattered. He rushed over to the fireplace, "gotta get warm, gotta get warm!"

Astrid laughed and let him have her seat. "So how was the party?"

"About the same as always," her mother said,

"But a bit quieter with you absent!" her brother added with a grin.

"Somebody doesn't want his Snoggletog gift, does he?"

Her brother at once threw himself at her feet and begged for her forgiveness. She at once grabbed his shoulders and pulled him to his feet. "Vikings and Hofferson's don't beg," she told him sternly. "And that goes double for us because we're both,"

"Sorry sis, but pride is inconse—inconse—"

"Inconsequential?" their mother suggested,

"Thanks mom, yes, as I was saying, pride is inconsequential where Snoggletog gifts are concerned!" he said dramatically.

"Oh sit down and get warm," Astrid laughed, "so, was Snotlout there tonight?"

"For a while," her mother said dismissively, "he asked about you several times. But later on he left with Stoick's boy. I think he said something about giving him his Snoggletog present."

"Never mind that moron," her brother said impatiently, "let's open gifts!"

Sometimes the delight of anticipation and of opening a package is better than finding out what is actually inside. Thankfully this was not the case here. Among the gifts, Astrid's mother was given a new comb, carved from rosewood, her father received a new blade for the scythe that had broken none too long ago, Astrid was given a new pair of boots, and her brother was given a small wood carving of a dragon. It was a strange and never discussed irony that the Vikings of Berk hated dragons and yet still made toys of them.

Sometimes the delight of receiving gifts is offset by the delight of watching others receive theirs. Thankfully this was the case here. Astrid loved watching the faces of her family change from curiosity to surprise to pure glee within the span of a few seconds. She wondered if this was maybe what she enjoyed most about Snoggletog. If not, it was certainly among her favorite parts of the holiday.

It was certainly a wonderful feeling, to sit with her family beside the warm fire, and hear everyone laughing. To not have to worry, for just tonight at least, about food stores or dragon raids or who was friend or foe. To forget for a little while about tomorrow and just enjoy the moment. To hope that everyone around the world was doing the same thing and for a change there were no murders or wars or thefts or rapes going on, but that everyone was showing a little kindness and, if not being friendly, was at least being tolerant of everyone else.

When they reached the second to last gift yet to be distributed, her father handed it to her. It was a thin and long package. Her name was written on it, but she did not recognize the handwriting. Puzzled she untied the string and removed the cloth to reveal, much to her surprise, a dagger. It was a beautiful piece of work. The blade was steel and was so polished it shone like silver in the firelight. Down the fuller was the symbol for Victory, followed by Astrid's name, and the symbol for Freya, her personal favorite Goddess. Around these runes was a floral engraving that culminated in a rose symbol on the guard. The rose was made of inlaid morganite, with a small piece of heliodor for the center. The hilt was polished oak, and the sheath was leather, with a gold band around the top.

All the Hofferson's were left speechless. This was the kind of gift given for very important events like a wedding or a funeral, not a little annual winter holiday.

"Whoa," was all her brother could get out.

"Who made this?" Astrid asked at last. It was all she could think to say. Nobody could answer. She tested the weapon. Obviously it was for ceremonial duties and not for actual combat, but it still felt perfectly balanced and lethal. If it had not been such a fine piece of work she would have felt quite at ease in using it in battle.

"Can we keep it?" her mother asked her husband nervously, "don't you think it's a bit too nice for a family like ours? Chief Stoick might not be pleased to see Astrid carrying a blade that's better looking than his."

But he shook his head. "It's a gift, is it not? The Chief will understand. For all we know, perhaps he commissioned it."

"You really think so?" Astrid asked.

"It's a likely as any other possibility,"

She looked down at the knife. It looked so expensive she felt unworthy. Someone must have spent a great deal on it, and she could not even thank them for it.

She quickly made up her mind. She would keep the knife, take good care of it, and wear it whenever she could. If the person who got it for her lived on Berk, they would see her and see how appreciated it was. That was as close to a 'thank you' as she could get without knowing who to thank.

She sheathed the knife and placed it in her lap. They then drew closer to the fire and began telling stories. Stories about family history, great battles, some romances (her brother started gagging), ghosts, and a few humorous Snoggletog anecdotes. It was a wonderful feeling for Astrid, sitting next to the snug fire, her happy family around her, and a wonderful gift in her lap.

Hiccup stood in the snow, looking down at the Hofferson house. His clothes were disarrayed and there were some rips in his shirt. He held a piece of ice wrapped in cloth gingerly against a black eye that was forming. The bruised skin contrasted sharply with how red his eyes were.

"Happy Snoggletog, Astrid," he whispered. He turned away and limped towards his dark, cold, and lifeless house.