Sacrifice AU. Written 8/19/2014.
I.
Her mother cries before she even finishes lacing the dress. It's a pathetic sound, pitiful in its little sniffles and gasps. Astrid resists making a vicious dig and stares straight ahead. It might be the last time she's with her mom, and angry as she is, she doesn't want to leave her with a comment like the one on the tip of her tongue.
Her father's voice rumbles outside the door, making her trembling mother jump. "They're calling for her," he informs them lowly. "Is she ready?"
Astrid ignores the stifled sob at her shoulder and says, "Yeah." She pulls away and touches a hand to her back to ensure the dress is tied. Then she brushes away a stray curl that's fallen loose from her bridal crown before she remembers she doesn't care how she looks. She scowls. Without offering any comfort to her mother, she opens the door and ignores her father's outstretched hand.
Berk is already in flames, she realizes when she steps outside. In the distance, someone screams. The noise is followed by a deafening crash. She wants her axe, but it's been confiscated. Left behind. Not for the first time, she thinks about running. But the island is small and she has nowhere to run.
Her parents follow at her heels as she stalks to the cliff-side. Most of the village is already gathered there, some fending away dragons but most of them watching for her. She gives them her fiercest sneer. In the crowd, she makes out some familiar faces, but none of them step forward to stop her. So she washes her hands of them. Her gaze fixes on Stoick the Vast standing in the center of her people, and she makes her way to him.
His gaze is solemn. She stops before him and glowers. The breeze rustles the thin fabric of her long white gown, whipping the skirt around her legs and cutting beneath the bodice.
"Astrid," he greets her quietly. "I'm so sorry."
Before the final word is even past his lips, she's swinging. Her fist arcs out, aiming upwards to make up for the severe height difference. But before her knuckles can connect with his jaw, Spitelout Jorgenson is tearing her back and wrenching her arms behind her. Her mother screeches and someone booms for rope to be brought. She doesn't rip her gaze away from Stoick.
He only watches as her wrists are bound. Bitterly, she wonders what the purpose of scrubbing her down and rubbing fragrant oils into her skin was if they were only going to wrap her in coarse, scratchy ropes. That'll ruin their goal of presenting a flawless offering. She can see the regret in her chief's eyes, the apology. He'd been a cold, quiet sort of man since his son was killed, but all her pity vaporized the minute she'd been chosen.
Since she can't hit him, she spits at his feet.
Spitelout yanks her away from the chief by her elbow and pulls her to the throne-like chair that's been set in front of a large bonfire. The heat of it stings her cheeks as she's shoved into the seat, and her captor secures her in place.
Astrid sneers up at him. "You don't have to like this so much," she hisses under her breath.
His eyes snap to hers, and he pulls one of the ropes tight enough to make her flinch. "A devil husband for a devil wife," he whispers back. His final knot will leave a bruise on her upper arm.
The corner of her mouth tilts upwards as he strides away and out of her sight. She knows the humiliation she caused him in refusing Snotlout's hand, and for a brief moment she almost wishes that the dragon master will let his beasts raze the entire island.
I'd rather die for my village than marry you for my safety.
That's what she'd told him. And Fishlegs and Tuffnut, when they'd offered. And since she was left as the last maiden on Berk, the elders came and told her parents. Astrid would be offered to the dragon master. Her life would be traded for peace.
Her eyes scan the black sky for him. She hasn't heard any cries of, "Night Fury!" or the high pitched whir of its wings. But that's how he comes— one moment the sky is empty, and the next, he's there. He cuts through the air in a blur. They never know if he comes to protect the dragons or send them home. He's done both. All they know is he comes dressed in black and wields a flaming sword. And the beasts heed his commands.
They've tried capturing him. He evades their weapons and their nets with a terrifying speed and grace. They've tried speaking to him. He never makes a single sound. When they made their offerings of food, he let the dragons take it and disappeared. A week later, they were back. The elders suggested gold, but the dragon master tilted his head at the chest of precious metals before shaking his head and taking off on his Night Fury. He didn't want any material good they offered.
Nobody's sure who brought it up first. But a virgin sacrifice was suggested.
Astrid tests the strength of her bonds, mostly out of curiosity. They creak and rub into her skin but do not give.
The attention is suddenly drawn from her as a Nightmare brawls past the crowd and snarls at the Vikings. She's studied the dragons' strategies for years— the Nightmares, along with the Zipplebacks, are the distractions. They keep the warriors busy fighting while the Gronkles and Nadders seek out the livestock. So she knows that this isn't a dragon after food. This one is here to fight and kill.
She watches with a frown as Snotlout steps up to the task. Nightmares draw his fascination at every raid, and though he's covered from head to toe in burns, he insists on engaging them until he takes one down. He goes straight for its snapping jaws with his hammer, just barely clipping the dragon's teeth. It bellows and explodes into flames, but the Viking doesn't try and escape. He jumps aside and makes another swing. This time the Nightmare catches the weapon in its mouth and tears it from Snotlout's grasp. The hammer is thrown aside, and the young man falls back to the ground.
Other Vikings leap to the scene, and even Astrid squirms against the ropes in an instinctual urge to protect. Her hands fist in the skirt of her mockery of a wedding dress. While they attempt to fight off the Nightmare, she's forced to sit and wait. For what, she's not sure.
After the Nightmare has fought off almost every challenger, the chief passes her chair and takes up his battle axe. She narrows her gaze at the line of his broad shoulders as he stands face to face with the creature. It gives him a hostile shriek, and for a moment she can feel its rage boiling in her chest. For the first time in her life, she finds herself identifying with a dragon.
The dance between Stoick the Vast and the Monstrous Nightmare is much bloodier. The chief's bicep only barely escapes the gnash of dagger-like teeth. Dark rivulets bead down his arm. The beast suffers a deep slice at the neck from his weapon. They wrestle and trade blow for blow until Stoick runs it clean of its fire. Then he advances for the killing strike.
And that's when the whistle of a plasma blast sings. The scene explodes with light, and Astrid cringes away from the splatter of dust and rubble. When it clears, firelight illuminates the living shadow landing on the cliff with a hiss. Silence goes over the previously roaring crowd.
The Nightmare shakes off the blast, looking dazed. Stoick the Vast rises easily to his feet and uses the back of his forearm to wipe the sweat from his face. Between them, the dragon master slips from the Night Fury's back.
Astrid sucks in her breath at the sight of him.
The dragon master isn't particularly frightening-looking, or necessarily intimidating in physique. His tall, slender frame is always wrapped in a costume fashioned from black leather and hard scales of the same color. He wears a dark helmet with curling horns to disguise his face. His sword of fire, unlit and sheathed at his thigh, isn't necessarily a fighting weapon. But the mystery of him terrifies. He holds a power unlike anything any of the villagers have ever known. He carries it in the smooth way he stalks between the chief and the dragon.
"We wondered if yeh'd show," the Viking says loud enough for Astrid to hear.
The dragon master doesn't reply. He stares at Stoick for a long time while his Night Fury keeps his teeth bared at the Nightmare. It protects his back, as it always does. Then he switches— he turns and steps up to the dragon, and the Night Fury turns his threatening snarl on Stoick.
Astrid watches and pulls at her bonds as he reaches a gloved hand for the Nightmare. The vicious creature presses its nose into the master's palm, and then gives him a low bow. When he waves the hand, the dragon crouches before spreading his wings and taking to the sky.
Her heart hammers in her chest. Stoick's eyes slide to her. For a minute she forgets that she is infuriated with him, and she attempts one last pleading glance in his direction. Then he turns back to the dragon master. They're separated by several yards. Her chair sits close enough to the edge that she hears him when he speaks.
"The land of Berk has an offer for yeh," Stoick tells the man in black armor. He swallows, and then looks beyond her.
She's confused by his nod, but then Gobber appears at her side with a knife. The ropes holding her to the chair are cut, and she's pulled to her feet. The blond-haired blacksmith looks at her with the most sincere expression of guilt she's yet to see. She accepts it, since her fury is melting into fear, and she doesn't begrudge the hand that tugs her forward.
Stoick gestures towards her. "If wealth won't appease yeh… perhaps this will."
Astrid's gaze flicks from Stoick's pained face to the empty expression of the dragon master's mask. It's steady and seemingly unseeing, and she can't look away. Gobber presses her to her trembling knees halfway between Stoick and the man. Though she growls a little and shrugs off his hands with a renewed sense of hate, she stays where he's placed her.
The dragon master's head slowly tips to the side. He only looks at her, in her white gown and pearl encrusted bridal crown. And then, as if realizing their meaning, he straightens suddenly.
The movement is sharp enough to grab the attention of the Night Fury. It makes a warbling noise of warning before the phantom-like figure silences it with a twitch of his fingers.
The tension is thick as he watches Stoick. His hands clench and unclench, and in the distance, the clamor of cracking wood and shouting men still sounds. Slowly, he begins to shake his head, and an overwhelming wave of relief crashes over Astrid. That is, until the dragon master closes in on her and jerks her to her feet. She realizes with crushing heartbreak that his gesture was one of disbelief, not refusal.
He hardly seems to pay her attention, shoving her towards the Night Fury without even a backwards glance. Her balance thrown off by her bound wrists, she stumbles, but regains her footing after a beat. She hears her mother scream her name. Whispers echo from every direction. But she's distracted by something else— the piercing gaze of the dragon the color of night. It's a vivid green, intertwined with strands of gold, and so seeing that she forces herself to glance away.
When she looks back to the dragon master, he's surging towards the chief. His hand goes to his thigh to free the sword of fire they've come to recognize. It snaps to life in his grip, and he comes inches from Stoick before stopping and holding the flickering blade at his throat. Flames lick just centimeters from the chief's beard.
Everything goes quiet. Astrid's breath scrapes in and out of her lungs, and pinpricks of pain begin in her strained shoulders. The man in black has never taken so hostile a stance before. She's only seen him fight in the defense of his dragons. For a stunned heartbeat, she wonders why his aggression has been agitated.
Then he lowers the sword. He stares at Stoick the Vast for another long moment before turning on his heel and striding towards Astrid. Despite the mask, she knows his eyes are bearing into her. She resists shivering, frozen in place. But then he's reaching for her and her instincts kick in.
"No!" she shouts, squirming away from his touch. She's trapped between him and the Night Fury, though, and so he's quickly able to grab her by the arm. "Don't touch me!"
When she resists, his hand tightens, and he yanks her to his chest so he can secure his arm around her waist. The gathered villagers are making panicked noises as they watch one of their own be dragged away. Astrid tries to recall all of her training, to use her knees and feet to strike at him, but he only gives her a shake to knock off her balance. Before she can stop him, he's forcing her into a dark black saddle— she's never noticed that before. And then he climbs behind her. His thighs frame her, and she's held hard against his chest.
She steals one last glance at the crowd, her eyes desperately searching for her parents. Her pulse races, her breath catching on awful near-sobs. Swallowing the hard stone in her throat, she tries to struggle against her captor, but he doesn't loosen his hold around her waist. He gives the Night Fury a sharp whistle.
And then with a rough gust of air, they're flying. Astrid shrieks and closes her eyes. The wind smacks against her face and forces its way into her nostrils and lungs. She can't breathe. The dragon lurches beneath them as they gain altitude, and her stomach turns violently. For the moment, she's so absolutely terrified that she can't even care about the heat of him at her back, the way he leans into her. She can only talk herself through the fear and try not to let the tears pricking her eyelashes fall.
She's disoriented. Too afraid to open her eyes, she gasps for a breath that doesn't strangle her and twists her wrists between her ropes. They cut and rub the skin raw, but she's desperate for something to hold onto. So desperate that she finds the fabric of the stranger's shirt and knots her fingers there.
"Be still," he tells her in a sharp voice, and she's so stunned that she does so. "You're bugging Toothless."
"Tooth— Toothless?" she stutters.
Confusion is as strong as her awe. In all his visits to Berk, the dragon master has never spoken once. It's part of what makes him so strange, so mysterious— he manages to communicate to humans and dragons solely through gestures and incoherent clicking. They'd become convinced he didn't know any Norse, but his short command changes everything. His voice is dark with barely concealed irritation, but its interesting tenor somehow rings as vaguely familiar in the back of her mind. Somehow, that makes her even more afraid.
Astrid stops struggling, but the flying doesn't become any easier. The one time she forces her eyes open during their journey, she looks down to see nothing but landscape far, far below them. She gives a short scream and then screws her eyes shut again. The rush of adrenaline piercing her system is almost painful.
She's not sure where he's taking her, or what he'll do with her once they've arrived. But as the minutes stretch into hours, her hips and legs begin to ache, and all the feeling in her arms turns into cold numbness. After what seems like an eternity, she starts to wonder if they'll ever land. She wants to ask him to, wants to tell him she needs to be on solid ground again. But she won't ask anything of her kidnapper. In fact, she'll kill him as soon as she has means to.
Just when she's convinced herself that she'll lose her arms to lack of circulation, she feels them diving. It's a sharp descent, and it pulls a whimper from her throat, but his arm doesn't budge around her. Then they're leveling out. They glide for a few more moments before she feels the ground rise up to meet them. Its steadiness makes her nauseous, after being in motion for so long.
Behind her, the dragon master snakes free of her. She blinks her eyes open, and she watches him dismount. From what she can tell, they're in a cave of some sort, but the dark is so thick, she can barely make out his silhouette. She can hear dragons, though. She can smell their scales and their hot breath.
Astrid flinches when a hand closes around her dead arm, and it takes her sleeping nerves a moment to realize that he's removed his gloves. Then there's a cold flash of a blade. She twitches nervously. But with a few quick sawing motions, her ropes snap loose. The explosion of pain in her shoulders as her arms fall free makes her cry out, and she can't even move them to ease the hot fire.
The dragon rider makes a clicking noise. Beneath her, the Night Fury barks a ball of plasma to life. It illuminates the cave in white light, then crackles into golden flames in the center of the cavern. Sure enough, the gleam of scales glimmer in the distance, but the dragons don't move. There must be dozens of them in the dark, sleeping contently.
She cuts her gaze back to the real threat, the human she'd just been given over to. "If you touch me," she whispers in a lethal warning, "I'll slit your throat in your sleep."
"I'm not going to touch you, Astrid." His voice sounds strangely exasperated. She straightens at her name, her eyes widening. The dragon master lifts his hands to his horns, and he dips his head to remove his helmet. "Now—"
Her gasp is sharp when Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III tosses the mask aside and fixes her with a flickering green gaze.
"Do you want to explain why my father just tried to sacrifice you?"