THE GHOST OF WARBOROUGH HALL

"There should be a sacrifice at the beginning of winter for a good year, and in the middle of winter for a good crop, the third in summer day, that was the sacrifice for victory."

– Ynglinga Saga, 1225


PROLOGUE

Hiccup gently took Astrid's hands. "Come with me."

Astrid stared at him. "I…." She glanced at her Nadder behind Hiccup, a dark silhouette against the bright background. Stormfly trilled at her. Astrid swallowed and looked back at the green-eyed man in front of her. "Hiccup, I…" She trailed off again. Should she come with him, or stay here and perhaps never see him again?

"Please Astrid," he said, almost half pleading. He watched as myriad emotions flitted across her face, and it almost pained him to ask her to take a leap of faith and make this decision right here, right now. He felt so selfish, but he needed her. He needed her for her strategic mind. For her strength. She was his support. And he needed her because… because…

He needed her with his every being.

When she did not reply, he smiled sadly and brought her hands up to his lips and kissed them. "I understand, Astrid." He kissed her forehead, then her nose, before tilting her chin to kiss her lips. It was a light, chaste kiss, but Astrid found herself leaning forwards when he finally pulled away. "I hope we'll see each other again. But if I don't come back, know that I… I love you."

Hiccup blushed as he smiled at her before he stepped away and walked towards the blinding light. Astrid was so torn: she wanted to follow him, but she was afraid of making the wrong choice. She looked behind her and saw a pair of blue eyes – her same blue eyes. They were urging her on. Urging her to follow Hiccup.

"Will it be the right decision?" She asked.

"You won't know until you take this step," was the reply.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. And don't worry. I will still be here when you come back."

Astrid closed her eyes. "Thank you. Thank you so much." She smiled before she turned and ran after Hiccup. Calling after him. Hiccup turned around and caught her in his arms in surprise. She whispered in his ear, and he murmured a reply upon her hair. They were soon lost to the light, and after a while the light faded, and midnight enveloped the winter woods once again.

The pair of blue eyes had followed this entire exchange for as long they can. These eyes belonged to a ghost. And, like the fate of many ghosts, she was once again alone. She would miss her, but a promise was a promise. She would wait for her, for as long as she could, even if it means waiting until the end of time. She let go of a breath that she did not realise she was holding and closed her eyes.

I am Astrid Hofferson.

She sobbed up to the night sky and collapsed in the snow.


My name is Ruffnut Thorston. Yes, that's my real name, and yes I know it's weird, but that's what you get for being the unholy offspring of a father who thought he was a rock god, and a mother who was crazy about nuts. But it's much better than my twin brother's name. His name's Tuffnut. You can just imagine the life we led in high school, but that's ok. 'Cause we enjoy fist fights. A lot.

I looked at myself in the mirror and frowned, pulling the bobby pins from my hair and shaking the curls out. I looked like such a girl. I hated looking like a girl. I am more at home outside, in the rain and in the mud, than in formal events where the glitterati with the fake boobs and fake pouts abounded. That is why I just ran out of some fancy pants charity dinner the first chance I got and went straight home.

It was only eight o-clock.

I grimaced at my reflection and walked out of the bathroom. I stumbled into my bedroom and threw myself face down in the mattress with a groan.

My profession? I'm a biography writer, and I know you're asking how in God's bloody green Earth I became something that required me to read. I used to hate reading with a passion, but then again, I also used to like acting dumb with my brother – although he is naturally dumb - but something happened in my life that changed all that. So I became a writer, but I don't have enough imagination, or patience, or drive to be acreative writer. I've tried, believe me, but I enjoy writing about dead people more.

The dead don't care if I divulge scandalous stuff about their lives.

Oh, I am by no means famous or anything. Biographers don't tend to get much screen time (go on, why don't you try and name a few of us who are still alive), and that's perfectly fine with me. Not famous, but my works have generated enough interest to be invited to the silicone booby-trap parties that my publishing house throws every now and then.

Suddenly remembering that my smelly brother rang me earlier that day to catch up in a fast food restaurant, I scrambled off my bed and threw on a pair of jeans and a jumper before bounding out the door. I walked past the rows of mailboxes in my apartment building and found a stack of letters in mine. I yanked them out and quickly flicked through them. Bills. Bank statements. Bills. A letter from my publisher. More bills. And…

I stopped flicking as I stared at a white envelope with my address handwritten at the back in beautiful cursive. I turned it over to see who it was from, but found the front blank. The envelope itself had a stylised "H" embossed in the back. Who could this be from?

I shoved the other letters back in the mailbox and left the building. I opened the mysterious letter as I walked down the streets and immediately flicked to the last page, down to where the writer would have signed their name, and I nearly stumbled.

This letter was from the most famous English author of this century.

Astrid Hofferson.

The letter was from the great Astrid Hofferson! The same woman who wrote numerous novels that rivalled the greatest books in popularity. The mysterious Astrid: never married, never had children, and as far as anyone knew, never been in love. And, despite her popularity, she was a woman whose life was something of an enigma. Naturally, her life intrigued me. When she's dead, I'd definitely write her biography.

Yeah, she's on my hit list.

There could have only be one reason why she wrote to me. Everyone knew that she was old, sick, and dying. Could it be that she wanted me as her biographer? I gathered my wits and started walking again. Best to read what she had to say first before I starting jumping to conclusions. The world dissolved around me as I read the contents of that letter under the alternating lights of the shopfronts I walked past. The letter was as haughty as it was inviting, as regal as it was good-natured. It was, no doubt, Astrid in written form.

This was what she wrote:

"Miss Thorston,

"I have never authorised any of the many biographies about me, nor have I thought about commissioning one. After all, who better to write one's story than oneself? But I realised that there are certain events in my life that I could not write, not because I am unable to, not because I have cried wolf far too many times for people to believe me – although that is true as well - but because my story is simply too incredible to be true.

"No doubt you are wondering why I chose you, a complete stranger, to write about the life of another stranger.

"I recently did an interview for a dull lifestyle magazine. I know that everybody is anticipating my death soon, and this particular interviewer thought that she will be the one I will finally reveal my real story to before I die.

"Let me explain before I continue. For my own reasons, the stories I had claimed were my real stories were all in fact - and just like my novels - fiction. And you must already know this since I have not been consistent in my narrative in the past. I leave enough darkness to keep the prying eyes from delving in too deep. I enjoy doing these story-telling interviews. They are like writing the novels that so many in the world seem to love, but I have to be quicker and lighter on my feet. Sometimes, the clever ones will find a hole in my plot, or sometimes I will let slip a truth amidst the lies, and so I try to mend the damage quickly, enticing them with a side-story until they forget about the error that would have been my undoing.

"This particular interviewer asked me if the story I just told her – and a shining remnant of a lie it was, I must say - was the real one. I have replied that truth is what we believe them to be. I have simply given the masses many truths – it was up to them to figure out which one to believe in.

"But, in the back of my mind, at the conclusion of each of the stories that I write and at the end of each interview I give, there is a man waiting patiently behind the hundreds of other characters in my head. He was a man I once knew, whose green-eyes had been piercing through the twilight of my years with increasing intensity. I see a woman next to him with blonde hair and blue eyes – so like me when I was younger. They are waiting for me to speak the most important truths that would bring them back to life. Not these half-truths that I had been weaving all my life.

"Miss Thorston, I wish to invite you to be my biographer. You may stay in Warborough Hall for as long as my story allows. I will arrange for someone to meet you outside Wellingham Station on 28 September at half-past eight in the morning. You must not be late.

"Astrid Hofferson"

My feet stopped in front of the fast food restaurant, but I was still lost within Astrid Hofferson's letter. The letter was a summons. That much was clear by the commanding way she ended her letter. But I could not have refused her even if I wanted to. She already had me hooked. I needed to know the truth that this famous stranger was finally willing to tell. And most importantly, I wanted to know who the man with the green eyes was.

Astrid Hofferson had never been in love?

What a load of bollocks! The stories were all wrong: Astrid Hofferson had been in love, and by the sounds of it, she was in love still.

I groaned when I realised that the 28th of September was tomorrow. She was not giving me enough time to do my research. I was positive she made sure I received the letter today, the slimy old fox!

I slipped the letter into my jeans pocket and entered the grease joint. I searched for my brother's familiar face and spotted him immediately, sitting with that goofy expression plastered across his mug. No, not that one with the black hair. That smelly one with the long face, right there. I shoved his face in the table before sitting opposite him.

He righted himself. "Ew, Ruff, you look like a girl."

"Dumbass, that's because I am one."

My brother used to have dreadlocks until he decided to join the Navy. And on that fateful day when he signed up… well… let's just say I had never seen a grown man look so sad at a disgusting mass of hair on the floor since he had it cut to a cueball, and I have never laughed so hard in my life. The Navy ship he was travelling with was currently docked somewhere nearby for a few days, and so he decided to visit some friends around here. And because I was also here, he decided to visit me too. As an afterthought.

He pushed a tray laden with a burger and fries and a cup of Coke towards me, and I instantly fell upon it.

"Thanks!" I said through a mouthful of food. "I'm starving."

He looked around, bored. "Yeah, yeah. You owe me for this, you know."

"Are you serious? I buy your food all the time-"

"Not for the food, butt-chin. I could have been hanging out with my friends tonight, but instead I'm hanging out with you. Ugh!" He gagged.

"Hey stupid, you were the one who asked me to meet you here."

He opened his mouth, but then shut it again. "Oh yeah."

I rolled my eyes. "So when are you leaving again?"

"In two days' time."

"Good, I'll be away too, up in Warborough Hall, in the country, for god knows how long."

"What are you doing in that crypt of a place?"

I shrugged. "I dunno… maybe I'm just interviewing the greatest literary figure of this century!" I excitedly exclaimed.

He looked blankly at me. "Who?"

I grinned. "Astrid Hofferson, you ning nong."

"What? That old crone?" He snorted. "She's long overdue to meet her maker. Too bad she wouldn't let up, eh? Then you'll be free to write about her. You should just knock her head off while you're there. What's her name again? Batstrid?"

"Astrid Hofferson," I corrected him. "But that's not a bad idea at all…"

"Of course it's not. So, have you ever even met her?"

I scowled. "No, I almost did though, once. She dropped by my publishing house's office… showed up for a little while before she had to leave. She looked so frail from afar though. I mean, I was also disappointed I didn't get to even shake hands with her or something..."

Tuffnut grumbled. "I would never understand why you like her so much."

"I connect with her man! She's a tough woman – like me – and she's a fighter – like me. But unlike me, her literary works are loved and have been quoted again and again by, well, practically everyone! Not only that, did you know that they have dubbed her the greatest author of this century and –"

"Stoopppp!" Tuff plugged his fingers in his ears. "You sound so much like Fishlegs, I could die of geekery overdose."

I sniffed at him regally. "You don't know what you're missing."

"You used to swear that you'd never read while you're still alive."

I froze, and the smirk immediately disappeared from his face when he realised what he had just said. "Don't go there." I hissed, "You know why." He looked at me sadly, a silent apology in his eyes.

I decided to change topics. "Besides, I used to also swear I would never kiss boys."

He made a face. "You're so gross."

I reached forward and jabbed him in the arm.

"Ow! Yeah! Again! I wanna see stars!"

I punched him harder.

"You sissy. I said I wanna see – "

A right hook to the cheek got him looking cross-eyed. I cackled as he shook his head to clear it.

"Great hook! You need to watch your elbows though, they're too high."

"Damn!" I muttered, but I grinned at him. That's what I liked about my brother: he volunteered to be my punchbag, while teaching me how to fight and be tough, and aggravated me so I could know exactly how to respond to assholes.

He grinned back at me before he shoved my face away. "Hurry up with your food, ugly. I wanna go home."

That night, as I sat on my suitcase to shut it, I realised that I was really going to miss my twin's stupid face and cool ideas. This year was going to be another one of those Christmases where I wouldn't be able to hang out with him. Although we usually catch up over the Internet, I was almost 100 percent sure Miss Hofferson will have no Internet connection installed in Warborough Hall, and I was 100 percent sure there will be no mobile signal either.

I yanked the zipper hard, finally managing to shut the suitcase. I sighed. Well, at least Miss Hofferson would provide me with a welcome distraction.

From what I'd heard, she was quite the firecracker. I liked firecrackers.

In fact, I liked anything that explodes.


Author's Notes:

Prologue done! This fic is loosely based on The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield in setting and style, but not quite as serious in tone since Ruffnut is no Margaret Lea :)

So, what did you guys think? How's the pacing? Was it too long? Not long enough? Was it confusing? Not enough Hiccstrid? The Hiccstrid feels will come don't worry :)

And before you ask "why is Ruffnut a biographer when she hates reading", I just want to say: Hold your damn horses! All will be revealed later.

Edit 6/5/2013: Edited due to the grammar mistakes. Thanks Silver Wings.X for pointing them out :)

Next chapter: In which Ruffnut travels to Warborough Hall. Chapter 1 is just writing itself, and it's one monster of a chapter let me tell you (it's currently at 6,000+ words and it's not even finished yet! I will probably have to split it in two… maybe even three…)