Vera II
When Irpa finished applying new salve, Astrid relieved herself, drank a cup and a half of broth, tiptoed around the space she'd been—where she saw more relics of the Reef Warriors Tribe, inscribed on ornaments and embroidered on clothes—and then slept soundly in the enemy's home for another night.
Ylva, Hackett's wife, greeted her when she next came to.
'Greeted' was a generous interpretation. Astrid finally felt rested for the first time in days, but her patience was put to the test. Ylva, it seemed, didn't have any of her husband's reservation and steady aid.
She was tall, broad-jawed, with dark hair parted down the middle and pulled severely against the base of her skull, where it powdered out into a ball of wild-curls. She was devoid of any status braids, rare but not unheard of, and wore breasted armor as the women of Berk did. She had an energy about her that Astrid might have admired under different circumstances; she didn't stay in one spot for more than a beat before she was doing something else—stirring the kettle, stoking the fire, digging through linens, adjusting the mounted blades...
She didn't ask after Astrid's health; merely made a comment on her wakefulness and asked if she could get up. Ylva had tossed her a tunic and some leggings, which Astrid stiffly managed to dress herself in. The leggings felt a little loose and the tunic's sleeves didn't quite reach her wrists, but she was clothed in something fresh and Astrid felt more human than she had in days.
Astrid was given a drink to gulp down quickly ("I don't like my things leaving the house.") and had a loaf of hard bread shoved in her hand before she found herself thrust out the door with a: "Go on to the bathhouse round back. Get cleaned up and then find Hackett. I gotta clean up that sheep's nest that's taken over my home."
Astrid might have asked about a change of clothes but she figured a drying cloth was all Ylva planned to part with.
"Leave that in the bathhouse," Ylva said without looking at her. "I'll come for it later."
With a forced expression of neutrality and a pained glance at Hiccup—who hadn't changed at all from yesterday, deathly still—Astrid shuffled out the dark-wooded door and away from the harried woman.
Astrid didn't mind going outside; she still felt a bit feverish, but she couldn't possibly sit around any longer. Weakness had set into her bones, bones that protruded more readily with the weight she'd lost in the past three days. She felt shaken by the need to exercise; now that most of the immediate pain had left, her mind started panicking about every disadvantage acquired. She could be overpowered, easily. Though the burns were healing and the stretched, pinched feel of her skin hardly gave her pause, her ribs still caused her grief. They wouldn't allow her to run or swing an axe should the situation call for it.
Astrid took her first step out of the house. The sun's touch was a prickling, hot caress, sick and familiar, and vertigo nearly swept her feet out from under her. She recalled an eternity baking under its glare, back on that raft, and swore she could still feel that unseen force crushing her head. The thirst that tore her throat.
The chunks of dry, hard bread she managed to swallow felt like shards against her stomach.
Her nausea settled a breath later as the clamor of work and people mingled with the rolling sea. The noise of village life. Her eyes adjusted and Astrid swallowed, wishing she had the nerve to ask for another drink, before she stepped forward.
The worst part about the Reef Warriors' village was that it wasn't so different from Berk. She could see the usual farmhouses and barricades. An armory and attached forge, black smoke billowing upward, woven with the sound of hammering and chugging bellows. Further down the sloping, grassy hill was a communal well, the surrounding area clear of grass so that shops could be set up and wares sold on Sunnudagr. Fishing huts lined the docks. Children shrieked and chased each other. Vikings leaned against stone hedges and chatted under the warm sun.
They had darker housing here. Darker forests, she supposed, and she wondered at how far south they must have gone for such different trees. The villagers wore lighter clothing. The air was warmer, thicker.
Like on Berk, the chief's house was set a bit higher from the rest of the village. Astrid took a few steps, turned and, sure enough, a bathhouse sat just a hill above the chief's, led to by a short, rocky path veering to the left. To the right, an outhouse could be spotted a ways on the other side.
She made the short walk on quaking calves and entered the bathhouse, making sure to knock first. Inside was a modest, wooden tub filled with lukewarm water. It clearly hadn't been prepared for her, but it was warmer than the air and suddenly Astrid's skin itched under cakes of blood and dirt. The fetor of her own body oils ripened in her awareness, and her hair felt heavy with grime. She needed it off.
Astrid closed the door, giving it an extra push to ensure it wouldn't open on her, and gingerly pulled the short tunic from her body. Unravelling the bandages from her arms showed glossy, puffy patterns marring her skin, erasing her freckles and scars of her youth. They were ugly, some patches red and risen, others white and flaking. She wondered what her face looked like. What her neck looked like. She wondered how much would scar-new and deformed and not at all heroic looking-and tried not to despair. She had no time for vanity. She had to focus on her gratitude and need to survive. She had to.
A small block stool helped her climb the edge of the tub but the action of twisting her body still drew a small hiss. Goosebumps ran up her body as the cool water consumed her but the temperature felt perfect for her burns. Heat would have seared, she realized. It would have been agonizing. Perhaps the cooler temperature had been on purpose. Astrid entertained the thought that Ylva had done this consciously, considerately, before recalling the woman's inhospitable behavior and deemed it more likely as fortunate neglect.
She dunked her head a couple times and scrubbed soap set at the bath's edge through her hair. The despair of earlier returned, that horrible streak of vanity. No longer pressed to survive, Astrid had no choice but to acknowledge the outcome.
She was missing some. Her hair. The left side of her scalp felt uneven and short, noticeably where the burns were worst, with her hairline pulling back more than she remembered. The water blackened and clumps of coppery tresses floated around her shoulders. She gathered a wad and threw it out of the tub, choking back a similarly-sized lump that formed in her throat.
No time for vanity.
Astrid scrubbed more softly down her body. The paste cleaned off but she did little more to her arms, legs, face and neck. A couple scabs flecked off in her effort to clear up her skin, but otherwise Astrid managed to remove most of the ash, dirt and salt that had crusted onto her body.
The water woke her up. Thoughts of Berk came, unbidden, to mind. She thought of the last bath she took—the day before her showdown with Hiccup—in a familiar setting, with all her effects. Other than that, she'd only had the opportunity to scrub the dirt off her face and arms in the family basin before following Hiccup into the forest.
Astrid remembered her anger of that moment, how her skin flared red, and not only for having been treated so roughly with a sponge stone . She remembered how she hypothesized as she stalked Hiccup. How she half expected to find Gobber in those forests, or one of the old-timers who could no longer fight, giving preferential treatment to the heir.
Instead, she had found a dragon.
Astrid snorted. Then winced.
Something shifted. A shadow. Astrid lifted her head and saw some of the light at the crack of the door blocked.
"Hello?" she called.
For a moment, nothing moved. She could hear the drip-drip of water falling from her elbow into the dingy bath.
Then the shadow shifted again. Tall. A body just outside the door. Astrid waited, shoulders hunched, but the person seemed to be retreating. She could hear the faint crunch of dry soil and stone taper off.
It must have been Ylva, seeing if Astrid still bathed. Or Hackett.
Or someone waiting to bathe…
Astrid gripped the edge of the bath and paused a little longer. The shadow didn't return. The thin stream of light remained unimpeded.
She was clean enough. Water sloshed as she climbed out of the bath, slower than she had gotten in. The shaded air chilled her, like glue to her joints, and she moved even slower. Her feet found matted ground and Astrid padded over to the drying cloth. She quickly patted the water from her body, keeping her back to the wall and her eyes on the door. Pulling on her clothes involved a lot of hissing, a lot of pauses and slow breaths. Her hair clung to her back and soaked the rest of her tunic. Her burns felt raw and exposed. Forget what Ylva wanted; she needed to find Irpa first.
Shivering, Astrid opened the door and warily looked around. She saw no one nearby. Only the villagers, far below.
###
People stared as Astrid slowly plodded across packed dirt on the thin, cloth shoes she'd been given. This island wasn't Berk. The village was smaller. The land was less grassy—though what grass she did see was tall and dry, and she imagined dragonfire cost the Reef Warriors fields at a time. She spotted a couple pastures with sheep and goats and several rotated gardens as she moved towards the lower rungs of the community. No yaks.
The sun warmed her immediately. Unlike earlier, her skin gave a pleasant hum at its touch. The bath seemed to have done her some good after all.
Astrid understood what Hackett meant about his village not taking kindly to strangers. Perhaps Berk had simply grown complacent towards people, being so involved with the dragon war, but this island seemed to regard Astrid as something new and dangerous. Someone who should be kept at bay.
Backs turned as she passed. People stared from afar. No one bothered to be polite about passing whispers to their neighbors.
Astrid grit her teeth. She hobbled to the first person who made eye contact with her—a woman working at bucking what appeared to be wolf hide. Her complexion seemed closer to Ylva's, even without the shade of the tannery, with dark, brown hair pulled back in sharp braids and half-covered by a cap. She didn't seem much older than Astrid.
The girl's regret was evident. She bent over her work and brushed the rough leather with vigor.
"Excuse me," Astrid called politely, stepping closer so she couldn't be ignored. "Can you tell me where Irpa is?"
The girl's arms continued to work, but she gave Astrid the consideration of her attention. After a quick up-and-down glance that had Astrid tugging up the loose-waisted leggings, the girl pointed over her shoulder. Astrid followed the finger—from her lower position, she could see another house nearly level to the chief's, only to the far left of the village, nestled into a crook of the surrounding forest as though it had been purposefully cleared. The house was considerably smaller, with an oddly flat roof and a large, surrounding garden. Smoke billowed up from a centered smoke hole.
"Thank you."
The girl nodded and returned to her bucking.
Astrid started her journey back upward, moved along the winding, stony paths to Irpa's residence. She welcomed the separation from the village. She'd never been on the outs before, anywhere. She'd never felt the heat of suspicion or a glare on her back. Not one she hadn't deserved, anyway. It was isolating.
But she understood. She couldn't fault these people, even when they were no allies of Berk, for distrusting her. She couldn't indulge in any sort of umbrage, even as she felt it coil in her gut, building. She hoped it fizzled out before she did something that would lose them their sanctuary.
The walk winded her. By the time she made it to the gardens her leg muscles ached and her side splintered with the inhalations her lungs demanded, leaving her unable to appreciate the quaint prettiness of the bistre cottage.
Irpa opened the door on the first knock. She squinted up at Astrid, noting the wet hair and exposed injuries, then sighed.
"Yeah. Yes. Come on in." Irpa walked back into the house.
Astrid blinked, then followed.
She didn't want to shut the door behind her, not with the earthy, potent smell striking her senses, stuffy and overpowering. She tried to breathe through the thick atmosphere of herbs and medicines, focusing on the source of the smoke she saw earlier—a roaring, central hearth, circular with white stones.
Irpa emerged from a side room with, not medicinal herbs, but a cloth, and tossed it at Astrid. Astrid managed to grasp it before it struck her face.
"Wrap up your hair," Irpa ordered. "I didn't fix you up just to have you die of the freezing sickness." She moved to the other side of the room adding, "Shirt off."
Astrid hesitated for only a second. She stepped sideways from the shut door, remembering the displaced light of the bathhouse. The chill of earlier returned even before she pulled the tunic off. In the light of the hearth she could better see the dark bruises wrapping up her left side and the blistered, cracked skin of her arms.
She released the air from her lungs to bend quickly and toss her hair into the towel. The damp skin of her back sent goosebumps rushing down her front.
She glanced down and grimaced. "Can I… can I trouble you for a bind?"
Astrid knew she hadn't much of a chest, but she'd gotten used to wearing support with her active lifestyle. She yearned for the support. Or at least the familiar pressure...
Irpa turned from the pestle she beat at and, with a nearly hairless eyebrow, sent Astrid a look that had her crossing her arms. The woman rolled her eyes, dropped the mortar, and shuffled off into a side room.
Astrid waited, feeling foolish and exposed. She distracted herself with the room. The area reminded her of Gothi's a bit—overrun by dried herbs rather than weapons. She spotted the Reef Warrior symbol etched in clothes and carved into support beams. She saw a weave in one corner of the room and cloths piled on the eating table. The hearth continued to roar, casting everything in orange light and long shadows, but nothing cooked. The day was warm enough without a fire going; Astrid wondered if Irpa simply ran cold for a viking.
Small bowls lined the pearly hearth rocks. Astrid shuffled closer, bearing the sear of flame near her burns. Some of the bowls contained dozens of blackened, curled leaves. Others gently smoked from their proximity to the fire. One shined with pale liquid. A quick sniff confirmed what Astrid sensed was butter.
"This might be a bit big for you—" Astrid suppressed a scream. She straightened, whirling to find Irpa right behind her, breast bind in hand. Irpa carried on, heedless to her fright, "but I don't think your rib'll handle the smaller one."
Astrid hadn't the mind to feel angry. She reached for the bind gratefully. Irpa slapped her hands away.
"I'll do it," Irpa said, brusque. "Get down, lift your arms, and expel the air from your lungs."
Astrid obeyed, getting to her knees and holding her arms over her head, blowing her breath out. Her ribs disagreed strongly with the lifting of her arms, but she ignored it as Irpa pulled the bind down, twisting it over her chest. She went so far as to adjust Astrid's breasts within the cloth with her freezing, needle-like fingers.
"Don't need you messing up everything I've done," Irpa carped under her breath, perhaps feeling, for once, she needed to explain herself.
Odd how Irpa could speak to her as though talking down but Astrid felt none of the sting she had from Hackett or Ylva. Perhaps her gratitude colored her opinion of the woman. Or maybe it was her similarity to Gothi, despite their massive age difference.
"Good?"
"Yeah," Astrid sighed, settling her arms. She twisted the cloth a bit when Irpa turned her back to her. The woman had been right; it was a bit loose. But it felt better than nothing and Astrid hadn't felt comfortable asking Ylva for one. She doubted Ylva had one that would fit her, let alone willing to lend.
"Stay down there," said Irpa. "I'll re-apply your salves."
Irpa picked up the oiled, wooden bowl Astrid had sniffed earlier—the one filled with melted butter—and swilled the contents. She took a handful of powdered root, and sprinkled it in by the gnarled fistful.
"Knew you'd be by," Irpa spoke, absently reaching somewhere behind her and emerging back with a fat-ended spoon. She gave the mixture a few vigorous swipes and the sour edge of the butter strengthened. Irpa rapped the spoon against the edge of the bowl and Astrid could see the thick, dark paste it had become.
Irpa scuttled, almost too fast to track, from the hearth to Astrid in less than a step, the spoon gone, the bowl balanced in the crux of her elbow. She had Astrid's jaw captured, head turned to stare at a windowless wall, before Astrid could make any utterance.
The paste felt warm and sticky, applied with a sense of harsh urgency, but Astrid's prickled burns were immediately soothed.
"Bath make you feel better?" Irpa asked.
Astrid blinked as the solution was dabbed close to her left eye. "Do you care?"
"Not particularly."
Astrid would have conceded with a nod if her chin wasn't subdued. Irpa didn't mince words, she would give the woman that much. Perhaps that's why Astrid tolerated the way she spoke and handled people. Her odd appearance didn't hurt either. There was something forgivable about eccentricities in eccentric-looking people.
Seeing Irpa shove her chief to the floor yesterday had been as entertaining as it was telling. This tiny, odd woman had to have some sort of pull in the village. Her good side, if it existed, was something Astrid wanted to remain on.
Little else was said as Irpa applied the paste to Astrid's arms and neck. Fresh bandages followed. Then her tunic.
"Roll up your legging there and let me re-bandage your ankle."
Astrid stuck out her foot. The swelling had gone down considerably, as had the pain, but the bruising remained. Irpa grabbed her heel with bloodless fingers and clicked her tongue.
"Healing fine but aggravated," she began a quick, tight wrap around the joint that had Astrid wincing. "I'm sure I have a crutch for you somewhere."
Astrid shook her head. "I don't need it. I made it up the hill—"
"I noticed," Irpa deadpanned. "Foolish."
"Sorry."
"Also, can't do much for your ribs other than tell you to take it easy."
"I know."
"Will you take it easy?"
"Yes."
It came out more like a question, but that could have been the knowing stare Irpa had her pinned by.
"Need a bind for your hair?"
"Oh," Astrid ran her fingers through the frizzed, half-damp locks, now thicker on the right. "If you have one…"
Irpa turned, grabbed a tie off the table, and handed it to Astrid.
Astrid only tied it in a low ponytail. The burnt, uneven hairs on the right were impossible to pull back but Astrid was thankful enough for the weight off her shoulders.
"Thank you," she said, remembering herself. "For...for all this."
Irpa waved it off. "Just don't go messin' yourself up."
"Know where I'll find Hackett?"
"Downhill."
Astrid snorted. Helpful.
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It must have been noon when Astrid ventured into the village again. And though the sun's position had shifted, the villagers hadn't. They still slowed in the streets, still stepped away and turned their backs and sent perceptible side-glares over their shoulders as she walked.
She passed a pair of children who sat stock-still on a stone hedge...until one of them broke formation and whispered something into her partner's ear. The other's giggles followed Astrid down the hill, striking her back hard enough to raise the hair on her neck.
Not all Reefs were unwelcoming. Some nodded to her. One or two smiled. One, short, rather dumpy man stood as she passed and murmured a prayer.
She must have looked a sight; pathetic, she would imagine, with the healing plaster on her face and her arms wrapped. Slow moving and slightly hunched, an uneven gait... She walked like Irpa. Astrid avoided looking into a watering trough as she passed. She didn't want to know. It was easier not to know.
Hackett spotted her first. Astrid caught him waving at her from atop the roof of a longhouse. The sloped top lacked its shingling around a rather large hole that, if Astrid were to guess, appeared Gronkle-sized.
Hackett said something to a man standing next to him and handed off a hammer.
"Ah, there she is!" he called as Astrid approached. Three other villagers turned; two men and a woman. The woman was older, probably the matriarch of the broken house, but the boys were likely around twenty, still thin from boyhood with short, sparse beards. All three stared and stepped back to give Astrid the sort of space one would with a leper. None uttered a greeting.
Hackett climbed down the ladder, hopping the last few rungs with boyish vigor. He passed the family with a pat on the tallest's shoulder.
"I'll see you boys later, okay? Astrid, this way."
Astrid followed, feeling their censorious stares against the back of her neck with growing reception.
"How are you feeling?" Hackett asked.
"Good." Sore and constrained would have been more accurate, but compared to the last two days she did feel good. Great, even. She could walk. She could breath easier. She wasn't on the brink of dehydration. "Met your wife." she added.
Hackett kept his gaze ahead but Astrid caught the twitch of his lips.
"I can see that," he said. "Clothes fit?"
She nodded. "Well enough."
Astrid decided that she rather liked speaking with Hackett, despite everything. It was easy, at least, with him being a simple but direct talker.
Feeling direct herself, she asked, "Could I have… can I help with that roof? Back there, I mean. I'm not a carpenter or anything, but I'm decent with repairs."
Hackett glanced behind him, back at the house they moved further and further from, and then forward again, right over Astrid's head, never looking at her.
Astrid tried not to feel stilted. "It's something I can help out with," she added, "like we discussed..."
"Don't think you're up for it," he said.
Astrid caught a flash of white when she looked down—the bandages raveled around her burns. She made a conscious effort to keep from swinging her arms too much.
"You wouldn't know unless you give me a shot," she muttered, feeling mulish.
Hackett might have cracked a smile at that, but Astrid's attention by then had fallen to the shore. To the familiar glitter capered along choppy waters and the heavy, salted air. If she closed her eyes it would sound like Berk—right down to the creaking, sodden ship bellies yanking on their lines and bumping against docks.
They turned down a steeper path towards the stone quay. There was a lot of stone, Astrid noted. Hedges and foundations and fences—more stone than wood. More than she was used to for a village.
"Chief," a passing boulder of a man greeted, looking nearly seven feet tall with most of his face hidden by dark, coarse hair. He carried a mace over his shoulder and a block of raw stone underarm.
"Sod," Hackett nodded back.
Astrid went ignored by Sod, but she followed his movements, watching as he turned away from the village well and toward the smithy. He had a light and fluid grace for such a large man and an incredibly sure grip on that weapon.
A good person to get to know, should their stay prolong. Perhaps someone she could learn from. If he was a smithy, great. Weapons' care was something she could stand to evolve in. Even so, the way he carried himself told her he knew how to fight—
You're not on Berk, Astrid reminded herself harshly. This was an unfriendly tribe to Berkians and if they ever found out they had Berk's heir…
She nearly missed Hackett considering her.
"What?" she asked, though she realized he must have noticed her staring at Sod. No reason to pretend otherwise.
"You say you're a fighter?"
"Yes," Astrid answered shortly. She could make out Hackett nodding in her peripheral.
"Not much good in your condition," he said and Astrid's jaw clenched. She knew that. She didn't need to hear it out loud. "I'll set you to some menial work."
"And you'll take care of Hiccup?" she reminded him.
Now it was Hackett who looked ahead, taking the short, final steps to the jetty almost quicker than Astrid's weakened leg could follow.
"I said we'll do what we can, and we will," he replied, peering down the line of boats. "Fisk!"
They walked along the bottom docks of the wharf towards a man hauling a half-full net of wriggling tails off a fishing boat. A couple lean-tos were set against the high, stone wall—vented canvas supported by thin, dark posts, slick with algae. Hooks and nets hung from horizontal beams. A dozen barrels sat inside along with a couple short stools and blunt-tipped spears. The scent of fish grew more potent as they approached.
Astrid glanced out to sea, squelching down memories that threatened to return by the twinkling, dark spread ending in a foggy horizon.
Where was Toothless?
The dragon might have drowned, even if he had proven himself a capable swimmer. He might have been caught and killed, too close to the small, human-riddled island, though Astrid was sure she would have heard of it by now. Still, she thought it best not to bring up the possibility of a large, black dragon sighting. No need to raise the alarms.
A painful sinking weighed in her stomach that did not agree with the bread she ate earlier. Beyond a dragon, Astrid could see nothing but water. Nothing. No land or shadow in sight. No string of islands to hop over to, not like with Berk.
Not from her angle, anyway. She would have to find another opportunity to explore the island and see what she could make out from another direction. Surely, the Reef Warriors couldn't be that remote. Maps were often inaccurate for distance, but there had to be something visible—
A sharp, wavering whistle whipped through Astrid's introspection.
Blinking, Astrid found both Hackett and the fisherman staring at her. Heat flooded her cheeks so quickly she thought she might blister again.
"Oh," she muttered. "Sorry."
Hackett said nothing of her distraction and gestured to the thick-necked man at his side, who, though younger, might have been a whole head taller than Hackett. He had skin as dark as Ylva's, likely darker, with a boxy jaw and wide mouth that grinned down at her. His deep brown hair had a shine to it—likely oil—and was pulled back to show a matching shade to his eyes.
"Astrid, this is Fisk," Hackette introduced. "He's one of the best fishermen we have 'round here. Family owns half the ships moored."
Fisk sniffed, the smile slipping from his face, and spit over his shoulder into the water behind.
"Not near enough hands to be bought though," he rumbled, dragging his own up his pant-legs before holding one out to Astrid.
Astrid took it and tried to grip back with a force equal to the thick fingers. Fisk's smile returned, though Astrid couldn't quite make relax at his show of friendliness. There was something about the way his eyes jumped all over her face, an uncomfortable eagerness.
Hackett dropped a hand on Astrid's shoulder and she fought not to immediately shrug it off. He might have felt her tension because he gave her one quick pat and removed it.
"Astrid here'll help you," he said to Fisk.
Astrid blinked. Then glanced around the wharf. Truthfully, they were rather remote, having walked away from the bustle of the main port to the very end of the wide dock where it reeked of fish.
"Here?" she asked.
"Yep," said Hackett. "Fishing is important to us." Fisk gave an accompanying nod. "You want to pull some weight? Do as Fisk tells you." Hackett looked over Astrid's head and said to Fisk, "Send her my way when you're done with her."
Fisk gave a quick solute. "Will do."
He left. Without so much as a parting word, Hackett had passed Astrid off like an unwanted burden. She supposed she was, but a fleeting sense of loneliness struck her as the chief moved away and she hated it. She wanted to be up there, with people, even if they were distant and distrusting.
"So," Fisk began, turning that wide, benign smile on her, "you're the gal from the other day."
Ugh. Small talk. He knew she was…
Astrid nodded anyway.
"My boat here's the one that got you." Fisk jabbed a thumb at one of the single-sailed long boats on a short moor. His voice was as heavy as his jaw, deep and loud. His chest swelled as he spoke but all it did was bring attention to the tiny gut poking over his belt. If Astrid were to guess, Fisk must have been nearing thirty and not yet learning the consequences of too much Mead; she'd seen it happen with every one of her uncles.
"Thank you." Astrid hoped the gratitude was perceived in her words because she couldn't feel it. Fisk seemed like he was hoping for some sort of praise and went on.
"Yeah, I was already on my way in from a trip and saw you floating along. You were a mess. You and that boy. Looked like you were going to be swept away by that west current and miss us completely if I hadn't caught you."
Astrid had heard men drone on about themselves for ages, she'd developed a lack of interest once a certain triad had been reached, but for the first time since Fisk started talking he had her attention
"Where would that have taken us?"
He snorted. "Tomorrow. Wrecker Bay if you were really unlucky, which I think you were, being in your condition and all. So what happened?"
Astrid shrugged and picked at a loose bandage on her arm. "Nothing."
Tomorrow was far.
"Didn't seem like nothing."
But if it was west from their position she knew where the northeast end of the island was.
"Dragons and stuff."
She knew which horizon to look for.
Astrid could feel Fisk's eyes on her—that roving look he'd wash her with—and she desperately wished he'd look away.
Fisk shrugged.
"Well, alright. Not gonna force a conversation on a girl who don't want it." He winked, and when Astrid only glared back, shrugged, completely undeterred. He spit to his side, rubbed a finger under his nose, and gestured to one of the lean-tos. "So, I'll keep you in the shade over here…"
He grabbed the basket he had filled earlier and walked under the drooping canvas. Astrid followed and found herself nearly gagging with the malodorous, fishy balm.
She could better see the old netting hanging on the wall, the rusted iron hooks and the three-legged stools. Barrels lined the wall, some with salts, others with fish. There was a table pushed against the stone, upholding baskets. A few flies buzzed around.
"Got our fresh catch here," Fisk said, patting the barrel under arm.
Astrid watched him set the barrel down next to two others before something familiar stole her attention. Something on the table, peaking between two heavy-bottomed baskets. She knew that particular blade-curve, intimately, readily. An axe.
Fisk grabbed it. Astrid tensed, but he only held it loose at his side and reached for a short blade Astrid hadn't seen right next to it. She watched him flip the knife and catch it by the blade.
"Fish need to be de-scaled. Know how?"
Astrid took the knife by its offered handle and pulled back her indignation. "I know how to de-scale a fish, yes."
"Get to it then. Start here," he kicked the basket he set, "And put 'em here." He nudged a barrel with his foot. "I got some work to do on the ship."
And, much like Hackett, he left her.
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Fisk came back a couple times throughout the afternoon—bringing barrels and taking them away. He tried to start a couple of conversations but Astrid kept her sentences clipped and short. She was lonely, mulish about being left alone so often, and yet still trapped in an odd, unfriendly sort of mood, offset by everything. It might have been her physical discomfort or her worry over their situation or the heavy distrust shared between her and the villagers.
By the time Astrid was told to head off her lower back felt like it had been taken by a sledge hammer and her fingers were raw and blistered. She'd never get the smell of fish off of her. She bumped into Hackett as she passed the communal well, who had her stop by Irpa's home and get some fresh bandages.
It might have been the dusky bark, or being on an enemy island, but Astrid sensed something ominous about the thicket circling Irpa's home. The setting sun cast long, raking shadows over the garden where Irpa worked, a tiny white speck amidst the dark.
Irpa seemed indifferent as ever to the state of Astrid's hands. She refreshed the bandages around her arms, cleaned up a couple cuts, and scrubbed the paste from Astrid's face and neck. As it was late, Irpa had Astrid keep the salves off her burns for "some fresh air". She was to return in the morning.
Astrid returned to the chief's house as dusk hit; a warm glow came from within so she pushed the door open gently. Heat hit her face, touching her cheeks and fingers with a far more pleasing caress than the sun had.
At first glance she saw no one, just a stoked fire at the hearth and the smell of something with lamb. It was her first time entering the house and from the doorway Astrid could see a set of stairs pressed against the wall of the house, reaching towards a second floor. Ropes and tools hung from the rafters just right of the entryway, creating enough of a curtain—a distraction—so that Astrid had no cause to turn and take a peek at the floor above.
Still, she ducked her head and tried to squint upward. Only darkness greeted her; all the light from the house came from downstairs. Astrid pushed away, moving to the stoked hearth warming the room and it's simmering pot. Spices and meat wafted through the house and her stomach rumbled. Hunger had officially returned.
She stepped around the stairs, curving more past the meal table towards her resting corner. A quick nap might be good for her.
Astrid nearly jumped out of her skin to see someone hunched over Hiccup, only to realize in a cut and quiet breath, that it was Ylva. The woman had Hiccup's head cradled in one, large hand and tipped a mug against his lips.
Astrid felt her heart stop, the thought of Hackett's implication sharp in memory. Poppy...
She fought the impulse to knock the cup from Ylva's hands. Instead she cleared her throat and said, loudly, hoping her presence would dissuade any of her fears coming to pass, "Hi."
Ylva eyed Astrid, thin eyebrows downturned, and returned to gently tipping broth into Hiccup's mouth.
It had to be broth, Astrid told herself. It had to be what she scented in the air and not an overdose of poppy. Ylva wouldn't dare put Hiccup to eternal sleep in front of her.
A beat passed as Astrid hovered at the foot of the bed, watching Hiccup's throat work through instinct. She took comfort in seeing him move in any way.
Astrid could read a situation as good as any. Ylva didn't favor her. The oppressive atmosphere all but declared Astrid as unwelcome.
"Uh, thank you," she said. Nothing. Astrid took a step closer and cocked her head to better see Ylva's work. "For the clothes. And for taking care of us. You didn't have to."
She glanced over to her bed—her haystack—and noticed it seemed far thinner than it had that morning. Astrid swallowed her pride and her indignation and reminded herself of survival.
"If you want any help around the house, I'd be happy to lend a hand," she offered. She felt a forced smile on her face but she didn't remember attempting one.
Ylva spoke. "We have an upstairs to this place." She used her sleeve to wipe some broth that dribbled from the corner of Hiccup's mouth.
"Yeah, I saw." Astrid tried to sound encouraging. Impressed.
She nearly mentioned homes from her village had them too. Wealthier homes. The chief's for example. She nearly said it to find some common ground with her host.
But she couldn't.
"I was upstairs when you were talking to my husband yesterday," Ylva went on. She set the mug on the floor; Astrid made a mental note to sniff it later.
Ylva wiped her hands on the front of her long skirt with a prim, straight-backed posture that spoke of class. She stared ahead, away from Astrid, lips pursed, "I heard what you said to him. You said you'd do anything."
Her voice was cold, mechanical, and dropped into a tone of derision when she said 'anything'.
Astrid felt mortification creep down the back of her neck and spread across her body.
"Oh no, that's not—gods, no!" She pressed a hand to her face, feeling the skin flushed and uneven. "I hadn't meant it—"
Ylva snapped her head around to face her, tied, black hair taking on a severe shine from the hearth. "I can hear just fine. And I heard everything." She stood in a swift, fluid motion, towering over Astrid by a good half-foot. She had a thick top lip to an uneven set that curled as she took a step closer. "I know your type."
Her type? Anger overtook her shame. Astrid's patience had been pressed and thinned in her short time with the Reef Warriors; fear and pain had made her vulnerable to the smallest shift in emotion, and while she knew she had to keep her head down—
Astrid tucked her chin, eyes narrowed. "I don't think you do."
Her fingers itched to close around something. She missed her axe. It was in the cove. It was a lifetime away from her hand.
Ylva strode past Astrid and to the hearth, hands wringing in her skirt. "Pretty things who get their way—"
"I hadn't meant it like that! I told him that. I'm telling you that," Astrid's voice rose against her better judgment.
"I'll get this boy through as best I can," Ylva snapped, "and then you can get the Hel off this island—with or without him."
Astrid shifted her jaw forward, biting back every nerve screaming at her to start swearing.
"With," she ground out. "Or else I might decide to stay."
Ylva turned, firelight flashing in her eyes as her mouth opened.
The door creaked. Hackett stepped in.
"Evening, ladies," he greeted with his attention fully on the clasps holding his cloak to his tunic, his body positioned toward the wall. His voice came off as jovial compared to the cutting words thickening the air seconds before. He shrugged his cloak off and draped it across the nearest high-backed chair. By the time he turned around, both Astrid and Ylva had adopted neutral poses, under some unspoken truce to ease the tension as best they could.
Hackett smiled at Astrid, kissed Ylva, and asked how the day had gone.
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The mystery of Hiccup Haddock and Astrid Hofferson's strange disappearance became a village-wide sensation. Theories flew from mouth to mouth. Accusations and rumors mounted. Tales grew wilder as the days passed. The Hoffersons were caught between extreme distraught and embarrassment. Their daughter had disappeared, but the allegations that she was somehow involved with Berk's heir's vanishing—be it romantic or sinister—kept them from venturing into the public often.
The only evidence Berk had implicating any foulplay in the connected disappearance was Astrid Hofferson's axe, which had been found in a cove just off Raven's Point four days after the Final Exam had been cancelled. Before then, the village had been searched and people questioned. When were the teens last seen? Individually and together? What were their last interactions?
Bad, was the consensus. Astrid and Hiccup were hostile to each other in the days leading up to the Final Exam. Someone had seen Hiccup sneaking out the back of the forge, tucking away a couple tools into a fisher's basket. Someone else had seen Astrid stalking in the same direction, both disappearing into the northern woods.
Stoick pressed a hand to his beard. His heart beat too fast these days. He could feel it in his chest and against his throat and in the pads of his fingers. He'd been wired since his son hadn't shown up for the exam; the discovery of Astrid's axe in the remote cove hadn't helped matters.
The basket of Hiccup's belongings—clothing, basic tools, some food—gave the theory of them running off together some plausibility and yet…
No boats had gone missing since the pair had disappeared. It couldn't have been desertion.
Dragons were the foremost explanation. The single explanation Stoick couldn't bear.
Tracking had told them a dragon had been in that same cove. Midnight-black scales littered the area. Claw marks in the dirt. No blood.
It was assumed they were taken with very little struggle. Astrid must have been caught unawares. Dropped her axe and snatched away before she could re-gather it.
No one had quite forgotten the Thorston twins' tale of Astrid murdering Hiccup, much to both the Hoffersons' and Stoick's chagrin. Despite the lack of evidence on Astrid's axe, some still believed there had been a terrible altercation between the two.
Stoick had spent enough time wondering at the relationship of it all. Why Astrid and Hiccup had gone missing at the same time. Why Astrid's axe and a run-away pack full of his son's belongings were found a mile away, in an isolated location, where an unknown dragon had recently been. How it was all connected?
There was a connection. Stoick had all the information, even if he didn't know it. He could feel the pieces, ill-fitting, but all there.
A single, unnamed dragon had not snatched them away. They were not dead. That was not an option.
"Stoh, what are you doing?"
Stoick had heard Gobber coming—he always could, with that familiar clop-pad-clop of the smith's walk. He hadn't bothered to turn his gaze from the horizon. He liked the evening chill against his bare arms; it had always helped calm him, helped him think.
"Air's not the only way someone can get off an island," Stoick murmured.
"No boats have gone missing," Gobber reminded him, coming to stand at his side. "Unless they were building one in secret…"
"We're also not the only ones with boats."
Gobber sighed. "If you're suggesting they were kidnapped..."
A braizer had been already been lit, even if the sky had not yet darkened. Stoick didn't want to see Gobber's face. He didn't want to see the pity or concern.
"And no blood," he added, voice soft.
There was that other oddity. For an area that had dragon marks as well as human, there had been little sign to show a battle had gone down.
Astrid Hofferson would have fought tooth and nail. Hiccup would have made a mess, no matter what the outcome of a fight with him may have looked like.
Stoick twirled the hilt of his dagger in his fingers. He didn't know when he first drew it from his belt. It was dull, in desperate need of sharpening. But Hiccup had been the last one to sharpen it…
Gods forbid he never see his son again—if so, he'd never let another smith touch that dagger so long as he live.
Stoick hated himself for already preparing for the worst.
"Things aren't adding up Gobber," he muttered. The blade glinted fire across his eyes with every spin. "There has to be something else involved."
His family couldn't end like this. Not Hiccup. Not by a dragon. Not snatched and gone… with him unable to do anything…
"So what?" Gobber asked. "We patrol the waters searching for boats? "
"We call our allies."
"Our—Stoick, when was the last time we convened with… with any of them?"
"The Bogs, the Meatheads, the…" Stoick paused.
"Been a while, hasn't it?"
"Look… just…" Stoick spread his fingers across the air, pointing toward every visible island the lightened horizon had to offer. "Even if they were taken beyond these waters, territories will be crossed. No one's getting by the Visithugs here without being spotted. From Bashem to the Bog Burglars, they're trapped. If they were taken, we can still catch them."
"If they're out there, kidnapped," Gobber agreed, emphasizing, "we'll get 'em back."
Stoick rubbed his eyes, right down to his mouth where he held his hand and felt his gaze lose focus.
"Maybe you're right Gobber." He couldn't seem to talk in anything more than a hoarse whisper. Horrified and sickened. "It's been four days, and—"
"Aye, none of that now." Gobber tapped his hook against Stoick's helmet. "Astrid's a fighter. And Hiccup… he's clever, Stoick. Really clever. If they're together, I think they'll be okay."
Stoick nodded along, ears perked and desperate to believe his friend's words.
"There's still a chance," he murmured. It sounded so fanciful out loud. Chance.
"Aye. But Stoick…" Gobber hesitated, only for a second, and then pressed on, knowing there was no one else on the island who would say the coming words, "there's still the chance they weren't kidnapped."
Stoick nodded, closing off.
"Then there's nothing to be done for that, but this. This, a kidnapping, a search… This we can do something about. I'm sending out a missive. I want you to prep our messenger hawks."
"We have to find them before winter hits," Gobber warned. The first chill had begun with cloudy mornings and dying harvests. Mobility would be limited soon. Survival, more difficult.
"Aye," said Stoick. "Aye.
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A/N: And that's the loong overdue chapter. I'm sorry for those expecting some excitement. It's mostly Astrid getting situated as she gains mobility. A giant thank you goes out to jenna-sais-pas for being a goddess among mortals and making this readable. Also, thank you all so much for the reviews and comments! And sorry for that April Fool's chapter. Haha-I got a few of you with it ;)
Next chapter: TOOTHLESS! (Finally)