All eyes were on Astrid as she strolled through the village carrying out her morning chores. She rounded her shoulders, every movement she made feeling suddenly exaggerated. Most days, she was left to her own devices. No one found much reason to care what she did; or rather, they never used to care. Being the center of attention when dragons were not involved was off-putting, to say the least. Races were one thing, but her participation in the sport had become less common as more domestic responsibilities called her. While she craved recognition with anything competitive, she was not used to chatter following her on day-to-day errands. All of Berk got riled up for weddings, however; and she was to be the focus of the whole tragedy unfolding, smiling as she wept on the inside.
Congratulatory shouts rang from passersby as she fed the family chickens. She raised a hand, acknowledging their kindness, though she wished they would not. Every time she came close to forgetting her dismal fate for one blissful moment, someone saw fit to remind her.
She stood up, closing the chicken coop. In her hands, she held a woven bowl with six brown, speckled eggs. The birds clucked as if they were protesting, fluffing their plume. Their heads jerked from one side to the other, considering Astrid towering over them; and the bowl felt heavy in her hands.
"Sorry ladies," she muttered. "It doesn't seem like there's much that's fair around here anymore."
She turned, leather strips of her skirt whipping heavily around her thighs. Her pauldrons jangled as she trudged through the mud, the ground still slick with the previous day's rainstorm. The moisture was beginning to evaporate as the low sun warmed Midgard. The rays refracted through the vapor to create a haunting mist in the morning light. Terrible Terrors cried from the rooftops, scurrying about while larger dragons glided overhead, carrying their riders off their daily work. Distant hammering echoed over the village as more than one Hooligan erected banners for the coming Selection ceremony.
The event was only a couple years old. Chief Stoick could be counted on to form lasting traditions from an evolving culture. Astrid had never bothered to ask how Hiccup felt about it all, but she suspected he probably had a prominent hand in it. After all, dragons were at the center of the ceremony.
She and Hiccup had spent two hours secluded in the cove the night before, and she had grown giddy-drunk off his lips; she had wrapped herself, warm and comfortable, in his laugh. Side by side, they walked laps around the pond—she had lost count how many times—cramming two years' worth of dating into a short while, almost as if there had been no bitterness, no resentment. Almost. They were simply Hiccup and Astrid, as they used to be. A little worn and trampled by a terrible misunderstanding, yes. But still intact in spite of everything.
"It seems we still share a dangerous affinity for the ill-advised," he had said, pulling her close.
"I'm glad some things never change," she had replied, plucking idly at the lacing of his collar.
"Mm, yeah. Conspiring, sneaking off to do the wrong thing. It just seems so 'us', don't you think?"
She smirked, and had pressed her face into the crook of his neck, soothed by the warmth of his skin and thrumming of his pulse in a steady rhythm—not bounding, but relaxed.
"Only because I can't find my common sense. Seems I can't shake whatever attraction I have for your strange, awkward, dragon-crazy self," she told him, closing her eyes. The rise and fall of his chest against hers had been pleasant.
His arms came around her and he kissed the crown of her head, saying, "I'm glad some things never change."
But that was the night before, away from Berk and prying eyes where she could be Hiccup's entire focus; and his alone. Morning had broken, and she was back in the village as Stefnir's intended, supposedly devoted. In her two-year act to convince Stefnir and herself that she actually could be happy with the circumstances, everyone had come to believe they were indeed a love-match; that she did not know another man's touch; that it was her future husband who inspired rushes of desire in her. She most certainly did not see flashes of bright green eyes and russet hair.
That was what she had to convince everyone else with such regularity she was exhausted from it—like a single stone beat upon by relentless waves.
For what was to be gained by admitting she did not love Stefnir?
The anger and disappointment of her in-laws?
Nothing would change by coming clean, save for the good rapport she enjoyed with her soon-to-be family. Nothing but more pain and frustration would come from the truth. So, she loved Stefnir. Deeply. That was the only truth that mattered to anybody; and that was the truth she publicly maintained—but it was weighing her down like a stone. She worried she might not have anything left in her to appear overjoyed on her wedding day.
Insincerity was so draining.
She sighed, glancing up at the large domicile in front of her adorned with carvings of Monstrous Nightmares painted blood-red. The stylized dragon heads had once served as testament to prowess on the battlefield: a representation of beasts slain. She was gazing at the Jorgenson household; but the Nightmares' likeness had become a statement of their family's bond with that particular breed of dragon. That was not such an uncommon thing on Berk. The Nadder design above her own family's door was to be viewed now as respect for their dragons, and not the poor creature her father had killed as a rite of passage when he was young.
Her fist was poised to knock when an obnoxious voice called down to her from the rooftop with ringing familiarity. "I'm surprised you remember where I live!"
She rolled her eyes, shifting from one foot to the other as Snotlout peered down, his eyebrows raised in mild interest.
"I'm just here to deliver eggs, Snotlout—and collect some yak's milk. Then I'll be on my way."
He scoffed, climbing down the ladder with a hammer in his fist. "Yeah, it would be something like that."
Astrid's scowled. She could not help but hear the underlying accusation. "What do you mean?"
He slid down the last few rungs of the ladder, feet hitting the ground with a noisy squelch in the mud. "I mean, it's just more of the same—your old friends hardly matter to you anymore. You've got your new circle and that's cool, but don't pretend like we haven't been replaced."
She frowned. "People aren't broken hatchets or worn out furs, Snotlout. They can't be replaced."
He shrugged. "Fine. Forgotten, then. Cast aside—whatever you prefer to call it, Astrid. It makes no difference." He pounded on the front door. "MA! EGGS!"
"I'm getting married," she replied, her stomach knotting at the thought. "What did you expect? I'll have other things to worry about than goofing off with the rest of you."
"I don't know what I expected…only that you wouldn't stop being Astrid. But what do I know about it, really? It's not like we're close."
"We are—!" She stopped herself, lip trembling until she bit the inside of it gently. There was no "are", only "was". Being deceptively happy had become a full time endeavor, consuming time she would have put into the academy and its shenanigans. She felt the weight of each syllable as she continued, "We all have to grow up sometime, Snotlout."
"Huh. Well, if you're the example of 'growing up' then I don't think I want to," he snipped.
She was going to fire back, drawing him into a volley of immature griping, like they once did; but the front door opened and Snotlout's mother emerged holding a ceramic jug in her hands. A short woman, forever dooming her son's own height, she was capable of intense passion. SHe cheered as loud as any spectator during dragon races. Astrid did not want to see that fire directed at her for the nasty comeback she had planned for Snotlout. Mothers were fearsome creatures: a fact she happened to know all too well.
"Oh, Astrid!" Snoutlout's mother chimed, gazing at her with that well-meaning glow that was grating on her sanity. "Good to see yo! Congratulations on your engagement, by the way! You'll make such a lovely bride."
Snotlout shuffled past his mother with a loud, "HA!"
Astrid shared the sentiment, though she smiled brightly and offered her bowl of eggs. "Thank you, Mrs. Jorgenson. I'm…well, I…I can't wait." Her grin faltered only a little bit, unnoticed, as she and Snotlout's mom exchanged goods in a slow, awkward hand-off.
"Neither can the village! It's all anybody's talking about!"
Astrid laughed halfheartedly, cradling the jug of yak's milk to her chest. "Really? I hadn't noticed."
"Well, truth be told, we've all been waiting for a while, now! I'm surprised it took so long with the way Stefnir is mad for you." Snotlout's mother stepped back, lingering in the threshold with her hand on the door. "You let me know if there is anything I can do to help with the preparations. The gods know I might not have an opportunity for a while yet." She cast a sidelong glance at her son, who was edging by her again with his hammer still in hand.
Astrid nodded, holding her smile until the door shut, even as Snotlout took care to bump her shoulder as he passed. Her face returned to its much more comfortable dispirited look as she turned for home.
"Well, thanks for stopping by," Snotlout said with a bitter tone, and she did not look at him. "I would say, 'see ya later,' but…"
"No," she called back, making sure not to slosh the milk too much as she strode away. "I don't think that you will."
There was no half-witted response shouted back to make things familiar, to make them alright—just the nonchalant beating of a hammer against a rooftop.
Stoick the Vast cleared his throat and Hiccup bristled, unbuckling his flight suit as he kept his back to his father. He could feel that gaze boring into him, willing him to be more cooperative—but that had never worked before. One could not simply wish the hard-headed Haddock men into compliance, so it was equally fruitless for Hiccup to hope his father would be deterred from further jabs at conversation. Still, Hiccup said nothing to cut the heavy silence punctured by the occasional clinking of his buckles and the popping fire in the hearth.
He began peeling off leather layers when the chief finally spoke; a foreboding, "We need to talk, son."
Hiccup grimaced. Those words stung like icy sea spray, tiny little needles pricking him all over.
"About…?" He really hated to ask.
"After the Hofferson-Svenson wedding, I'll be travelling to Thor's Temple on Helgafell for the solstice. You're to accompany me this year. There are rituals you must learn, and offerings to make on behalf of our people."
"Fine," Hiccup shrugged, gathering his flight gear in his arms.
The news was not as bad as he had anticipated, but his father was still staring at him intently, squaring his shoulders in a way that made him impossibly broader. Hiccup tensed and the chief's mustache twitched, looking poised for an argument.
Hiccup quirked an eyebrow. "What else is…at Thor's Temple, dad?"
"Other chieftains," Stoick replied, thumbs hooking in his belt. He puffed his chest slightly.
"Ah." Hiccup's fingernails dug into his leather. There was a spreading tightness in his chest; a slow realization of the inevitable.
His father did not quite meet his eye as he added, "Their wives and children—daughters, some of them."
"Right."
Daughters. Eligible for marriage and looking for a suitable match, no doubt. Hiccup, heir to the moderately wealthy Isle of Berk and the rumored Dragon Conqueror, would be in high demand. Certainly not for his appearance. He had land and titles, reputation and means. He was a political vein of gold to be tapped and bled for his assets while he manipulated his married-to tribe for Berk's benefit. Always a game of power and resources he was not keen to play.
"You are to choose a bride while we are there," Stoick said with an unnecessary tone of finality, still expecting that argument that would not come.
Hiccup had nothing left to challenge, no more delusional hope buried in the deepest recesses of his heart that things might work out between him and Astrid. She would be Stefnir's wife before too long, and they were destined to fizzle out once more, though not by their choosing. Kisses would become nods of acknowledgment. Embraces would turn to pats on the back and friendly blows to the shoulder. Admissions of love would be just lingering glances, torn away before others noticed the mutual desire racing through the air between them. He was feeding his unhealthy obsession with her, though their ending had been written before they ever really got started.
He could not dispute the need for a bride of his own. Being wed and producing his own heir was his duty to Berk. He did not expect he would be chief in the near future, but distractions would help as they had done for the past two years while he had been fooling himself. Political marriage would not fix things, but a wife might take his mind off of Astrid from time to time—until he was wrapped around a strange woman in the darkness, feeling a figure his hands would never completely accept. He'd yearn for smooth, pale skin over toned muscles; he'd crave the supple frame of his fantasies. Or when he was moving over his wife's body, hearing moans below him that offended his ears with their foreign tone; and when he kissed her lips, he would try desperately not to think of the way Astrid tasted on his tongue, suppressing those memories until he all but forgot them.
Yes. A wife would be a wonderful thing; his inner monologue was more dismal and sarcastic than his father would ever know.
"Okay," he answered, resigned. Stoick's eyebrows quirked surprise, and Hiccup sighed heavily. "That won't be a problem. You're going to have a hand in it, I assume?"
Stoick's posture relaxed a little. "Of course. There are tribes to avoid. I can't you let marry the wrong sort."
"Who's the right sort?"
Hiccup turned for the stairs, the stump of his left leg aching where it met his prosthesis. The changing weather did not help. He winced, hiding it from his father or the man would fuss, tender-hearted though he was roughly the size of a bear.
The chief elaborated, "Erling the Stalwart, of the Vandals of the Vale, has a daughter. Hertha, if I recall correctly. They are the 'right' sort. The've more crops and livestock than they know what to do with. It would make surviving the winters here a good deal easier."
Each step was difficult as Hiccup climbed the stairs to his room. Painful jolts up the lengths of his leg joined by a dull throb that was far too familiar to be distressing anymore. "Sounds like a smart match. I'll keep that in mind when I meet them."
"You're handling this…better than I thought you might." His father was almost apologetic for his lack of faith, and Hiccup was almost forgiving.
"Hey, now. I'm not completely unreasonable, dad," he said, pausing halfway up the stairs. "A political marriage just makes sense—isn't that what you've been telling me?" He smiled, but it was devoid of any true humor. "Besides, I…I have nothing else going for me."
The smithy drew nearer with every hesitant step. Astrid's heart was racing and her ears were ringing for reasons other than the strike of metal on metal. That sound used to be a comfort; an incessant pounding that made her stomach flutter. Then it had become melancholic song filling her with sadness and regret until, finally, it was a warning, like the distant roar of an wild dragon. She did not want to go in the shop. Not as she was, not in the height of her acting, strolling through Berk with Stefnir.
"Do we have to do this right now?" she asked, trying not to seem too reluctant as he led her along. Her arm was looped through his, limp.
"I'll be painting the Great Hall and hanging banners until dusk. Now's the only opportunity I have," he answered, curling his arm to give hers an affectionate squeeze.
She was no closer to being convinced. "We can come back tomorrow, or next week. Earlier in the morning when—"
"Next week? With the Selection festival? That would be putting it off for too long. We'll be married the following week, and these things can't be rushed," he explained, rubbing her back in what was meant to be a soothing gesture.
Astrid only clenched her jaw, trying to smother her burgeoning ire.
He was doing it again: speaking with a condescending tone like she lacked the capacity to understand otherwise. Like she was a child, not knowledgeable about the ways of the world—his world; the only world that ever seemed to matter to him. His was a place in which Astrid was a meek and dutiful wife, reliant on hiim. Whatever version of her nightmares he found solace in, she was eternally grateful the gods had not made it so.
"I see your point," she muttered, trying not to settle her gaze on the tall, slim figure scurrying about the forge with a confidence he seldom possessed elsewhere, matched only in the skies on the back of his dragon.
Astrid did not trust herself to look directly at Hiccup. Not with Stefnir there. As her betrothed called out, rich green eyes glanced up and froze her galloping heart with both a thrill and dread. What a cruel thing it was how readily she noticed Hiccup's most handsome features at the most inopportune times. Like the way his lips parted slightly in surprise at the sight of them, and the way his long fingers curled tighter around his blacksmith's hammer. The way his hair fell damp and heavy against his forehead was not inspiring wholesome thoughts, not when his skin glistened with a veneer of soot and sweat; and not as beads of perspiration trickled down the column of his neck.
They were too close, even at a respectable distance. As long as Stefnir was there, simply being in Hiccup's presence felt indecent. Astrid stared past him into the blazing forge while it warped the air around with its unrelenting heat, making it dance with sweltering passion.
"Stefnir," Hiccup said, more a declaration than a greeting. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"I have a couple of jobs I need done." Stefnir pulled his arm free from Astrid's so he could wrap it around her waist, pulling her into his side. "For the wedding, of course." He lit up as Astrid dimmed.
She scrunched her eyes closed, taking a steadying breath. Her face burned like a smithy ember and she wanted to hide behind her hands. She could not play the part of excited bride-to-be in front of Hiccup; she could not smile at him with a tender hand on Stefnir's chest; she could not giggle and feign interest in a wedding she did not want. Hiccup knew to the truth. Hel, he was complicit in it.
Her eyes flickered to him for only a moment, but he was not looking at her. He was staring at Stefnir with that same unsettling placidity that was once reserved for Astrid's pestering visits, concealing a deeper well of emotion she had not known was there before.
"Ah. Well, Gobber can definitely help you with—"
Stefnir, squeezed Astrid tighter and there was something predatory in his smirk as he said, "I wanted to ask you."
Hiccup's eyes narrowed for a fraction of a second and Astrid could almost see the frantic thoughts whizzing about inside his head. He pursed his lips and gazed down at the hammer in his hand, absentmindedly tapping the head against his other palm.
"For what, exactly?" he asked, watching the hammer head fall repeatedly into his open hand. Astrid almost missed the words over Gobber's background noise: loud banging against a anvil with the occasional grunt.
"The ceremonial sword and the wedding bands," Stefnir answered, and he was smug. Too smug.
Astrid tried to pull away from him, pushing off from his broad chest; but he just captured her hand in his, bringing it to his lips to kiss, Hiccup made eye contact for the briefest moment then, and Astrid could see the twitch of a jaw muscle in his narrow face.
"Lundgren is a better jeweler than I am," he stated. "That kind of thing is not my specialty. Wouldn't it be better to ask someone experienced in making rings?"
Stefnir released Astrid and she took a silent breath of relief. She turned toward Hiccup ready to side with him, but he dissuaded her with a barely perceptible shake of his head. He knew her heart and that would have to be enough in the daylight hours. She bit the inside of her cheek, gazing up at the ceiling in muted frustration as Stefnir strode around the shop, admiring children's saddle in various stages of completion.
"Lundgren makes pretty necklaces and strings beads together, and the like," he replied. "No, you actually can craft the rings with incredible detail, and I've seen the level of work you do." He fingered an intricate design carved into the leather of one saddle. He glanced up at Hiccup, and it was a challenge. "There's no one better."
Hiccup was too calm, jerking his head in Gobber's direction as the older man hobbled around, oblivious. "He taught me everything I know—"
"But you're better." Stefnir folded his arms, sitting back on a workbench covered with Hiccup's sketches, taking little care what he sat on.
Astrid wanted more than anything, in that moment, to rush over to her betrothed and shove him off of those intricate plans, meticulously committed to parchment. He did not know the time that went into those drawings. He found the chief's son an irritation, and so was everything related to him.
Hiccup did not protest; it was his own subtle challenge—a dare for Stefnir to make him snap, and a promise he would not.
"And the sword?" he asked, turning his back with a cool abruptness that even Astrid could feel. Stefnir was not offended, unfamiliar with Hiccup's more understated disrespect.
"I thought I might determine the design, as it will be mine anyway. I don't think the bride will mind, in this case." Stefnir followed Hiccup around like a dragon toying with its meal.
He shot Astrid a debonair smile and she tried to return it in a false show of support, equally simpering, until Hiccup cast a sidelong glance at the both of them. She could almost hear the popping of his knuckles as his fist choked the ball-peen hammer.
"I'm sure Astrid's capable of deciding that for herself," Hiccup retorted. "She's standing right there, if you'd care to ask her."
"Hiccup—" Astrid tried to slide in an apology, and caution him to check his tone lest something damning slip—but Stefnir spoke over her.
"Will you do it or not?" he demanded, sidling over to Astrid. He brushed her bangs back as he studied Hiccup, and she just barely recoiled.
Hiccup glared down at the leather spread out in front of him, hands smoothing over it while doing no real work. "No. It's not that I wouldn't love the honor, but I'm swamped with saddle orders for the Selection next week. I can't take on any new projects. You can ask Gobber, though."
Stefnir scoffed, pulling Astrid in close while Hiccup pretended he was busy. She tensed as his rough lips claimed hers with, what she believed, was an intentionally loud smack.
Astrid's eyes were wide open, and she noticed Hiccup's shoulders hunch. He was also placing the majority of his weight on his right foot, something he did whenever his amputation was bothering him, and she wanted to take his pain away, or share in it. Hurting as he hurt, because Stefnir was dangling her in front of him like a fish to a dragon; and the injustice of it all was too much.
"What's this I hear about some fancy wedding trinkets?" Gobber interjected, limping over to them alight with the prospect of getting paid.
Stefnir was taken aback at the his sudden interest, unwillingly swept into a conversation with the older man about the goods to be forged, and it was a mercy. Astrid's eyes could meet Hiccup's with Stefnir distracted. She could freely pass him looks of embarrassment, shame, and regret. He had to know she had not meant for any of the torment, that it was Stefnir's doing. She could only mouth "I'm sorry" while Hiccup sighed.
"You're price-gouging," Stefnir complained; and Astrid snapped back to attention, nearly struck by a careless wave of his hand.
"I'm doing nothing of the sort," Gobber insisted, glaring, "but if you don't want to pay for my services, you can go about making your rings yourself, and use your beat-up sword that you never bring by for maintenance."
Stefnir's lip curled and he huffed, "Unbelievable."
Gobber scratched his chin, dirty fingertips leaving black streaks among his whiskers. "Tell you what. Because I am feeling so generous, I will throw in a complimentary sword-sharpening at your leisure."
"That's unnecessary. I have a whetsone."
The older Viking chuckled. His gut jiggled visibly through holes in his filthy blacksmith's tunic. "Ah, that's nothing like giving the entire blade the once-over, eh? Checking for wear and—"
"Fine," Stefnir interrupted. "That will work. When will everything be done?"
Astrid sneered at his back. The blacksmith just took it in stride.
"Ah, you don't rush beauty, lad. It will be done in time for the wedding, don't you worry. I will come to you when it's finished."
Stefnir made a noise of agreement in his throat, rounding on his true objective. "Hiccup, I would like to commission a new saddle for my bride, after the Selection of course."
Hiccup did not even flinch when addressed, but Astrid was incensed for him.
"What are you—my saddle is fine!" she hissed, gripping Stefnir's arm like a vice. "You're being a jerk!"
He did not respond to her. His face hardened at the insult and he pried his fingers free from her grasp. "Is that doable?"
He was fixated on Hiccup and his every nuance of reaction. Stefnir's brown eyes were eager, searching for something to latch on to, something that meant he had won; and Astrid brought her hand to her mouth, shaking with contained fury.
"Yeah, sure. No problem," Hiccup answered evenly. "I will get right on that, once I return from Helgafell."
Stefnir's lips quirked with satisfaction, and he placed a commanding hand on the small of Astrid's back, steering her out of the shop. She dug her heels dug into the mud, trying to peer back at Hiccup as they left.
As soon as they rounded the corner, she started on her intended.
"What the Hel was that?" she snapped, tearing away from him. Her chest inflated with outrage.
"What do you mean?" Stenfir asked, mocking. He was pleased with himself, claiming triumph in whatever competition supposedly had taken place in the smithy.
"You were trying to rile him up—make him jealous! Why?" She was angry and disgusted, but she might as well have said nothing for all the good it did her.
"I was simply placing an important work order," Stefnir shrugged with an innocent façade betrayed by the haughty lift in his brow. "If he wants to feel upset about it, let him; though what gives him the right? There's no getting around that you and I are together—we belong together. I hope he's starting to wake up to that."
He ran his hands over her bare arm and her skin crawled in the wake of his touch. She had about a dozen words she wanted to call him, none of which frequented happy relationships.
"Why do you care?" She nearly stumbled on the words, "He's nothing to me."
Stefnir captured her chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting her face up with a dominance that threatened to send Astrid in a rage before the vows were ever exchanged. Her options included a lifetime of submission or screaming, and she would choose the raw vocal cords if need be.
"Because you're mine," he told her, grinning as his mouth brushed hers. The warmth of his breath made her want to pull away.
She did not balk and Stefnir grew bolder, ghosting his lips over her cheek. This used to be pleasant, she told herself. Once, there had been something redeemable in his affections that she needed to find again, because there was plenty of daylight left and he had no reason not to kiss her.
"Right. Everyone already knows that. So, why do you feel threatened by Hiccup? Why can't you just leave him alone?"
Her hands came to his biceps, running over the hard muscle because it was a somewhat loving touch in a harmless enough place. Her fingertips moved lightly as if his skin would turn caustic with more pressure.
"People thought you were his once, and I want to put that to rest. I want him to put it to rest," Stefnir explained.
His reason was petty. He wanted a cockfight he could win; and Astrid was repulsed by his inherent need to squash anyone remotely threatening—though what could she and Hiccup ever become, really? There was nothing to be jealous of—or rather, they would ultimately be nothing to be jealous of. Stefnir's ego held the same swagger she had repelled from Snotlout before Hiccup's smile was ever a sweet thought in her head.
"He already has put it to rest," Astrid remarked. "I've told you that he and I not close anymore, so what were you hoping to accomplish in there?"
She breathed tremulously as full lips dropped to her neck, teasing a sensitive spot Hiccup had found the night before. He had been gentler, more loving, and with greater finesse than Stefnir. She was pulled flush against a solid body, less familiar and largely unexplored. Stefnir's touch was rough and greedy; or so her mind now declared it to be. She felt a twinge of self-loathing at the tiny voice whispering how good he felt physically, though her heart was about ready to forsake her. She knew a better embrace.
"I want to keep him from making the mistake of hope. You don't see the way he looks at you sometimes." Stefnir's hands were possessive on her hips, kneading too harshly. "Really, I was doing him a service because in a couple weeks…"
He chuckled against her neck and Astrid felt her insides twist at the implication. To further emphasize his point, a hand cupped her ass through her leather skirt, fingers strategically situated between the spikes.
And suddenly he was much too forward, though for two years he had exercised restraint.
Her voice was not so much pleading as it was exhausted. Defeated. "Stefnir, don't—"
"I can't wait…" he murmured, nipping at her neck. To Astrid, his teeth were daggers.
"Hey, hey! Save it for the wedding night lovebirds!" shouted passersby, chortling—because she was a spectacle. They were a spectacle. The whole gods damned thing was Berk's latest entertainment.
There was only one person who understood why her fingernails were digging into her Stefnir's flesh, and why she stood so rigid in his embrace. One person was her escape: the remedy for her noxious circumstances—and he was walking by the smithy window where he could see everything.
Hiccup froze, the labored heaving of his chest obvious from where Astrid stood; and a flash of pain rippled between them. Stefnir's tongue was on her neck but her eyes were locked on Hiccup, locked on her. Somewhere, more tribesmen heckled all in good fun and Astrid closed her eyes wanting to melt away. Under her lids, there tears of frustrated, but she would not cry. To the observer she was actually enjoying it.
And it was still daylight.
