Hiccup had to leave. Astrid knew that. It was not the first time, nor would it be the last. One would think she would have grown accustomed to it—she was the fool who had fallen in love with the heir to Berk seven years ago—but watching him fly off never hurt any less. It stung just as sharply as it ever had, and the nights spent alone were very bit as long and empty.
She seized whatever opportunity she could for every last ounce of her husband's affection, to prolong each minute keeping the dawn at bay. They fought against time to hold to the night, but time always won. Each kiss held the knowledge that it might be the last for a while, so Astrid claimed his lips for as long as held breaths would allow.
She found comfort in the fact that Hiccup needed her as much as she needed him; that he found any distance between them undesirable. But he had duties and Berk was a demanding mistress, calling on him to make diplomatic trips, and attend every pertinent þing on her behalf. He left with the best apology that he knew how to give: whispering his breathless regrets between rolls of his hips.
It hurt, knowing what she would be missing in his absence, and for how long she would be missing their bodies pressing together. But more than that, she would be missing him. Words were not adequate to explain better than her lips on his neck; her gaze holding his; and her hand sweeping over sweaty skin, down the length of his spine. Loving someone—loving him, in particular—was painful, and she was just enough of a masochist to put herself through it over and over again; nothing ever changed—the definition of insanity. But Hiccup was worth the hurt, and to him, she was too. So, Astrid breathed him in to refresh the memories that would act as a salve until she could hold him again.
Love was life's most exquisite torment.
