Astrid sat there, carding arthritic fingers through strands of gray and remembering fondly the way they used to glow a brilliant red on summer afternoons. That had been years ago, but still her husband would lay his head in her lap—all weary bones and deflated muscles since she could longer train as she used to. Hiccup did not seem to mind, resting with all the same contentment of the young man he had once been, so full of life and wonderment.

He was still in there, that twenty-year-old, peering out at her through tired eyes in a nest of compounded wrinkles. Years of running a village, maintaining fragile peace with their neighbors, and an unspoken, unyielding grief at the loss of the dragon that had helped define him had taken their toll. Even Hiccup, so resilient of spirit, could not thwart the march of time.

His breathing was shallow, and Astrid watched the rise and fall of his chest to ensure he was still with her, that he was still well. She was not any spryer than he was, having traded her youthfulness for wisdom with the best of them; but she watched over him anyway.

They were as the candle by the bedside, gradually diminishing in the impending night, evermore used up. She had to keep watch, for the candle would inevitably burn itself out, and she could not bear to miss a moment of its fleeting brilliance.