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Chapter 16: Falter
(Astrid)
A piece of moon shone brightly upon Berk. It was one of those clear, quiet nights that had most Vikings gaze at the flickering stars, expecting to see clusters of them disappear behind quick shadows, all the while standing by, ready to blow the war-horns. No shadows had been spotted yet, but the night was still young and, like the young, it felt fitful and unpredictable.
While pleasant to the eyes, these kinds of nights were actually worse than the dark, cloudy ones. When it was overcast, people had no choice but to go to sleep and pray for a good rest, hoping their house was not the first to be set on fire, or their herds the first to be attacked. When it was clear, however, Vikings grew restless, for if a raid was to occur, they were expected to spot it from a distance and warn everyone else. Few were the warriors who could manage to sleep when the summer stars travelled the sky, and Astrid was one such vigilant warrior.
She was sitting on a boulder, just before a steep fall from Berk's eastern cliffs, far from the plaza, far from the more trafficked areas, though still close to her house, which wasn't too distant from the great bridge that led to the arena. Astrid could have taken a mere three steps from where she sat, to fall towards certain death. Yet, despite the peril, she had always enjoyed sitting on that boulder, overlooking the south-eastern horizon, surrounded by grass and quiet.
Astrid savored the balmy summer breeze carrying the scent of night-flowers. She could hear the placid sounds of her sleeping village, and the distant bobbing of wooden boats down in the docks. Calm waves softly washed the feet of the tall cliffs, making sea-mist rise from below the precipice. The mist seemed almost iridescent in the moonlight, and Astrid could not help losing herself in its airy movements. She hoped to see shapes or visions, explanations, premonitions of some sort, but there was nothing, only plumes of salty vapor. Was she not supposed to be favored by the gods? That's what everyone had always told her.
A gentle voice startled her from her reverie.
"Astrid, dear," said Aslaug, her mother. "You should sleep. There's people on the lookout already. There's no need for you to keep awake every night."
Aslaug had long chestnut hair tied in a braid, which was then coiled to a round bundle behind her head. Her face was fair, just like her daughter's, but she did not share her blue eyes; those, Astrid had taken from her father. The woman wore no armor, yet her figure was still imposing, despite being leaner than most women. She used to be a formidable warrior (or so Astrid had been told), before she'd taken a Nadder spine to the knee. The injury had forced her to abandon her fighting days. Losing a limb below the main joint didn't always prevent Vikings from fighting, but a bad knee or shoulder were a different thing entirely. No prosthetic could make up for the loss of mobility.
Nowadays, Aslaug did not use much of her strength during the raids. She was still somewhat able to fight, but she preferred putting her strength to use in more productive, rather than destructive activities. Ever since Astrid had been little, the woman had maintained that Berk had plenty of warriors already, and that people tended to forget their need for good sturdy sails, or rope, or thread, and sometimes even clothes.
Astrid loved her mother dearly, but she often felt sorry for her. Perhaps it wasn't too bad being a woman, if unable to fight, yet she had always thought it to be her unspoken obligation to train twice as hard for her mother's sake. If her mother could not fight, Astrid was going to make up for her absence on the battlefield.
"It's my duty, mom. Dragon training is over, I'm a warrior now."
"Aye," Aslaug sighed. "So is most everyone else. But ya don't see them all moon-bathing every chance they get."
Astrid said nothing.
"Ya still shaken up about the Haddock boy?" Her mother asked with an abrupt tinge of sincerity as she sat beside her on the boulder. It was clearly supposed to be a question, though it sounded more like a statement.
Astrid prepared her face to scowl, but stopped herself, and went back to studying the rising sea-mist, trying not to meet her mother's eyes. "I don't give yak-shit about him," she said, matter-of-factly.
"Oh, Astrid. You can lie all you want to the other folk. But I'm yer mum. Can't lie to me. Not for long anyway." The woman looked towards whatever it was that her daughter was observing in the moonlit haze. "Did ya like 'im?" She asked.
"What?!" Astrid shot back immediately. "I HATED him!". She shouted the words, her voice as clear as the night's sky. She had surely been heard across the village.
Her mother produced a very short but arresting hush. "Ya don't have to yell. Some folk are actually tryin' to sleep, ya know."
"I hated him!" Astrid hissed, using the chance to reiterate.
"Hmm… well, the one doesn't always preclude the other."
"You can't like and hate the same person," Astrid retorted indignantly. Sometimes her mother would say stuff like that, which Astrid always disapproved of. Vikings ought to be matter-of-fact about things, and drivel of that kind had no place in a warrior's creed. "It's nonsense," she added, trying to emulate the austerity of her father.
Aslaug did not speak for a while, but she grinned, like someone listening to a joke they already knew. Astrid hated when older people did that with her. It made her feel like a child, like those times when they used to make fun of her for being stubborn. She was a woman grown now, and a warrior too.
Her mother sighed. "Fine, I'll admit ya did seem to mislike Stoick's boy during dragon trainin'." She nodded casually. "So why is he in yer head so much then?"
Astrid did not respond for a time, not until her mother shifted, preparing to leave.
"He betrayed us, mom. Most thought he was soft in the head, but that's not true. He was weak, but he wasn't stupid. Not really. But he betrayed us anyway. He seemed so sure of what he was doing. It's... I thought…" she sighed her deepest sigh yet, "I don't even know what I thought."
This was the first time Astrid had confessed any of her preoccupations on the matter, and her mother looked pleasantly taken aback by her sudden openness. She laid a hand on her shoulder with a fond smile.
"Ya know… the boy was just like his mother. I remember arguing with Valka once. It was me and Helga against her. Can't remember what our gripe was about. What I can remember is, she had me contradict some of Helga's words… or something like that. Fact is, she got angry with me, and I ended up fighting with Helga, while Val strolled home like nothing'd happened." The woman chuckled.
"Oh I did beat Helga though. Oh yes," Aslaug said with a satisfied nod. "I was the better fighter. But, when we both realized… well... there was a crowd, you see." She grinned at the memory. "We had been both beat. And by mere talking at that! May be that Val was right. May be that she was wrong. But, whatever our gripes with her, stupid she was surely not."
Her mother looked up then, humming. "Both were queer. Bitch and pup." Her voice was gentle, despite the slightly bitter words.
"Weren't you friends with Valka?"
"With Val? We… didn't agree much over things. But yes… we were friends, I suppose. Would be calling her much worse if we weren't." The woman gave a brief impish smile, behind which was some other emotion that Astrid could not read.
Aslaug saw how unsatisfied Astrid was with her answer. "They thought… different," she explained, wrinkling her nose. "Not like we think. Never a normal idea spawned from their big heads." She inhaled deeply. "Poor Stoick. He loved them both more than life. Still does. I pity him, truth be told. But it won't help the village to think like them two. Am I right?" She turned to look at her, expecting approval. "We're at war. And we're Vikings, aren't we?"
Astrid nodded, hoping her mother would leave it at that. The previous veiled praise for the boy, or for his late, like-minded mother, was not helping her steady her conflicting opinions about Hiccup. She had hoped for harsher and clearer judgment. Although she knew there was some truth behind her mother's words, she did not need this sort of conversation. She did not need more doubts.
The last few months had been a continuous struggle to purge herself of such doubts. She hacked at trees twice as often, especially at a very specific one, which she had begun identifying as the source of all her turmoil: she had secretly named it the Hiccup-Tree. It was just an oak like any other in the woods of Raven Point. Perhaps it was a bit on the younger side, but still strong enough to receive the sharp end of her axe for a couple of years, without falling. It helped her calm her nerves and clear her head, though not for long.
She also fought in all the raids with all her vigor, and yet, not one dead dragon in the list of her accomplishments. After Hiccup's escape, the ceremony had not been renewed, as the chosen champion could only be one per year, and Gothi, their priestess and healer, had elected the chief's son in the name of the gods. There was no altering a decision on Berk if the gods were behind it. Astrid was therefore not allowed to replace Hiccup as champion, which left her record of slain dragons shamefully void.
Then again, none of her peers had managed to celebrate their first kill either. Even so, it meant nothing to her. She had always been sure that, at the end of her very first official raid, she'd be able to drag some Deadly Nadder's head at the chief's feet, and receive a single nod of praise from one of the greatest Vikings alive. A single nod was enough to her. Any more would have been patronizing, especially if given by Stoick the Vast. A simple Nadder's head wasn't worth more than a nod to the strongest warrior on Berk. Nonetheless, it had been three raids already, and she had produced nothing but a few shaved scales and broken claws.
Tuffnut had actually managed to get himself a Terror's leg. Although, he'd had no choice; its talons had pierced deep into his calf, so he had cut the little dragon's leg off. He hadn't managed to finish it though, and, to top it off, he hadn't been able to walk for weeks after that injury, missing the next two raids. He was still incapacitated, but this didn't make him any less energetic, especially when it came to complaining about how hurt he was.
It was still July, but, overall, the latest generation of warriors was proving to be a disappointment, Hiccup notwithstanding. Nobody said anything, yet some were clearly thinking it, and Astrid could imagine hearing them, shouting and pointing at her with righteous condemnation.
She was supposed to be the example. She was supposed to make up for Hiccup's scandal. She was supposed to be a prodigy, and all she had been so far was very much... average. Always uninjured perhaps, but never able to present a kill either.
In fact, being able to stay unscathed was even worse, since the lack of injuries was surely being interpreted as her not trying hard enough, not as a testament to her agility. Aside from her mother, Astrid could almost read the judgment on everyone else's face, clear as fire in the night.
"Mom?" Astrid broke the silence.
"Yes, dear?"
"Is that…?" She pointed with her axe towards the sky to the east. The stars blacked out intermittently. It was either because of some clouds, or…
"Hmmm… I guess it is," the woman said calmly; a dejected moan escaped her lungs nonetheless. "Don't push yourself too hard, Astrid. You've got nothing to prove to anyone."
Astrid nodded so she would not have to argue, or admit that she disagreed with that statement with all her heart. She still had everything to prove, and she was going to do it tonight.
The tall torch-pillars helped the moon wash most of Berk's shadows away, making the village look already half-aflame. Dragon fires were also adding to the warm illumination, so Astrid had no difficulty spotting her winged enemies.
She was fending off dragon claws from the clusters of houses neighboring her own. She had been at it by herself for half the night, as she did not want to have backup during her first kill. She wanted all the credit. She needed it.
Her shield had broken, but it was a welcome loss. As decreed by the chief, new recruits were compelled to carry a shield during their first summer as warriors, but Astrid felt much more agile without one. She would much rather trade safety for mobility. Besides, she was not just any recruit, she was said to be the most promising shield-maiden in generations.
Sweat dripped from her forehead, and her damp linen undertunic stuck uncomfortably to her skin. Astrid wished nothing more than to remove her armor and clothes, and dive into the cool sea, but the raid was not over, and she hadn't yet managed to kill a single Terrible Terror.
Truth be told, she ignored the Terrors. She could easily kill a few, but that was not going to bring her the honor she craved. In fact, it would only make her reputation worse in the future. From then on, everyone would have been able to say that Astrid Hofferson's first dragon was just a measly little Terror. She could not afford the shame. Her first kill had to be a bigger dragon. A deadlier dragon.
She was losing hope. Most of the beasts in that side of the village were either dead, or had already left with a good catch or a bad wound, and Nadders and Timberjacks where nowhere to be seen. A few Gronckles were still buzzing around, there were also a couple of Zipplebacks already engaged against five Viking men, and, finally, a single Monstrous Nightmare chasing sheep into a dark alley. The dragon had very light-red scales, and it was smaller than the one they used to have in the arena, but it was a Nightmare nonetheless. It was the perfect prey for her.
This time. This time, for sure!
Astrid set her jaw, and charged towards the lingering dragon's back, following it into the muddy alley. It hadn't seen her yet, distracted by its own prey.
Despite her rekindled fervor, Astrid did not forget her teachings. A downed dragon is a dead dragon, she repeated, aiming for the joint of the Nightmare's left wing. Charging, she climbed along the dragon's spine with three quick steps, and, before the dragon could notice the disturbance on its back, Astrid brought down her double-finned axe with both hands upon the main wing-bone, mustering all her anger, just like she had been taught.
She roared her Viking war-cry.
'NO!'
It was Hiccup's voice, screaming just as he had in the cove, the day he had protected her from the Night Fury. The sound had only been in her mind, but the image sapped Astrid's strength, along with the momentum of her weapon. The axe came down on the dragon's main wing-bone much too softly. The blade broke through scale and cut through flesh, spraying blood on her hands and face, but the thick bone was intact. Astrid looked at her failure, almost unrecognizing of her own hands. She had no time to make up for it.
The dragon shook her off with a powerful jolt. She was flung fast into the air. Her hands flapped around for purchase, finding none.
She no longer held her axe. She had let go of it, somehow. She wanted to slap herself for her sloppiness, yet her mind found a more pressing preoccupation. Where was she going to land? Would her back hit a wall? A rock? Would she become a cripple? Would she die? She could not see her destination, but she could clearly see those two yellow slitted eyes turn towards her. They were strange eyes, somehow dissimilar to the ones of the captive dragons she had fought in the arena; she did not have the time to fully consider the observation.
She landed on grass and mud with her back. She tumbled backwards a few times, out of the dark alley and into the main pathway. She tried to regain her bearings. She hadn't hurt her neck, but the bone-shaking impact had been harsh on her kidneys and spine. She stumbled, which was fortunate, as it helped her avoid the stream of fire that the dragon spat towards her. She felt the heat of it.
The Monstrous Nightmare did not set itself aflame, as they often did, but it charged. Weaponless, Astrid grabbed a pebble, and threw it at one of its eyes. They were large and easy targets, and her aim was exceptional for her age. The pebble hit the dragon's left reptilian eyeball. It yowled in pain, thrashing left and right as Astrid backed away in search of another weapon. She was not given enough time.
Half-blind and much angrier, the dragon charged again towards her, its scales now coated with flames. Astrid dodged, tumbling quickly to the side, gritting her teeth at the pain in her lower back. The flaming dragon crashed against the wooden wall of a house. It was the Brunsons' house. Splinters of wood exploded as the large dragon trampled the whole side of the building. Most of the flames died at the impact.
Astrid had never seen a dragon ram an entire wall to the ground so easily before, but Brunson's house did appear to have suffered a few fires in the past. The wood was already charred black in places, and it had not been repaired properly. Still, seeing houses being destroyed was a common occurrence on Berk, where about a fourth of the structures was rebuilt or replaced by the end of each summer, so Astrid paid the house little mind.
I'm going kill that dragon!
Astrid took that chance to hurry back into the narrow alley to get her axe. This time she would not hesitate. She returned within the span of ten quick breaths, axe in hand, but what she saw before her made the recovered weapon slip from her grip once more.
The house had nearly collapsed, and the last pieces of broken roof were raining down with heavy wooden clunks. The Monstrous Nightmare was dead, decapitated by Vignir Brunson's sword. The often aloof, black-bearded man had not seen Astrid leave, nor return. No one had. Losing her prey to Vignir, however, was not what was making Astrid's stomach turn.
The worst part was seeing Vignir and his wife Petra with a terrible fear upon their faces. It was a special kind of fear; a kind of fear which Astrid had never quite witnessed in person before. They were carrying their youngest son Alvin out of the crumbling dwelling, with his arms around their shoulders.
The dark-haired boy was screaming screams of agony, which Astrid was going to remember for the rest of her life, for she knew, in that very instant, she was the one responsible for them. She was the one whose hesitation had ultimately caused the Nightmare to charge in that direction, and destroy Vignir's house, where his son, Alvin, a boy not eight winters old, was taking refuge. And it was because of her that both the young boy's legs were now missing, crushed and severed at the knees by a fallen rafter.
The ground whirled beneath Astrid's feet. She fell on her rear, her eyes fixed on the two parallel streams of blood, where the boy's legs ought to have been. Her ears focusing only on the desperate wails of pain. She ignored the people rushing there to help, and they ignored her too.
Astrid had seen Vikings get worse wounds, die in worse ways, but never before had she known what it meant to be responsible for someone's mutilation, and a child's at that. A weaponless youth who, if bound to die, was not going to see Valhalla.
So that's what it felt like, to get acquainted with true guilt.
She told them, the next morning. She told them everything she had done, how it was her fault, how she'd gotten carried away, how she had made a mistake. She did not speak about imagining Hiccup's voice. It was better to leave that part out, considering the chief was inside Gothi's hut too, as she confessed to being responsible for young Alvin's dire condition.
She did not beg them, although she secretly wanted to. Not for forgiveness of course, but for a punishment. She was a Viking, and Vikings did not beg, but she did not feel in the position to demand a punishment either. Maybe she was just afraid they might accept.
The smell of herbs and blood and seared flesh filled the dark room like a thick, transparent vapor; it was sweet and sickening. Alvin was lying unconscious on one of the beds, his wavy black hair stuck to his clammy forehead, in stark contrast to the disturbing paleness of his skin, especially his hands, into which Vignir had placed the hilt of his bloody sword.
The boy's breaths were imperceptible. He was awfully quiet now, but Astrid could still hear the echoes of his previous laments.
That night, the young boy's shattered kneecaps had been removed, his raw stumps had been sewn closed and sealed, but his fever burned high, and he had lost a lot of blood. Perhaps too much, considering Gothi's miserable expression.
"Ya fought bravely lass, no one can blame ya for that." Alvin's father said, holding the sword in place, so it wouldn't slip away from the boy's hands. If the boy died holding a weapon, maybe he would have a chance at Valhalla. It was a small consolation, but one to which everyone clung in these situations.
"Nightmares go on a frenzy easier than other dragons," the man went on, "and my house was... I..." his voice caught in his throat. His eyes darted at the chief with a strange, pleading look, then at his son, then quickly back at Astrid. "I understand how ya feel, but 'twasn't you who crushed our house, or me son's legs," he said, though his heart wasn't truly in it. He sounded distant. If anything, the man's heart sounded broken altogether.
Petra, Alvin's mother, was deaf to their conversation, and so were Alvin's older brother and sister. They all had their eyes trained expectantly to the sickly figure on the bed. To them, nothing else mattered.
Finally, Stoick the Vast nodded at her, giving confirmation to Vignir's words. It was a slow, solemn nod, but also gentle and comforting. It was not at all like the nod Astrid had always hoped to receive from the chief, but in a moment such as this, she accepted it wholeheartedly.
An unwelcome realization suddenly crossed her mind: she had committed a 'hiccup', like the ones Stoick's only son and heir was often blamed for. She had caused damage to the village and its people by acting carelessly on the battlefield. The only difference was that, unlike Hiccup, she was an approved warrior, and she could actually fight. Was that somehow enough to give her a free pass?
Of course, while Hiccup had caused countless disasters with his contraptions throughout the years, no one had ever been put on his deathbed because of it, although it had often been a close call. Astrid could sense some form of injustice lurking somewhere underneath the whole thing, but she did not have the mental strength to make sense of it. Besides, Hiccup was the last person in the world she wanted invading her mind at the moment.
Part of her was just relieved to hear that they didn't blame her for the incident, and she honestly wanted to accept their judgment, but, in the end, she found their opinions mattered little. She still blamed herself, and she was going to be much harder to convince. It was not just a matter of reputation. Deep inside, she could feel it; one way or the other, Alvin's blood was on her hands.
She looked down. There was indeed blood on her hands, now caked and dark, but it was only from the shallow cut she had opened on the Nightmare's wing. Of that type of blood, there wasn't nearly enough on her. She had been a failure.
As she left Gothi's place, walking under the uncomfortably warm sun, and wincing at the dull intermittent ache across her lower back, the violent sinking sensation in her gut did not abate. It was almost painful, like being punched, and vicious, like a poison cramping up her insides. She turned quickly into a deserted alley, and retched, yet the feeling did not leave her. She dry-heaved again. Then, as silently as she could, she cried, and trembled, smothering her need to sob with deep breaths, afraid she might be heard. Vikings did not cry.
Could she die of guilt and shame? If that's what was happening to her, she'd rather it be quicker. Sadly, beside her upset gut and her aching kidneys, she was disgracefully healthy. Before long, she forced herself to regain her composure, bottling up her feelings as tightly as she could.
Astrid trudged her way back home, stopping only once to watch the dozen men setting up pyres in the plaza. Some people had died in that raid.
Death was common on Berk. No one talked much about it, but it was always there, during summer and winter both, like an unfriendly neighbor, who was bound to visit sooner or later. Being a real Viking meant you did not wait for it to show up uninvited, but you welcomed it with grace when the time was right.
Astrid did not yet know who was going to be sent to Valhalla that evening. They were clearly not from any of the more prominent families, otherwise the village might have spared a boat or two for their sendoff. Still, the pyres were too many for a normal raid. Astrid counted five.
It had been a bad raid, though not the worst one in Astrid's lifetime. Actually, if something good had come out of the 'Hiccup' debacle, it was the fact that Berk no longer had to worry about the powerful Night Fury during dragon attacks. Still, this last one had been easily the deadliest raid of the summer thus far.
Maybe I ought to be on a pyre too, after this failure.
Perhaps she was going to fight even more recklessly in the next raid to make up for it, at least then it would be up to the gods to decide her fate. That's when it occurred to her: maybe she was not favored by the gods after all, unlike everyone said. Did Odin wish for her to doubt herself like this? Was this a test from Thor? Or was this the work of the jealous Loki? There were only questions in her mind lately, and no good answers.
Her doubts lingered, like badly stitched wounds, determined to leave deep, ugly scars. She felt a cold sweat at the thought. She had to hurry, and regain her resolve. The sooner she got rid of her doubts, the smaller the permanent scars within her. Instead of mending with time, however, the cracks in her determination were growing deeper. It had been this way ever since the day Hiccup had left. She had to do something about it, possibly before the next raid.
She could go to her parents, but her father was away, sailing on Fjalarson's trading ship. Astrid was not sure she was going to like what he'd have to say anyway. Aslaug might have tried to console her, but her mother would not fully understand what she was going through.
Astrid had long begun to think that her family was perhaps not as perfect as she had always believed. They were supportive, and she loved them more than anyone, but they did not truly get who she was, who she had to be.
Astrid wished her uncle was still alive, Fearless Finn Hofferson. He would have surely been able to tell her what to do. She wondered how her uncle would have dealt with her situation, but his wisdom was far too obscure to her. He had left her much too soon.
Finn had been an incredible Viking, and Astrid's beloved mentor, as well as her hero, before Stoick the Vast. Unfortunately, it was said that, when he had fought the infamous Flightmare, even he, who had been dubbed 'Fearless' in his youth, had frozen with fear, before being easily killed. This, coupled with the fact that he had never married, sullied his memory amongst the Berkians, and left him without any wife or children to mourn for him, only his older siblings, and Astrid.
When Astrid finally got home, she did not eat any of the bubbling stew, nor did she speak with her mother. The woman was sewing busily by the hearth alongside her aunt. She lifted her gaze, and studied her daughter's face. She would ask what was wrong, Astrid was sure of it, but not now. Aslaug was a patient woman.
Astrid brought in more water from the nearby well. She washed her hands and face. She fed the chickens in the sturdy, spiked pens of their grassy back-yard, which her family rented from the chief and shared with four of her relatives' households. Astrid checked on the small pigsty, but someone had mucked it already. She was glad no dragon had tried to pillage her family's livestock this time.
Then, she saw their shallow, wooden tub. It was not reclined upside-down against a wall, as it should have been. Instead, it was on the ground, nestled in the usual space between her uncle Magnus' abode and her own. That's where two of the four Hofferson households washed when it was warm. When water froze, they had to make do inside, trying not wet everything, but, more often, they shared that space in the makeshift shed outside, between their two houses, since there was hardly enough room in either home to comfortably place an actual bathtub.
Berkian dwellings, especially for folk of average wealth like the Hoffersons, were made small and plain, so they could be easily rebuilt in case of dragon-fires, which burned down structures with discouraging regularity each summer. Astrid's house had burned five times, and those were only the ones she remembered.
As a result, bigger houses were considered a pointless extravagance by most, and stone houses were not really viable on Berk. Good stone was harder to work than wood, and the island did not provide much of it freely, for Berk was mostly made of mud and pebbles, and extracting stone from its mountains was not considered a worthwhile effort, at least ever since their ancestors had finished the great hall. Even the current chief's house was not made of stone. They did have a couple of stone-masons in the village, of course, but it was slow, expensive work, and most of their skill was used for making tools, hearths, and the floors surrounding them.
Astrid approached the tub. The ragged curtain, which barely screened the space from eyes and wind, had been lifted. It had been put there by the men of the family, not as a safeguard to modesty, a feeling unknown to Viking men and women alike, but as a small precaution, lest their naked wives or daughters attracted the attention of others. Fortunately, there had never been any problems of that kind in the Hofferson family.
On the other hand, the younger lads, who occasionally happened to have business near their place during Laugardagr, the weekly day of washing, did not always hold back their curiosity. That, Astrid suspected, was probably because people from the Hofferson household would hardly ever visit the bathhouse. It was an expense their family would rarely indulge in, and could not often afford. Berk's bathhouse was not free.
This made Astrid something of a mystery to the other youths. A novelty. She was aware of it, but it was not the kind of thing she cared about. What some boys found so interesting in women's bodies was the real mystery to her.
Would Hiccup want to see me that way too? She wondered. He might already have, but…
No. On the few occasions Astrid had gone to the bathhouse at the same time as the chief, Hiccup had never been there. Did the boy prefer washing in his house? He did certainly have his own tub, and he could probably command his father's attendants to fill it for him.
Yes, that was it. The little brat was never going to deign sharing a bathing tub. He had often looked open and agreeable, but he had always been a spoiled brat after all.
Astrid looked inside their own small tub. It was full of murky water. She sighed and looked around, hoping to spot the culprit. That's when she found her cousin Bjorn, an athletic boy of eleven years, promising dragon-killer, with fair skin and a short brush of golden hair, the same color as Astrid's, with whom he also shared his blue, Hofferson eyes. He had fallen asleep, lying stark-naked upon a bench. He was drying off there, sprawled, belly-up, under the midday summer sun.
Oh, right… Laugardagr is today.
Maybe she ought to bathe too, but she was in no mood to prepare the water.
Astrid grabbed a pair of dry, linen under-breeches from the hanging wires outside, and threw them at the boy. He woke up with a disgruntled "wh-what?", and rose, rubbing his eyes.
"Quit showing off, you hairless lizard," Astrid said, more jokingly than she would have if she had caught any of the boy's older brothers flaunting their manliness around. She ordered him to empty the tub behind the outhouse, so others could wash too. She was not planning to use it herself, but there was a principle involved.
Bjorn complained at first, saying he had already mucked the pigsty, but when Astrid glared at him, the boy scurried off to his duties, jumping on one foot as he slipped on his smallclothes.
The venom lurking inside of her must have shown on her face, for Astrid had frightened him with a mere glare. She felt sorry about it. Her cousin could be wayward and sloppy at times, but he was honest and brave, and Astrid cared for him deeply. The boy respected her in turn almost like a mother. He even asked Astrid to spar with him more often than he did his much older and experienced brothers. Astrid appreciated it, but she rarely had the time. She could not neglect her own training.
When Astrid returned inside, Aslaug called for her. She had just finished some work for the Thorstons, and she had made arrangements for Astrid to join her friend Ruffnut in the bathhouse that afternoon. No doubt, it was Aslaug's subtle way to help ease Astrid's obviously foul mood.
Astrid did not know how her mother had paid for it. Perhaps she had given the Thorstons a better deal. Astrid did not ask. It was a kindness she would not refuse, though her pride did not allow her to acknowledge it.
Aslaug knew how to make it easier on her. She mentioned the offer as one would mention a duty. The woman would often indulge her in that roundabout manner. It was like a silent agreement they had, between a mother and her only daughter.
Astrid did not complain, nor did she thank her mother. She simply nodded, and prepared her clothes.
Ruffnut was waiting at the beginning of the path that led towards the bathhouse, which was just by the forest's edge, far from the sea, where a stream channeled the necessary water from deep within the woods and mountains. The path was uphill, and Astrid could feel the ache in her lower back worsen at the sight.
"Hey! There you are!" Ruffnut greeted cheerfully.
"Hey," Astrid said, much less so.
They began to climb the path together under the afternoon sun.
"So, did you kill something last night?" Ruffnut asked, as was customary for first-time warriors.
Astrid sighed. Maybe, she thought unhappily, yet did not speak the words. She had sealed her feelings, but they were ready to spill at a moment's notice. Her silence was interpreted as an obvious 'no'.
"I swear, I almost had this Gronkle at one point," Ruffnut said, tightening the bundle of clean clothes that she was carrying under her armpit. "But then Snotlout came to 'show me how it's done' and..." she trailed off with a dismissive wave of a hand, implying the rest.
Snotlout and the twins, and even Fishlegs, lived closer together, near the plaza, so it was more likely for them to cross each other during a raid.
"Did he kill it?" Astrid asked.
"Who?"
"Snotlout."
"No, Snotlout is fine," Ruffnut replied sadly.
"I mean the Gronkle."
"I told you, it didn't kill Snotlout."
Astrid grunted. She was talking to one of the twins, she knew, but that didn't make the experience any less exasperating. "Did Snotlout. Kill. The gronkle?" She shouted each word separately.
"Easy, woman!" Ruffnut shrieked defensively. "No need to yell at me! If Snotlout had actually killed a Gronkle, do you think I'd be this calm?"
Astrid huffed. "I suppose."
"The day that muttonhead kills a dragon before you, I'll have to wear flowers on my head, and dance the Framganga in the great hall, naked!"
Astrid giggled at the image. "I'll hold you to that. Maybe I'll sleep through the next raids," she teased, though, secretly, she considered it too. The fear that she might hesitate again in the future was now planted in her mind, and it made the prospect of fighting in the following raids not as appealing as it should have been to any real Viking.
"You wouldn't!" Ruffnut hissed, appalled. "Sure, my beautiful butt is certainly worth displaying, and I'm also excellent at the Framganga. But wearing flowers? On my head?!" She made a noise halfway between disgusted and horrified.
Astrid laughed, not because of Ruffnut's joke, but because she knew Ruffnut was not joking.
They reached the bathhouse. It was one of the larger buildings in the village. Nonetheless, since it was partially hidden among the trees, and far as it was from the village center, it was seldom a target for dragons.
The door was open. Astrid entered first, but, as she tried to step inside, she was stopped by Flegma, the bathhouse keeper, who leaned across the entrance menacingly, the bandage on her missing eye and her vivid mustache making her look even more so. The woman was the spitting image of an outcast from the stories.
"It's us," Ruffnut informed the half-blind woman.
"I see ya. Are ya bleedin'?" She grunted towards Astrid.
"No, I wasn't hurt," Astrid admitted with some shame.
"I didn't mean it like that."
"Oh…" Astrid's mind was still focused on the previous night's raid. "No, not for a week," she said more firmly.
"Then come," Flegma barked, before asking Ruff the same question.
They each took a piece of soap, a washcloth, and a bigger cloth from a rack, before they walked towards the open passage to the right, which led to the room where women usually washed. There was no explicit rule, and nothing prohibited men from using the tubs of that room, but it had become a common practice, mostly so that women could enjoy their baths without having to suffer the ruckus that men made whenever they washed. Still, sometimes they would all join and bathe together. After all, Laugardagr was also a social occasion.
Astrid and Tuffnut entered the room. The stone floor was ever so slightly inclined towards a line in the middle of the space, like the hull of a boat, where water gathered, before flowing down a drain. Along the long chamber were two rows of four wooden tubs, each big enough to fit up to four people.
Four of the tubs were being used by a dozen women and girls, some of whom greeted both Astrid and Ruffnut. Two of the tubs were free and filled with steaming water, the other two were being emptied by some of the young bathhouse attendants, currently a boy and a girl, who worked there on Laugardagr. Astrid had worked there too for a while, when she'd been younger, carrying buckets of hot water from the boiling cauldrons. It was good exercise for the muscles.
Tuffnut chose one of the available tubs. They stripped, and left their dirty garbs on the bench beside their clean ones. They both undid their braids, or at least tried, as Ruffnut's longer ones were a tangled mess.
After borrowing two of the available brushes, Ruffnut asked for Astrid's help.
Astrid hesitated, baffled by the girl's unexpected openness with her. Combing someone's hair was a rather intimate practice. Did Ruffnut consider her that much of a friend? Beside the months of dragon-training, they had never particularly bonded. They had played together often as children, but that had been mostly it. Still, Astrid had always liked Ruffnut, and even her brother. They were both mildly insane, but they were good fighters, good people, good Vikings.
With a small smile, Astrid took the brush. She sat on a bucket, facing the other girl, and held one of her very long side braids. It was going to be hard work.
"These knots need some muscles," Ruffnut said, "but don't use all of yours, or you'll scrape my tits off." She poked Astrid's abs, laughing.
Astrid grinned, and inspected Ruffnut's chest with a serious frown. "You got hair there too?"
"I don't," Ruffnut said smugly, then whispered: "But I'm sure Flegma does."
They both laughed, though Astrid's back-pain sapped her mirth quickly.
When done, they both entered the hot tub together, sighing two deep, contented sighs.
Astrid could feel her limbs relax for the first time that day. Her muscles had been clenched ever since the raid, all throughout her sleepless night and dreadful morning. She basked in the new feeling, easily ignoring Ruffnut, who was absentmindedly poking her leg underwater with a foot.
The warmth was giving Astrid a momentary, but much-needed relief from her pains and preoccupations. Nothing could break that delicious spell. Nothing, except what happened right the next instant.
"Oi! Oi! Did ya hear?!" A young girl's voice came rushing in.
Astrid's heart jumped with dread. She opened her eyes, and spotted the small girl stepping inside. She could not recall her name, but the girl was looking at their tub. Towards her. The tub's water felt suddenly too hot.
It was about Alvin, Astrid was sure of it, and she no longer knew what to hope she would hear. If the boy lived, he was going to be a cripple for the rest of his life, unable to walk without either of his legs. How could she face Alvin then? How could she face his parents? They even lived so close! How could she deal with the shame? What would she even say to him?
If the boy had died however… the vileness of that scenario was too dreadful to contemplate, although, by the look Astrid had seen on Gothi's face, it was probably better if she started doing so.
No. I'm not ready. Not yet. Not now. Please, Freya, not now.
To Astrid's immense relief, her prayer was answered.
"Gobber the Belch!" The little girl yelled excitedly. "He's been let out!"
AN: Did anyone spot the Skyrim reference? :P
