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Chapter 17: Too Short a Blanket
(Astrid)
The morning was dampened by a delicate rain, like many others which often graced Berk's streets and rooftops. It made the soil soft and muddy, and the grass strong. Men and women walked easily under this kind of mid-summer rain, as if it were nothing but a gentle breeze, appreciating the cool feeling of its droplets upon their battle-worn faces. After the fires and mayhem of the last dragon-attack, the soft rain brought solace to the hearts of the island's people.
Of course, some could find no comfort in it. There were still those mourning the five Vikings who had died in battle, and who had just been sent to Valhalla from atop their pyres in the plaza. This morning, the cries from those five of Berk's unfortunate houses had finally ceased. All that was left was just a numb silence blanketing the village.
Perhaps it was the rain that seemed to muffle the sounds of the docks and alleys, though there weren't many sounds to begin with in this dull, grey weather. Each Viking went on their usual business, but silently. Instead of greeting each other out loud, they just nodded and smiled, almost as if out of respect for the grieving families, though it might have been a coincidence.
Beside the occasional crying and crowing of ravens, the only actual noise that rung in the thick, tepid air was that of a hammer and anvil meeting intermittently inside the forge.
Astrid Hofferson listened to the metallic clashing for a long while, trying to convince herself that this was not a new sound to her ears. She had heard it before, obviously, but the last time she'd heard it, Hiccup was still working there. Did this change things? Was that why the noise from the forge felt so unfamiliar? Maybe she had just forgotten. How long had it been?
Astrid thought about it. About two months had passed, yet it felt like more to her, especially when she looked at the state of her axe, which she had been abusing upon trees, when dragons were not available. She did try to care for the weapon, but, after two months of hacking and cutting and throwing, it required the urgent attention of an actual weapon-smith. At least that's what Astrid told herself, to justify her immediate visit at Gobber's forge, the morning after his release.
Astrid entered the smithy. The structure's doors and windows were completely open during the summer. Some of the main room's walls were actually made of wooden panels, which had been removed, to allow for better airflow. Gobber had his back facing the entrance.
Astrid looked around. The amount of accumulated work sitting on the counters was astonishing: bent swords, broken axes, chipped knives, not to mention a couple of rakes and shovels too. Two full months' worth of repairs. Did Berk really have so many weapons?
Astrid timidly cleared her throat to make her presence known. Gobber stopped pounding on the metal. He turned around. He saw her.
"Mornin', Astrid," the blacksmith greeted, with a casualness that left Astrid at a loss.
She had expected anything but a normal greeting. It caught Astrid off guard, making an uncomfortable lump form in her throat. Or had it been there all along? She swallowed it. What was she afraid of? She had just come to care for her axe, hadn't she? Why did she feel such unease?
Then, she noticed something: Gobber looked different. Very different. The once strong, muscular man had lost a lot of weight. His arms looked thinner, and his clothes weren't tight around his belly anymore. His face was sunken and pale, with new scars trailing his cheekbones, and around one eye. Beard had grown on his chin and jaw, which he used to shave. His braided blonde mustache was still there though, but it was unkempt. While always a mark of honor and might, Gobber's two missing limbs now appeared terribly absent. The man had never truly looked like a cripple before, but the sight of him now, after two months of imprisonment, was heartbreaking. He looked older. It was almost as if a different person had replaced Berk's jolly, burly blacksmith.
Astrid couldn't help staring for a while, biting the inside of her cheek so as not to look sorry for the man. Not because she meant to be cruel, but because she knew that pity was hardly ever appreciated among proud Vikings. It would be an insult, and Astrid respected Gobber, or at least she used to. She was not sure anymore.
"Something wrong, lass?" The man asked with a strange sort of concern, as if his question was partly rhetorical.
Are you kidding me?! Astrid thought. She had meant to say it out loud, but she held her tongue. She thanked Thor when she realized that at least Gobber's voice had not changed. He was indeed the same person.
"My axe… needs repairing," she said.
"Yer axe?" Gobber hummed thoughtfully. "This is Hiccup's work ya know. He used to be the one who patched it up."
Astrid grimaced with mild disbelief. "He made this?"
"Aye. He never told ya? Though… now that I think about it, tha's not surprisin'."
Astrid tried not to contemplate whether this discovery had any implications. It was just a weapon; the hands that had forged it did not matter.
"Can't you repair it? The blade is dented, and I can feel it wobble sometimes."
"'Course I can," Gobber exclaimed as he picked the weapon from Astrid's hands to study it. "He never let me touch it, ya know? Said my hand was too rough. Not my hook mind you, my good hand! Can ya believe that little bastard? Huh!" He snorted, grinning at some past memory.
The man was missing another tooth. It wasn't easy to notice, but Astrid saw it, and it made her heart sink further. She wanted to ask about Hiccup. She had to ask about Hiccup. That's why she was there, wasn't it? Yet, she did not really know how, or even what to ask. As a Viking, she decided she did not need to ease into the matter. She was going to be straightforward about it, as was proper.
"Why… why did you do it Gobber? Why did you let him leave Berk? Why did you help him betray us? Why did you betray..." she hesitated, before saying "...Stoick." She had been about to say 'Berk', but she could not bring herself to accuse the man of betraying the whole village.
Gobber's expression darkened. He did not look angry. He never did. Yet there was always something that made people uneasy on the rare occasions when he was truly annoyed. Something inscrutable. She had seen it happen, though Astrid had never experienced it herself. It was easy to forget, but, when true conflict arose, Gobber could become almost as dangerous as Stoick the Vast. The blacksmith would gain a strange, formidable aura about him, with the added perk that it was often impossible to tell what he was thinking, since he never actually looked enraged, unlike the chief. He was much more whimsical, and his flippant behavior made him disturbingly unpredictable.
Gobber straightened his back slowly, he breathed in, exhaled, then stepped back towards the worktable to better observe the axe under the window's light. He did not reply, so Astrid waited.
The blacksmith did not look at her when he finally chose to speak. "So, you've finally decided to ask. What kept ya waitin' so long?"
"I…" Astrid hesitated. She had not expected that question. She had come as soon as possible. "You were in a prison cell," she observed, trying not to sound apologetic. Why would she even feel guilty about that? She had no obligation towards him.
"Aye, aye. And yet, I hear the mighty Astrid can sneak into the prison cells as easy as her own outhouse. Can't she?" There was an unexpected and unnerving hint of resentment in his voice. Had he expected her to go find him?
Astrid did not respond. She was not going to openly admit she had broken into the caves to talk to Hiccup, when the boy had been held prisoner, since she had not actually been caught. Bucket had not seen her, only Fishlegs had, and the husky boy was too cowardly to make an issue of it. Besides, Fishlegs had followed her inside too, so he had broken in just as much as she had.
"Was it because ya didn't want to fool Bucket a second time?" Gobber continued. "Or maybe because Astrid Hofferson can't risk being seen talking with a traitor?"
Gobber was not happy with her, that was now quite clear. The question she had asked had managed to offend him. Part of her was sorry. Yet, Astrid felt suddenly annoyed herself. She wasn't the one who had broken Berk's laws. She wasn't the traitor among them. She did not deserve to be talked to like that.
On the other hand, she could not really think of Gobber as a traitor. The man had lost an arm and a leg fighting the dragons, he had killed almost as many beasts as Stoick the Vast, and he had gone to (and returned from) more nest-hunts than most Vikings. These facts made Astrid's already muddled opinion of the blacksmith even more confused, which seemed to be almost the theme in her life of late.
"I just want to know why you defended him. He was wrong, right? You must agree."
"Oh I must, must I?"
"Well... yes! He has to be wrong. Are you saying he was right? That we shouldn't kill dragons?! That's insane!" She refused to believe Gobber agreed with Hiccup. It just could not be true.
Gobber sighed away some of his temper. "No. I'm just sayin', we're not all the same. Some people are born different. Ya can't will them to conform to what you think is right. Hiccup found what he needed in that Night Fury. We had no right to take it away from him. Besides, the dragon was somehow tame with the boy, Odin only knows how. It would have been stupid to just… kill it."
To say Astrid felt unsatisfied with the answer would have been an understatement. She actually dared to groan at her former teacher. "But Gobber! He befriended a dragon! There are laws! I mean, you can't possibly-"
Her rant was halted abruptly by the startling clatter of her axe being tossed on the counter closest to her. Gobber limped back to the anvil, resuming his previous errand.
"Yer axe ain't broken yet," the man cut in. "I have more urgent work." His voice was the epitome of indifference.
The coldness in those words sent a chill through Astrid's spine. She wanted to protest, yet all the fight within her was suddenly gone.
Astrid would never admit to being dismayed by the man's tone, but she was. She would never admit that her legs were shaking as she picked up her axe, but they were. She would never admit to leaving the forge in stunned silence, without objection, but, after a short, uncomfortable while, she finally did.
Astrid spent the following afternoon in the forest of Raven Point, close to the cove where she had found Hiccup and the Night Fury. She did not return to that place though. While beautiful, she did not wish to see it again. Instead, Astrid took the path to the western cliffs, towards the young but sturdy oak, which she had named 'the Hiccup-tree', and which she had chosen as the habitual target of her many frustrations.
The trunk had been plenty carved by her axe in the last couple of months, and, today, an unusual amount of sap seemed to be bleeding out of the largest wound. Astrid ignored it. She just threw her weapon at the same spot, harder than ever. Her throws were not as precise as they could have been, and sometimes she'd hit a branch, or she'd miss the tree entirely, but she did not care. This did not count as training. This was only a childish attempt to let her anger and doubt disappear for a while. It did not work as well as Astrid wished, but it was all she could do.
Charge. Shout. Throw. Retrieve the axe. Walk back. Repeat.
Again, and again, and again, from noon till dusk, until the pain of her back and muscles could provide a distraction of its own, which would hopefully drive most thoughts away as she attempted to sleep, later that night.
While the activity allowed Astrid to find some relief from her troubles, her axe did not appreciate being continuously thrown against a solid trunk quite as much. Before sundown, Astrid's already wobbling axe-blade finally unhinged itself from the handle. Astrid had been expecting it to happen sooner or later. In fact, she had been trying to make it happen, whilst also trying to fool herself into believing that it was merely fate. Alas, lying to herself was not easy.
The next morning, Astrid returned to Gobber's forge. She was not really afraid, though the previous day had been the first time the blacksmith had been less than friendly towards her. Part of her wished she did not have to face him again so soon, but, after breaking her own weapon, she had purposefully left herself with no other choice.
She had to talk to him again. He was the only one who seemed to understand the chief's son. That's why, if some answers truly existed regarding Hiccup's motivations, Gobber was probably the only person on Berk who had them. If Astrid ever wished to find out more about the exiled heir, then the blacksmith was the only Viking she could ask. It would have been better not to get on his bad side, and, so far, she knew she had done a terrible job of it.
When Astrid entered the forge, she found Gobber working alone, just as she had hoped. He looked more rested than the previous day. A good sign. Astrid waited for him to notice her, hoping not to disturb him. When he saw her, his eyes fell immediately on the broken axe, which she was cradling in her arms, like a mother would a sick newborn. Truth be told, Astrid did feel bad about mistreating her weapon. It was not proper warrior behavior; she knew.
The blacksmith sighed and abandoned his current work. He took the two parts of the axe from her hands, and looked sadly at the pieces.
"'tis my fault, I s'pose," he said. His voice was gentle, perhaps even more than usual. Certainly more than the previous day. "I'll work on it right away, since ya came yerself."
"Thank you. Can I wait here?" Astrid asked, encouraged by the man's tone.
"Sure… if ya don't mind keeping company to a traitor, who am I to complain? 'tis not like I've got other people to talk to." Gobber pointed with his prosthetic hammer-attachment towards the damaged weapons on the counters. "Most leave their work here at night, so they don't have to speak to me. They'll have to, though… if they want their stuff back." He guffawed mischievously.
Astrid sat atop one of the wooden worktops, displacing a few bent blades and dull knives. She stayed there silently for a while, unsure of how to start a conversation with the emaciated man. She had to hold back the impulse to offer some help as he worked, for she did not want to insult him again. Besides, she did not know the first thing about weapon-smithing. She could barely sharpen a blade.
"Did you hear Hiccup was seen on Meathead Island?" She began, hoping Gobber would be stimulated by the topic.
"Aye, that was months ago, the day after he left," Gobber said. "I actually hear Spitelout sent word that he crossed Hiccup on Balheim, but he managed to escape," he added with barefaced satisfaction.
"Balheim?" Astrid nearly shouted. She had heard that name before. That island did not belong to the Northern Alliance. Had Hiccup gone that far south?
"Oh… I wasn't supposed to say that, was I?" Gobber admitted, chuckling. "Shhhh!" He hushed, putting one finger on his lips. "Only the council knows about it for now. It's still a secret," he whispered naughtily.
"Then how do you know about it?" Astrid asked. She had started whispering too, such was her surprise. So far, news of the exiled heir had been scanty, to say the least of it.
"Oh I 'ave me ways…" the man sniggered. "Just don't tell anyone, yes? Two months with cold stone for a bed have been quite enough."
Astrid barely heard the man's plea, she was too astonished by the news. She had so many questions. "And… he escaped? An ambush? By Spitelout?! How? When?"
"Twasn't really an ambush I s'pose… I don't know the details, lass. But it appears our little 'hiccup' is craftier than Spitelout thought. He's always been craftier than people gave 'im credit for."
Astrid hummed her half-hearted agreement. "He was… uhh… yes. Crafty."
Gobber nodded. "Should 'ave seen the contraptions the lad devised. True, they not always worked, but they're still beyond anything I've ever seen."
Astrid was done pretending. She had not come again to hear the little traitor be praised. While part of her wanted to know more about Hiccup, praise was definitely not it. Besides, the more pressing reason she had come a second time was to settle things with the blacksmith.
"I know you blame me, Gobber, for what happened to him… and, I guess, to you as well," she confessed. "But what should I have done? You taught us-"
"Blame ya?" Gobber interjected, pausing his work. "I don't blame ya, lass. And I'm sorry 'bout yesterday. I was grumpy from seein' all the work our stupid chief left for me, I didn't mean to kick ya out like that. I should actually be thanking ya."
"Thanking me?" She frowned. "For what?"
"For letting me say goodbye to my apprentice. If it weren't for you, he'd 'ave left without a word. I tell ya, he's as thoughtless as 'is father." He shook his head accusingly, but then sighed. "At least I managed to get meself a goodbye hug. Paying for it with two months in a shitty cell was kind of a bargain, considering I may never see the little rascal again. So, no," he added sadly, "I don't blame ya."
Astrid was caught off-guard. She had never expected to be let off the hook by this sort of abstruse reasoning. In hindsight, however, she probably should have, considering she was talking to Gobber the Belch.
She suddenly wondered why people seemed to be so forgiving towards her lately. Had it always been like that? It made her suspicious. Perhaps Gobber was indeed telling the truth. Somehow, it was easier to accept this sort of logic from him, but the others… What if they were lying? What if they actually despised her, and they were only being polite because of who she was? Vignir, Stoick, Ruffnut… what about her own mother?
No, she was just being paranoid. Vikings were honest and straightforward. They were supposed to be at any rate. Yet, she could feel the seed of doubt already lurking in her mind.
At least Gobber had no reason to lie to her, given the situation he was in. In fact, Astrid was beginning to feel an unexpected sense of camaraderie with the blacksmith. He had likely become the most mistrusted man on Berk, and, after Astrid's grave blunder in the last raid, she couldn't help feeling some sort of connection with him.
Besides, Astrid had always respected bravery, and it took a special kind of bravery to do what the man had done. It was a kind of bravery Astrid knew she lacked, but… was that truly a bad thing? Being brave enough to break the rules and laws of the village was not good. Was it?
"You think Hiccup is right? That there was nothing wrong with what he did?" She approached the subject much more calmly than the previous day, hoping not to spark Gobber's anger again.
"Hiccup is… well, he is Hiccup," the blacksmith replied. "'Tis kind of hard to see wrong or right the same as us, when ya're so different. But, lass, wouldn't it be a shame to just ignore those who are different, not to mention having them banished or killed?"
Once again, the answer did not satisfy Astrid in the least. It sounded like the same drivel her mother would often come up with. Astrid liked clear, straight answers, and they all seemed to have disappeared from the world. Certainty over anything had suddenly become a nostalgic childhood memory.
Was that what it meant to grow up? It couldn't be. She seemed so alone in her struggle over answers. All her peers, Snotlout, Ruff and Tuff, and even Fishlegs, they were all turning fourteen this year, but they still seemed as eager and confident as ever.
Astrid decided to abandon that topic entirely, and postpone it for another day. She did not like this conversation. Maybe she had to make up her own mind, however long it took. She resumed observing Gobber's work in silence.
Astrid could not help staring at the blacksmith as he hammered the axe-blade upon the new wooden handle, his diminished strength making the task appear harder than it should have been for the experienced man. Perhaps she had to help out. It was her axe after all.
"Oh don't ya look at me like that," Gobber groaned nonchalantly. "I've looked far worse than this, believe me. A barrel of ale and a roasted pig, and, by next Laugardagr, I'll be good as new. Except for the usual missing… parts," he added, waving around his hammer-prosthetic.
"I didn't mean to…" Astrid murmured. "Sorry."
"Don't be," Gobber said with a quick smile. "Kindness only offends the arrogant and the insecure. Ya may be Viking, and a Hofferson at that, but ya shouldn't fear to be kind sometimes, 'specially with yerself."
Gobber offered Astrid a strange, tender look. It took her quite a while to realize what the man was saying.
He knows about what I did to Alvin.
He must have also known about her admission of guilt regarding the maimed young boy, who was currently fighting for his life in Gothi's hut.
How is it that he knows everything, even after spending two months in a cell?
"I'm sorry to hear about what happened the other day," Gobber finally said.
"It's my fault Alvin's hurt," Astrid replied hurriedly, in her best, level voice, before the man could try to console her. She did not want consolation. She did not deserve it.
"Ya know that's not true, lass."
Astrid sucked in a nervous breath, trying to keep her composure. "Yes it is, and I don't care what you say. I don't think Vignir really believed it either when he spoke to me."
"Vignir couldn't blame ya even if he wanted to. He knows the fault is mostly his. He knew their house was ready to fall any day now. Even a Terror could have brought it down. Two years he neglected the repairs. Twice the house was on fire. He'd been warned about it too. The chief is furious with 'im, but he can't make much of a fuss, if the man is to mourn a son."
"Even so, it's my fault," Astrid insisted, ignoring the blacksmith's reasoning. She knew there was truth in his words, she had seen the whole house crumble like dry sand, but the guilt she still felt in her stomach made all logic irrelevant.
"Astrid, things like that happen every summer," Gobber said, changing the prosthetic attachment on his stump. "We're Vikings on this island, it's an occupational hazard for all who live here. Our duty is to fight, which ya did, and to care for the safety of those who can't, which Vignir did not."
"Maybe, but… if I had just managed to-"
"Ya can't think like that."
"I have to!" Astrid retorted. If she felt so guilty, then it must have meant she was! Why did people seem unwilling to understand this? She was no longer a child; they did not need to coddle or protect her. "I'm a warrior now!"
"Aye, aye…" Gobber replied, smiling a fond smile, "and stubborn like a Haddock. But at least ya're prettier, right?"
Astrid did not appreciate the mockery. Those were the same words her family used to tell her as a child, whenever she refused to agree over something. The fact that Gobber knew about it made her feel annoyance and surprise in equal measure. The man knew her better than she had previously thought. Perhaps he had actually cared about her as a trainee, even if only a fraction of how he cared about Hiccup. It was a heartwarming thought, but Astrid tried to suppress it. She remained silent.
Gobber let out a sonorous sigh. "Trust me. It's no use to blame yerself."
"You all seemed ready to blame Hiccup whenever he messed up," Astrid murmured, "and I blamed him too, so why shouldn't I blame myself?"
Even though it looked like she was pouting, she thought she had brought up a great point. Astrid had inadvertently turned this conversation into some contest of wits. It was now a debate, and she just had to win. She almost forgot about seeking for answers.
"Look at ya now," Gobber said teasingly, "defending the village 'hiccup'."
Astrid scowled at that. "I'm not defending anyone! If anything, I'm blaming everyone, myself included."
Gobber chuckled, shaking his head. "People as dutiful as you have no business being so smart, ya know that?"
Astrid offered no reply.
"Well, since you aren't letting this go, for starters, Hiccup didn't mess up just once, and, truth be told, the chief wanted 'im to stay inside mostly to keep 'im from harm's way. I don't think Stoick much cared about the lad's actual disasters. At least... most of the time. He just wanted Hiccup to be safe. 'Guess things haven't turned out the way he wanted, eh?" The man tried to laugh at his own rhetorical question, but a despondent hum came out instead.
"Don't beat yerself Astrid," Gobber continued, "someday the time comes for all of us to regret something we did. It's bad, I know. But if ya care for some of yer former teacher's advice, let me suggest ya to learn from this. Learn who ya want to be. So, next time, ya can try to make mistakes that ya won't regret."
"But I don't want to make any mistakes! Mistakes are not acceptable!"
"Are they now?" Gobber asked disapprovingly. "And what should one do after one makes a mistake, eh? Ya don't see me cry all day about my mistakes, and, believe me, I've made my share. Go ahead," he grunted, raising his prosthetic, "tell my missing hand it's not acceptable. Should I never get up in the mornings?"
Astrid felt her heart skip in her chest. Gobber's challenging voice was not easy to confront in an argument. Of course, she knew the man meant no harm, but her heart was not listening. There was just something about arguing with Gobber that made her feel vulnerable, although she could not say what.
Perhaps she was not used to it. After all, her father had taught her that it was proper for kids to obey, rather than question the more experienced members of the tribe, and Gobber was certainly one of them, which was probably why Astrid had never argued with her former teacher. Just a few months before, it would have been unthinkable. Despite her unease, however, Astrid held her head high, complimenting herself for her strength of will. As she did so, a sudden consideration occurred to her.
Didn't Hiccup argue constantly with Gobber? If the little wimp wasn't afraid to talk back to Gobber's, or even Stoick's shouts, then… then...
Was she really about to think that Hiccup had more guts than her? Astrid stopped herself, hastily putting together a counter-argument.
"Alright," she said, "but still… when you put others in danger, it's diffe-"
The blacksmith cut her off. "Ya telling me about puttin' others in danger? Ya realize I've been dragon-training kids since before ya could walk, right? I'm sure ya'd already heard the rumors when ya joined in the arena. I'll tell ya this: they're no rumors. There have been accidents. Sometimes bad ones. I don't like talking about it. Those things are part of the job. I'm still not proud that those things happened. But look at me." He left his work on the anvil as he spoke, and walked closer to her so she could look at his face. Once again, he did not look angry, but the tone of his voice weighed heavily in Astrid's stomach.
"I never stopped teaching," he continued. "I fought it through, and trained lads and lasses again and again, and better every time because of what happened."
"I've felt how ya feel," Gobber said after a pause, gently raising Astrid's chin in his good hand. His voice was lower now, and it brimmed with some old, forgotten sorrow. "But a Viking keeps going, 'cause it's the right thing to do, for the good of the village." He patted her shoulder-guard twice, then walked back to the anvil, resuming his repairs on the axe.
Astrid remained speechless, dangling her legs as she sat on the crammed work-table. She listened silently at the tinkering sounds of the smithy. She did not mean to stay silent, but the words had turned to excess saliva in her mouth. She swallowed hard, once, twice.
At first, she considered if she had lost the argument. Had she been beat? Her face was clearly spelling defeat, but Gobber's confession was making her forget to feel ashamed about it. She knew he was telling the truth. Two kids were said to have died in the arena under Gobber's watch. It had happened many years before. No one liked to speak about it, but Astrid had already heard of this rumor.
At that moment, Astrid wished nothing more than to accept the man's advice, and head back home to sleep. She decided she respected Gobber, despite what he had done to help Hiccup escape, so she did value his insight. Yet, she still could not see how to forgive herself, like the man was suggesting. Should she really just move on? Would the gods accept it? Could she even do it? What if Alvin did not survive his amputations?
The tightness in her throat prevented her from coming up with a good response to the blacksmith, who spoke again as he worked.
"Anyway," he said, "unlike what happened to me, no one will blame ya for Alvin. The chief knows about the state of Brunson's house. Everyone knows Stoick doesn't like it when people hold off on repairs. Vignir knows it too. He knows that his own negligence is to blame, that's the only reason Stoick hasn't beaten 'im bloody already. He told me this 'imself."
Astrid realized something for the first time during their conversation. "You… spoke with the chief?" She muttered, betraying her curiosity. She had not expected Gobber to willingly talk to the chief again, given the beating he had received from him, nor had Astrid thought that the chief would accept talking to the blacksmith so soon after his release. Her astonishment showed on her face plain as day. Gobber seemed amused by it. He chuckled.
"Aye. He can't afford to stay mad at me for long," Gobber said, looking suddenly much healthier as he smirked. "Besides, 'tis not like he's got many friends left," he added.
"But... he is the chief."
"So? Ya think he can go on 'chiefing' without support? He might need to start watching his back soon," Gobber whispered. They might have been alone in the forge, but he looked cautious as he spoke.
Astrid was aghast by the implication. "But- but he's the best chief Berk has ever seen! Everyone says so."
"He's lucky to have such loyal supporters as yerself. If he knew what was proper, he'd be thanking you."
"He doesn't need to thank loyalty," Astrid rejoined. "He is the chief!"
"Aye, but might be that some don't like it anymore."
"Like who?"
Gobber shrugged. "Oh… what's a poor blacksmith to know of such things, eh?"
"Gobber…?" Astrid insisted. She saw herself crossing her arms sternly. She felt strangely at ease talking to him now. Had something changed?
"Hmm…" The man hummed thoughtfully. "I don't know… an Arvidson perhaps, or a Fjalarson? Or maybe a Jorgenson?"
Astrid straightened her back in surprise. "Spitelout? But if he's not even here."
"He'll come back before long. Ya'll see. And he'll come back empty-handed."
"How could you possibly know that? He might still catch Hiccup before the ice sets in." She claimed, hopefully. Part of her wanted to finally have something other than a tree to target with her axe, and if Hiccup was brought back, she'd make sure he knew the depths of her current misery. He did deserve at least a good beating for what he had caused within her, even if Gobber disapproved. To think she had even apologised to him. She regretted it now.
"Aye, he might catch him," Gobber agreed. "Spitelout is a great sailor, and an even better hunter. But he'll still return empty handed to me."
"What does that even mean?" She asked with a frown.
The blacksmith made a noncommittal sound, shrugging once more. "'Tis hard to explain. Hope I'm wrong though," he said casually. "But ya don't have to worry about such things, lass. If Stoick isn't seein' straight, that's his problem, not yers."
Astrid could hardly understand what she was hearing, let alone believe it. Had Gobber gone insane in that prison? If he had, he did not look it. Astrid had lost much of her faith in herself lately, she could not afford to lose her faith in the chief too. In her eyes, Stoick looked as wise and strong as ever. In fact, he was currently preparing one of the largest nest-hunts ever attempted, the third one in the same year. It was planned just before summer's end.
She would have gone too, but no warrior was allowed to join those dangerous expeditions before their seventeenth winter. It was partly a precaution. Berk could not afford to endanger the younger, more inexperienced warriors; not before they had produced at least one child of their own. Of course, it was not just a matter of numbers, but also a rule of honor. Older warriors had the right to reach Valhalla first. On Berk, the older a person was, the more eager they were to fight. True Vikings were not supposed to die of old age.
At the age of fourteen, however, Astrid was still too young to see the truth, to see that this nest-hunt was merely an act of vengeance and desperation, from a man whose rule was slowly beginning to crumble under his feet. A man, Stoick, who was afraid to never see his son again, and who knew not what else to do.
The following afternoon, after seeing to her chores, Astrid was offered to join in the usual game of tug of war, which most teens liked to play on the grassy field by the arena's grounds, using old sailors' ropes. It was a nice day, but Astrid hesitated at first. She knew, however, that her foul mood was not going to improve by itself, so she finally decided to accept.
This time, it was boys against girls, five against five. Despite being teamed up against Snotlout and his boys-only gang, Astrid's team won the game, and it was in no small part thanks to her own strength and skill. The trick was in the leg-muscles, not the arms. They would have lost if Fishlegs had been playing of course, but the large boy claimed he did not enjoy confrontational activities. It was strange behavior for a Viking. Even Hiccup had tried to play a few times, though his presence was hardly desirable, since all he could do was get in the way, considering how clumsy he was.
Astrid did not gloat at her victory, unlike most of her teammates, but she could not deny feeling a certain satisfaction. For an instant, she caught herself smiling. Alas, her joy was short-lived, as the news of Alvin's death suddenly reached her ears.
She had been expecting it, and yet, she was not ready. When she heard two of the younger boys on the sidelines mention the words 'Alvin didn't make it', Astrid bit her tongue so hard she tasted blood. Her eyes burned.
She could not afford to be seen tearing up by the other teens, so, before someone could ask what was wrong, Astrid ran for the woods of Raven Point, without looking back. Trees did not ask questions.
As she ran, Astrid felt a mixture of emotions emerge inside her gut. The worst one of all, of course, was fear, the fear of being cast out. It was an irrational fear, she knew, but it was terrible nonetheless, for it was poignantly tied to the notion that her actions had led to a kid's death. Although she was aware she had not actually killed anyone, why did it still feel as if she had? Should she be worried?
Probably not, yet apprehension had invaded her mind, like a snake inside her home. Now that Alvin was dead, part of her thought the boy's grieving family might actually decide to blame her publicly. Everyone was going to realize she was responsible for his death. Worst of all, everyone was going to despise her for it. Astrid had tried to avoid thinking about this possibility in the previous days, but the notion was now inescapably loud inside her head.
Despite her trembling knees, she kept rushing ahead, hoping to outrun her spiraling thoughts. It was no use. She felt as if she had fallen from an impossibly tall cliff, barely alive, scrambling for purchase on the sharp wave-beaten rocks, at the mercy of a harsh storm's sea, and her family, and Berk, and every soul in the nine worlds of Yggdrasil, they all stood above that cliff, looking down on her, judging, pushing her underwater with heavy stares of stone.
Her feet hurt, her back hurt, and even her bitten tongue throbbed with pain, but Astrid kept running to escape that dreadful image.
Finally, she reached the wicked Hiccup-tree. It still stood, as always, waiting, strong and proud, despite being marred by the blades of her axe.
Astrid unbuckled her newly-repaired weapon, but she no longer had the strength to throw it. Her arms were tired, so she hacked weakly at the trunk, using the axe like a mere chisel, for that's what the weapon had become in her hands.
As she scraped off flakes of bark and wood, Astrid tried to calm herself by recalling Gobber's words: 'a Viking keeps going, 'cause it's the right thing to do,' he had said.
So she shouted "I'm still a Viking damnit!", attempting to lodge her blade deeper into the tree, using her guilt as fuel.
As she said those words, however, in this most inappropriate of moments, Astrid was also joined by a new guilt, the guilt for playing a part in Hiccup's exile. After all, she was also responsible for the heir's banishment. The boy had already been planning to leave of course, but if it hadn't been for her, he might have returned by now. How was he dealing with being an outcast? Could the spoiled little runt even hunt? Or cook? What if the Night Fury ended up eating him?
Such questions began to plague her as well. If Hiccup died in exile, then she would be partly responsible for his death too.
It was all too much. Her knees finally gave out. Astrid fell on her legs, slumping down awkwardly by the roots of the oak, her axe still grazing and scratching tiredly at the bark of the sturdy trunk.
"I'm still a Viking... I'm still a Viking..." Astrid kept whispering the words with her eyes closed, as if in prayer. She did then pray to Freya. She prayed for wisdom, and for some resolve. She prayed for the strength to make a firm choice: Would she feel sorry for Hiccup, and keep hating herself for Alvin? Or would she redeem herself for Alvin's death, and hate Hiccup for making her doubt her Viking instincts?
Astrid was not naïve, she understood her mind better than most teens her age, which only made it worse, because she realized she could not truly hate Hiccup for causing all this turmoil within her. She despised what he had done, yet, for some reason, she had a hard time hating him as a person, and she just hated herself all the more for it.
On the other hand, it seemed rather logical to think that Hiccup shared some responsibility for Alvin's death. Had it not been for Hiccup, she would not have hesitated during the last raid, and Alvin would have still been alive. Perhaps it was only fair to blame him.
"That's what happens when you don't FOLLOW; THE DAMN; VIKING; WAY!" Astrid screamed, hacking at the oak with each word, using the last remnants of her strength whilst laying half-slumped on the ground. She hoped Hiccup would somehow hear her, wherever he was, or that he could maybe feel a bit of her blade upon his skin.
In the end, what Astrid felt today for her role in the heir's exile could not easily compare to the guilt she felt for the Brunson boy. And yet, fighting down one guilt would still bring up the other. It was like trying to keep warm under a very short blanket. She could cover her chest, but her feet would be exposed to the cold.
She could avenge Alvin, and kill dragons like a proper Viking, but Hiccup's words would keep her up at night. Or she could contemplate the outcast's suggestion, but hate herself for being responsible for a child's death.
These were the only two choices she could see before her.
That evening, the evening when Alvin's funeral-pyre burned, Astrid decided she was going to be a real Viking.
At least for one more raid. Just one more raid.
Despite Vignir's absolving words, Stoick's reassuring nod, and Gobber's comforting wisdom, she still could not rid herself of the terrible weight of her responsibility. She had to fight, and avenge the little boy. It was the only thing she could do to suppress the crippling shame that she felt. As a proud Viking of the Hooligan tribe, Astrid could not afford to live with the knowledge that the only blood upon her hands was human blood.
The next time a raid occurred, the next time she fought, she would have to kill a dragon, at least one. Maybe it would be only one, just to redeem herself in the eyes of the gods, and then…
Then… we'll see.
Perhaps she would have to live with the constant burden of not knowing what the right answer was.
But until then… until then, I'll be a Viking.
That night, the night when Alvin's ashes were left to cool, Astrid fell asleep in her bed, gritting her teeth with newfound conviction. Unfortunately, as if by the cruel will of some god, during her sleep, Astrid dreamt of him.
She dreamt of his green eyes, his strange, nasal, unbroken voice. His lips, his slightly crooked teeth. She could see him on the back of the winged beast, like a hero from a tale, like a child-god, a deviant youth from some Asgardian hall.
It was raining harshly, just like that day. Even in her dream, she stood, awed by the extraordinary vision of the boy on dragon-back, his wet, auburn hair sticking to his forehead. Anger and fear, outrage and defiance marked his features. He was rather handsome like that, she thought. He, and even the black-scaled dragon, growling viciously beneath him, held an odd, otherworldly charm.
Astrid suddenly realized who the subject of her dream was. She was dreaming of Hiccup, the little runt responsible for every bad thing that had happened to her since spring. Somehow, in her dream, she had forgotten all about the spite she felt towards the boy. As soon as she realized this, she woke up.
"Astrid?" Aslaug's sleepy voice spoke in the darkness of their house.
"Just a dream, mom."
"Ya're alright?"
"Yes, I'm fine," Astrid replied, "it's nothing."
Nothing, she thought. Nothing, she repeated in her mind, sinking her nails in the wool of her covers. No, not nothing. No one.
Astrid tried to force herself back to sleep, as she was going to try for many nights to come. Alas, sleep was unattainable, with too short a blanket.
