AN: Part 2 of 4. Warning: VIOLENCE AND BLOOD AHOY.

She was twenty-four. There was blood on her face; the cloying, metallic, familiar scent of it turned her stomach with each inhale. It wasn't her blood. Astrid wondered if there was some part of her – some savage part – that had been released in the battle that night. She wasn't Astrid Haddock of Berk anymore. She was some wild creature that cared only for her own survival and the survival of her unborn child. They'd been wrong to underestimate her. They'd been wrong to think her nothing more than a woman. They'd been wrong to think they had a right to her. No man had any rights over her.

Somewhere, deep in her civilized brain, the part of her mind that had been temporarily forgotten, a voice reminded her that there was one man. Hiccup. But he wasn't there. Astrid was alone here. She'd been alone when she was taken. Stormfly, that voice screamed in her mind – but she couldn't think about that right now. Stormfly wasn't here either.

She'd been alone when the guards had come for her earlier, alone in a cell of damp stone that did nothing to ease the chill of winter in the archipelago. It had been Astrid against two hulking soldiers. She'd been perceived as easy prey, but it was they who were the easy prey. Taking the dirk from the first guard had been simple. All it had taken was a sharp jab to his manhood and quick fingers on his belt. Doubled over and cursing, the pulse point at his throat had been exposed. As the blade split his flesh, Astrid had a fleeting glimpse in her mind's eye – cutting into a plum on a warm summer's eve, juice spilling from the fruit. Blood spurted from the wound when she pulled the blade out, the handle slick in her fingers. It took no effort at all for her to turn and let the dagger fly at the other, startled guard. Astrid had always been the best and when the man sunk to the ground with the bloodied handle protruding from his eye, she felt a rush of pride. She was still the best.

But of course they hadn't come alone and in the end, brawling and fighting as she had, it took eight men to hold her down. She'd only subdued when one of them managed to land a kick in her midsection. Astrid had curled in around herself protectively, tucking her knees and elbows in, ready to weather more violence while protecting that precious, precious life within. Surprisingly, the men had no appetite for further violence. Or perhaps their orders had been only to bind her and nothing more. Perhaps they'd already overstepped their orders, Astrid had mused as they exchanged heavy glances amongst each other.

Astrid was in irons. Her feet and wrists were shackled, the cold iron heavy against her skin. It was one of the only times that she'd cursed the peacetime they'd enjoyed on Berk. Her skin was soft now, unused to violence and hardship. The delicate skin of her wrists chafed in the manacles, rubbed raw in some places, she surmised from the slow trickle of blood she could feel on her skin. Once she was bound, Astrid saw no sense in fighting any further. Instead she sought to memorize the hallways she was being taken through. The air in the cell had been damp and chill and through the closed window, she could hear the rush of the sea; the hallways, though still stone, were warmer and lit with the orange glow of several burning torches. This was not a Viking longhouse. These men were not Vikings.

Drago's men.

Drago was dead. Of that, Astrid was certain. His death hadn't been without its costs and Berk had paid dearly that night. Astrid wished that she knew with certainty how dearly. Hiccup, Hiccup, Hiccup. The last thing she saw that night had been Hiccup and Toothless separated, both plummeting toward the sea with little chance of recovering. She closed her eyes and willed the image away. He's alive, she promised herself. It was one of the only things that kept her going. That and Hic's green eyes and wide smile. That and the tentative movement she could feel in her womb at times.

For now, she had to be here.

And here was a warm, pleasantly furnished room lined with bookshelves and plush furs. Two guards had dragged her into the room and dropped her into an unyielding wood chair, each resting a weighty hand on her shoulders to keep her seated. Across from the chair was a broad writing desk and seated in a chair that had all the appearances of being considerably more comfortable than hers was a tall, thin man. His head was bent and he was writing with quiet efficiency. Astrid narrowed her eyes as she watched him – oiled black hair, a pencil thin moustache, a gaunt face with cheekbones protruding. He was older than her, considerably so. Maybe the age of her parents if they'd lived. He hadn't looked up, this thin man, not when the guards had entered the room with her, not when they'd forced her into the chair, chains rattling, and certainly not now.

Her breaths grew louder as she watched him, eyes narrowed. She wanted to scream at him, to shake her chains, to lunge toward his face. He was one of Drago's lieutenants. Astrid's eyes dropped to the desk, searching for something, anything that she could use as a weapon. The dirks on the belts of the guards would be difficult to get her hands on now, especially considering the wary glances they kept giving her. Her eyes fixed on the pencil in the man's hand and she envisioned herself climbing over the desk and jamming it into his eye or his throat. It would be a stupid plan with four guards in the room and four more outside the door. She'd be dead before she even had a chance to enjoy her victory.

The man's gaze flicked up to her for a mere second and then dropped back down to his page, on which he was still writing. His lack of regard fueled the fire burning in her belly.

"Oh, do take your time. I haven't got anywhere to be," she spat derisively.

The man's expression and actions didn't change – he continued writing, but his lip twitched in the tiniest of motions. The beginnings of a smile, Astrid might have said, if this man were a smiling man. She imagined he didn't get much practice at that particular expression.

The guards shuffled nervously beside her. It was the first indication Astrid had that perhaps this wasn't a man to be trifled with, which was the first indication that she would seek out a reaction from him.

"What's it like to have your master dead?" she said, her voice low and deadly.

Without looking up and despite the discord her words had stirred in the guards, the man replied: "I wouldn't know. Perhaps you can tell me."

"What in Hel is that supposed to mean?" Astrid spat, struggling against the guards' hands.

Here the man smiled and set down his pencil, folding his hands over the parchment in front of him. His eyes were black as pitch and his smile was thin and cutting. He didn't answer Astrid and she felt two emotions rising up in her chest. The first was an overbearing rage – she longed to tear out his throat with her teeth – and the second was the dull ache of despair. Hiccup, Hiccup, Hiccup.

"Rumour in the archipelago is that the great Dragon Master is dead."

"Rumour mongers are whores and liars."

The man laughed, a fleeting, wheezing sound. "Right you are, my dearest."

"I'm not your anything."

"Not yet," he agreed.

He stood and Astrid tilted her chin defiantly, refusing to lower her eyes from his. He walked around his desk and Astrid sized him up. He was thinner than Hiccup, if that was even possible. If she could get him alone, she could easily overcome him. Or perhaps not – she wouldn't be caught making the same mistakes the guards had made with her. She'd bide her time until the right moment. The man stood with his back to her and looked out the window. Astrid wondered if they were done here, if perhaps she should incite some response from him again.

His voice cut across the mostly silent room, weaving through the crackling of firewood in the hearth.

"Have you ever tasted Deadly Nadder meat?"

Astrid snarled, forcing her body off the chair with all the strength she had. The guards had the considerable advantage of overhead force and she only managed to rise mere inches from the seat before thick fingers tightened around her shoulders with bruising strength.

"I'll slit your throat," she growled.

Another wheezing huff of amusement. "I'm sure you will, dearest."

"Stop calling me that."

He turned slowly. "You don't like it?"

The man rolled his neck and took slow, even steps toward her. He ran his fingers lightly over her hands and Astrid curled them into fists, flinching away from his touch. Squatting before her, he looked up into her face, head tilted and eyes studying.

"I can see what he saw in you."

Sees, Astrid corrected. Hiccup was not dead.

"Ah," he continued, a snake-like grin slipping onto his face, "I see you still have hope. It is a rare few who survive a fall from that height. Even rarer those who survive waters that frigid. Your Hiccup was a rare man."

"Is," she hissed through gritted teeth.

"You may not want to admit it, Astrid," he said at length, "But your husband is gone. And I'm afraid, for better or worse, you're mine."

Though her mouth was dry, Astrid managed to gather enough saliva to spit directly in his eye. She'd hoped that he'd hit her. She wanted the violence. Anything was better than talking about Hiccup with this animal.

He did not hit her. He merely used the sleeve of his tunic to wipe his face and stood up, still standing before her. He turned his attention to the guard on her right.

"See that our charming guest has suitable accommodations."

Astrid could only imagine what those accommodations would be – a dungeon even more rank than the one she'd been taken from.

"She's special," he said, smiling at her. His smile didn't reach his eyes, cold, black holes into an even colder soul.

"Where are my clothes?" Astrid demanded.

She'd been knocked unconscious when they'd taken her and she'd been in her flight suit. Now she had little more than a blood-stained shift.

"That leather contraption? I'm afraid it's been confiscated, dearest Astrid."

"Call me that one more time and I will slit you from nose to navel and dance in your entrails, you munge-eating—"

"That's quite enough, Mistress Haddock." His eyes were appraising her with a new level of scrutiny. "You are a challenge and I do love a good challenge."

Astrid snorted. "Take me out of these irons, give me an axe and we'll see how much you love the challenge."

The smile that spread across his face was as slippery as a Bloodbane eel. He took a small step toward Astrid and yanked her upright by the chain that connected the manacles on her wrists. Twisting the chain, he pulled her flush to his body so that she was forced to stare at the base of his throat as he spoke. His free hand pressed solidly against the swell of her abdomen.

"You are alive on my mercy, Astrid. You and the child. Test me and one of you will die. I assure you that it will not be you."

With that he loosened his grip on the chain and shoved her backward into the chair, stalking out of the room before she had a chance to react. Her heart pounded like a caged bird in her chest, fluttering and panicking. All the boldness in her melted at the threat on her child's life. This was Hiccup's baby and it could be all she had left of him. She curled her hands into her belly as though that could protect the baby.

Astrid didn't resist when the guards lifted her from the chair and marched her back through the halls. She didn't keep track of the turns and bends; she didn't make note of landmarks. She was no closer to knowing where she was or why she was here. Her captor knew who she was, so perhaps she was being held for ransom. Or perhaps… No, she couldn't – wouldn't- think about that.

The room the guards brought her to was not a cold cell after all. It was a small room with a tiny window covered in snow. A fire burned in a small hearth and clean clothing was neatly piled on a stool by a bed furnished with furs. Astrid frowned.

"What is this?"

"Your room," one of the guards said brusquely.

Quickly, the guards removed her shackles and rushed from the room, locking the door rapidly behind them. Astrid had been too baffled and too worn to fight them anyway. She rubbed at her raw, stinging wrists as she stumbled toward the bed. There was a wash basin by the bed and though she knew she should clean herself; though she knew the shift she was wearing was drenched in blood, she made no move to do so. She sat on the bed, her fingers sinking into soft, yielding furs, and allowed the feeling that she'd been holding at bay since the start of her captivity to grip her heart.

Hiccup. Her heart screamed for him. Hic. What if she never held him again? Stormfly. Had they taken her sweet dragon, too? Was she safe? Berk. Her home – craggy cliffs and damp, unforgiving terrain. Was she going to see it again? Despair would destroy her if she let it. She tucked her feet up onto the bed and laid her head down. It was warmer and softer and more comforting than she wanted it to be. Her tears were free-flowing and silent.

A Viking never cried. A Viking never despaired. A Viking accepted fate, accepted passage to Valhalla when the time came. A Viking went out fighting. Astrid pressed her palms against the swell of her belly and squeezed her eyes shut.

"Hiccup," she whispered, "Please."

The truth was Astrid wasn't even sure if she was a Viking anymore.