She was twenty-five and he was twenty-six. It had been snowing for days, thick swaths of dense, wet flakes that coated all of Berk. The village was at a standstill after the first night, the snow piling up outside of homes and within the pathways. The dragons blatantly refused to leave the warmth of their stables, content to stay close to their fires and sleep, which made travel too cumbersome to even attempt. It wasn't as though the Berkians were unused to heavy snowfall, but this was one of those seemingly unending storms that kept the Vikings locked indoors when they would much rather be out in the world, wreaking havoc.

Astrid, however, was satisfied by the fire, weaving on the loom. She felt a comforting sense of accomplishment for every tunic or dress she completed. It was a mind-numbing task and her speed made her finger ache just enough to remind her that she was alive. Astrid was enjoying the raging blizzard. It kept Hiccup home; it kept the children indoors; it kept them safe. Astrid was content. Happy. Pleased. She pushed a smile onto her face as the thread bit into her hardened fingertips with a little too much force.

Hours passed before Hiccup put down his pencil and closed his notebook. His lips, chapped and rasping against her cheek, shocked her out of her weaving trance.

"Oh!"

Hiccup smiled against her cheek. "Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."

"You didn't, I just…"

"Were weaving. Yeah, I know. I'm going to bed. Do you want to—"

"The kids?"

Hiccup stifled a laugh. "I put them to bed hours ago, As."

"Oh, sorry."

"Don't be," he whispered, hands falling to her waist and lips tracing along her jaw, catching her earlobe, pressing into the sensitive skin of her throat.

Astrid released a strangled moan and Hiccup grinned against her skin again.

"Come to bed, As."

Astrid smiled, her smile stretching out unused muscles, her hand reaching behind her and burying in his hair, once again too long.

"Okay," she murmured, "You've convinced me."

Astrid let him lead her up the stairs and into their room. She reveled in his attentiveness as he pressed kisses into her skin while removing her clothing, untying her hair and looking at her like she was a goddess. She hoped that never changed, that Hiccup never lost his wonder in her. He made love to her like she was something special, something precious and Astrid fell asleep clutching his head to her chest and listening to his even breathing, hoping that the storm outside raged on.

oOoOoOo

Hiccup's pacing - the uneven cant of his steps - broke Astrid from her weaving the next day. She narrowed her eyes at him, watching the concentrated expression on his face, the tiny downturn of his lips, the irritated tightening of his eyes.

"Something on your mind?" she asked dryly.

Hiccup blinked at her and Hic looked up from his drawing, eyes wide. It was as though they'd forgotten she was even there. The feeling came fast and furious, stabbing at her core - irritation, out of nowhere. Astrid tried to swallow the feeling, the instinct to snap at her husband and her child. Her fingers were stinging, so she turned her glare toward them. They were reddening and dry, near to cracking. Astrid frowned, her eyes falling on the pile of tunics and dresses on the floor beside her. How much weaving had she been doing? The feeling in her gut sharpened and she wrenched her fingers away from the loom and into her chest. She glanced up to find Hiccup watching her with a furrowed brow, Hic having lost interest in her had returned to his drawing.

"What?" she snapped, instantly regretting her tone.

Her son's eyes popped up again, glancing from her to his father. Hiccup's eyes widened marginally.

"Nothing," he said, shrugging.

Astrid stood up, wiping her palms on her overskirt and walking with determination to the furs where Solveig sat, playing idly with a stuffed dragon that Hiccup had made for her. She looked up at Astrid with wide blue eyes and Astrid couldn't resist picking her up, hefting her onto her hip and striding around near the window, watching the snow fall.

"As," Hiccup called softly from behind her.

Her eyes were locked on the mesmerizing motion of the falling snow, flake after flake catapulting downward with a speed she couldn't quite process. "Hmm?"

"Are you alright?"

His tone was gentle and calm. It was the same tone he used with her when she had nightmares; the same tone he'd used to coax her home when he'd brought her back to Berk. Internally, she was screaming at him to stop. She was telling him that she wasn't that fragile, that she didn't need protecting. Not like that, not this delicate handling. Astrid spun on her heel, ready to verbalize all those hard thoughts, but the concern on his face killed the words on her tongue. He was only worried about her. She'd given him plenty of reason to be over the last year and a half.

"I'm fine," she mumbled.

Solveig caught hold of a loose strand of her hair and tugged. Hard. Astrid hissed in pain and gently reached up to uncurl the baby's hand from her hair. Before she knew it, Hiccup was there, reaching for Solveig, taking her from Astrid. She didn't like that either. It was something he did frequently and she understood, she did. After Solveig was born, Astrid hadn't really been herself. But she was herself now, wasn't she? She was the person she'd been before. He didn't need to take Solveig from her.

Astrid watched Hiccup cooing at the baby, envious of the bond between father and daughter. A ridiculous, selfish emotion to feel. Jealous and desperate to prove herself an adequate parent, she crossed the room to Hic and forced on a bright smile.

"What are you drawing, Hic?"

Her son looked up at her and frowned, pushing his notebook toward her. The image was a bittersweet one – a woman at a loom, weaving. She knew it was her and that knowledge stung somehow. This was how her son saw her, as a woman who weaved all day long. Astrid spared a quick glance up at Hiccup who was bouncing Solveig gently and watching Astrid with pursed lips, as though he couldn't quite figure out what to do about her, as though she were a wild dragon that could spew fire at any given moment.

"Who's that?" she asked, her voice cracking around her words.

Hic looked up at her with solemn green eyes and blinked. "Mommy."

Astrid smiled at him, reciting words of praise despite the burn she felt in her eyes. As soon as she could, she fled the room, taking the stairs two-by-two and retreating into the bedroom. Even despite Hiccup calling her name; even despite Solveig's piteous wail. She found herself staring at the bundle of blankets at the bottom of the closet. It was, of course, not a bundle of blankets at all, but the axe that Hiccup had made for her, carefully wrapped and hidden from view. Her fingers itched to hold it, to feel the weight of it in her hands, to swing it and catch the blade on something unforgiving.

She'd tried to handle the axe so many times since her return, but something about the violence of it had made it impossible. Even holding it had turned her stomach, reminded her of the blade sinking into flesh, of the screams of the dying on the battlefield. It reminded her of war. Astrid wanted to forget war. She wanted to eliminate it from her mind permanently.

Eventually, the need she felt passed and she made her way downstairs again to find Solveig sleeping against Hiccup's chest as he sat next to Hic and murmured encouragement at the boy. Hiccup looked up when she came down and smiled at her. There was no caution in that smile, no reproach. He had simply accepted that this was how things were done with her now.

A muscle in Astrid's jaw jumped at that thought and she crossed the room to the loom, sitting down in front of it and raising her hands as though she would weave. But her fingers never touched the threads, they just hung in midair, hung in the balance. She had the same feeling that she'd had when she'd held the axe for the first time after so many months. A feeling of wrongness. A feeling of violence. Dropping her hands to her sides, she stood up again and paused, hovering in front of the loom for a beat too long.

"As?"

Astrid's eyes flicked to Hiccup's and she walked away from the loom. "Anyone hungry?"

"Me!" Hic shouted, waking Solveig who settled into disgruntled whining against Hiccup's chest.

Hiccup smiled again, easy and undemanding. "I could eat."

oOoOoOo

The snow stopped on the fifth day. Astrid had known by the haste in the way Hiccup strapped his leg on, speedily and sloppily, buckles jangling.

"You're going to fall," she mumbled into her pillow.

He either hadn't heard her or had ignored her warning and she heard him stumble on the stairs. She'd always be glad that no matter how serious or chiefly or dangerous he'd become, he was still Hiccup at the core.

She opened her eyes to a clear, blue winter sky and waited for the dread to form in her belly. And waited. She sat up and frowned at the bright sky, not because of it but because she didn't feel anything about it. A clear sky meant Hiccup would rush back into the village and get right back to work; that he'd be out there; that Hic would want to play outside; that Solveig would want to join her brother. It meant disruption and risk. It upset the balance of their happy home. At least, that's how these things had felt in the past. That's how she should feel.

As Astrid dressed herself, still digesting the lack of these familiar emotions, her eyes fell on that bundle of blankets again. She didn't think it through, didn't spend any time considering what she was doing before she crouched down and unwrapped the axe. Downstairs she could hear the excited chatter of Hiccup and Hic, and the thumping of the door opening and closing; Solveig stirred in her cradle. Astrid unwrapped the axe and stared at the gleam of the virgin blade. Her fingers closed around the handle, still new and fresh under her hand.

"Astrid!" Hiccup called from downstairs, "The snow's stopped!"

"That's great," she heard herself call down.

Hiccup came barrelling up the stairs bringing a whirl of cold air and clumps of snow with him. His eyes were bright, cheeks rosy and smile big. Astrid stood up and watched him as he moved around the room, wrapping Solveig in her furs and babbling about getting fresh air.

"Be careful with her on the stairs," she called after him as they disappeared down the stairs and outside.

She could hear him talking to someone outside and followed the sound, taking even steps down the stairs. Astrid didn't even realize she was holding the axe until she was standing in the middle of the great room, blinking at her loom. Her fingers tightened around the axe handle, the wood squeaking against her skin. There was something about the loom, something lingering in the back of her mind. She remembered how much she'd hated weaving when she was a child. She remembered telling her mother that she would never get married so why should she learn to weave? She hated weaving.

"Astrid! I'm going to have to call a council meeting," Hiccup shouted too loudly as he came through the door, obviously expecting her to still be upstairs.

He paused when he saw her, head tilted comically, eyes narrowed. He didn't look concerned, just curious.

"You're holding your axe," he said slowly.

"I want to come," she said, the words bursting forth unbidden.

Hiccup's perplexed expression deepened, his eyes narrowing further, mouth pursing to one side. "You want to come?"

"To the council meeting."

Hiccup's eyes widened and Astrid knew why. Of course she knew why. She hadn't been to a council meeting since they'd returned to Berk. She'd barely left their hall unless it was absolutely required. But now Astrid found herself asking why. When Hic was a baby, Astrid would strap him to her chest and take her place next to Hiccup at the table; she'd been an active part of the discussions, the decisions. Now she was content to hear about them after the fact, offering then useless advice on how to argue against an unruly Jorgensen.

But that was wrong. She wasn't content to hear about the decisions that were being made for Berk without her. She wasn't happy to be locked in their hall, safe and warm and ignorant. Astrid's gaze flickered to the loom, so unassuming and deceptively comforting by the fire. It was a false comfort. A lie.

"Astrid?"

Hiccup's voice was uncharacteristically small and it drew her attention. She blinked at him, seeing the boy in the man in front of her, remembering when he was smaller than her, when his face was unmarred and he had two feet on the ground. She saw the question in his eyes – he didn't need to voice it. He was concerned again and as much as she wanted to tell him not to be, she couldn't.

Hic came running through the door, but Hiccup caught him by the shoulder and tugged him into the side of his leg. Astrid couldn't help but grin sardonically at the action. It was though she were dangerous. She liked feeling dangerous. She hadn't felt dangerous in a long time. But she didn't want to feel dangerous around her family; she didn't want Hiccup to feel that he had to protect their children from her. There was a timid part of her that wanted to toss the axe to the ground and run back to the loom, to be safe again. Her fingers tightened around the handle just as Valka came through the door with Solveig. Her eyes were quick and they jumped between Astrid and her son.

"I want to go to the council meeting," she repeated.

"Okay," Hiccup replied calmly, slowly.

Astrid didn't miss the way he pushed Hic toward Valka as he stepped toward her. She half-expected him to press his hand toward her face, palm out. Hiccup paused just out of her reach. The concern on his face had been replaced with thoughtful consideration, his tongue darting out before he drew his bottom lip in between his teeth.

"I just thought you'd want to—"

"What?" Astrid said, daring him to finish the sentence, daring him to smash through the wall she'd erected around herself.

He shrugged and grinned. "Weave."

Again, Astrid's eyes fell upon the loom and she scowled. The loom. It felt like she'd been sitting there for half of her life, moving her fingers quickly and smartly between the threads. When he'd first brought her the loom in her little prison room, she'd been so very bad at it. Her fingers had been clumsy, her products uncomplicated and sloppy. It had been a way to keep her hands busy and her mind blank. A way not to think about her situation or the fact that Hiccup was dead. Astrid's eyes flicked back to Hiccup, standing there with melted snow beading on his hair, the slow-healing scar cutting down his face and reminding her that all of this had happened, that he was changed as much as she was.

The loom was a tool to keep her sanity. A method to keep away the thought that she would never see Hic's face again. She glanced at Hic then, sucking his thumb, a puddle pooling at his feet. The loom had kept her from thinking about what he had wanted with Solveig, with her. They'd been pawns, little playthings to him. He'd wanted Hiccup all along and Astrid and her baby were his consolation prizes.

She hated that man.

She hated the loom.

She hated that they were connected. She hated that there were callouses on her fingertips when it was her palms that should be battle-hardened and ready to handle an axe; already her skin, grown soft from disuse, was screaming against the wood.

She hated that her husband felt he needed to protect their children from her; that he felt he needed to speak to her in soothing tones; that he felt he couldn't rely on her to have his back. She'd made him do this alone for a year and a half. She'd gone through the motions and been present without ever truly being present. She hated that she hadn't been available to her family.

"As?"

"I hate weaving," she said, turning and taking a deliberate step toward the loom, "I always have. I hate it even more now. I hate this loom. I hate everything I've done with it and I hate everything I've missed because of it."

Astrid paused, her hand raising the axe, her free hand gripping the handle as her stance widened, preparing to strike. "I hate it," she whispered.

The wood splintered as her axe made contact, spewing shards of wood into the hearth and into her skin. There was a roar, guttural and tortured, that Astrid didn't full realize was coming from her as she brought the axe down on the loom, again and again, splitting it into nothing. It was a stand-in for the man she never had the pleasure of killing; a symbol of everything that had happened and all she couldn't change. Her axe came down again and again until it wedged into the floorboard with too much force and Astrid was too worn to pull it back out.

Hiccup's hands caught her as she slumped to the ground, her fingers sinking into his soft, wet furs. He held her tightly, not at all gently, crushing her into him as though he might lose her if he let her go. He murmured her name into her hair over and over again. Her face was wet with tears she didn't know she'd released. With a shaking hand, she wiped them away and pushed back against Hiccup's arms. He loosened them reluctantly, his eyes searching her face desperately. Astrid glanced at the loom, shattered and unrecognizable on the floor and back to Hiccup's wide eyes, shining with unshed tears.

"I hate weaving," she muttered.

Hiccup huffed. "Really? I couldn't tell."

"I never want to weave again," she said vehemently, glaring at the loom bits as though they could put themselves back together.

"I don't think you can even if you wanted to. Besides, I have enough tunics to last me into retirement."

Astrid turned back to him, a weak smile on her mouth which widened when she saw him smiling back. She felt lighter; she felt clearer. She felt like herself. Not partially, but fully. She was Astrid again. The wall that made her hard and cold and distant had shattered with the loom; she was free.

Hiccup stood and offered his hand to her, grinning without caution or concern or delicacy.

"I believe we have a council meeting to call."

Astrid's smile was instant and wide as she reached for his hand, brushing errant flecks of wood from her skirt. She nodded, holding Hiccup's gaze.

"That's right. We do."