Heather Together Chapter 15

They'd made it.

First, they'd made it through the pre-wedding preparations.

She'd had to endure a ritual washing, surrounded by female relatives who told her everything she'd need to know about keeping her husband happy. Some of their suggestions were common-sense, some bordered on magic charms, and a few of the more explicit ones made her want to run out of the bath house screaming. I don't remember signing up for that, she thought at several points.

Then they'd dressed her in her best clothes, unbraided her hair and brushed it out, and crowned her with the bridal crown that had been her mother's. They said she looked radiant. She wanted to run and hide.

He also underwent a ritual washing, surrounded by male relatives who told him everything he'd need to know about marriage, and that meant everything. He was blushing furiously before they were halfway finished. That only encouraged his relations to get even more explicit in their suggestions. I couldn't do that – not to her, he thought at several points.

Then they'd dressed him in his best clothes and helped him look as dapper and handsome as he could. He didn't feel dapper or handsome. He felt like plain old Hiccup in a fancy wrapper; he wasn't fooling anyone.

Then they'd made it through the wedding ceremony.

They had to take part in a sacrifice to an assortment of gods that they didn't really believe in, and get sprinkled by the blood of the sacrifice so they'd share in whatever blessings might come down as a result.

They'd exchanged swords, with their wedding rings balanced on the pommels. When the swords were drawn, the warriors among the guests did some quiet ooh'ing and ahh'ing. Hiccup the swordsmith had outdone himself. Not only were the blades sharp enough to shave with, and bright enough to be used as mirrors; running up and down the length of them, on both sides, were the genealogies he'd been forced to memorize, inlaid into the steel with gold. He'd done the same with her family line on her sword. The hilts and scabbards were decorated with reliefs of dragons' heads, with eyes made of tiny chips from Toothless' scales. They were fully functional weapons, but they were also works of art. It was easy to imagine them as the "blades of fame" that some future descendant would claim from a relative, or rob a tomb for, to use in his own wedding some day.

Once they'd passed their swords to each other, they put on their wedding rings. These were basic gold bands, except that Heather noticed he'd engraved something on the inside of each ring. It was a single word, spelled in simple runes: "Always." She smiled at that.

Then they exchanged their vows to each other. They didn't follow a precise formula like many wedding ceremonies require; they just spoke from the heart about their desire to care for each other, uphold each other's honor and safety, and inspire Vikings everywhere with their marriage. Hiccup had labored over what he wanted to say, and his vows were almost poetic. There was nothing especially poetic about what Heather promised her husband, but her words were simple and sincere, and the loving look she gave him was all the poetry he needed.

That was the end of the actual ceremony. But they weren't officially married. Not yet.

Then they'd made it through the reception.

He'd helped her cross the threshold of the Mead Hall without tripping, which was important – if she'd fallen in any way, it would be a bad sign for their marriage. He had flung his sword so it sank into the main pillar of the Hall, which was also an important sign. It didn't sink in as deeply as it might have done in the hands of a stronger man, but as long as it didn't fall out, all was well.

She'd served him the special goblet of mead, reciting from memory the ancient verse about the ale, and trying hard not to smile when she had to address Hiccup as "thou oak-of-battle." They'd shared a drink from it, the first of many – they were required to drink mead together every day for a month, the so-called "honey moon."

They'd endured the silly ritual of laying Thor's hammer in her lap and reciting another ancient verse, in what Spitelout had dismissed as "the blessing of the baby-making parts." The idea of her and him making babies together... neither of them was ready to think too hard about that.

Then came the banquet and the entertainment, which went on for hours. There were songs, dances, and stories, along with all the food and drink the village chief could afford, but the high point came when the flytings were announced. These ritual exchanges of light-hearted insults could be very amusing, depending on who took part. Today, the "star performance" came when Snotlout challenged Tuffnut to a flyting. Lout's insults were a lot more creative, while Tuff went for the jugular with his crudities. After a few minutes, the members of Heather's family who didn't know the participants were worrying that the flyting might devolve into a hólmgang, a ritual duel with drawn swords. But the two teens were just letting off steam, and ended their "duel" happy that they'd amused their friends and scored a few points off each other. Each considered himself the winner, of course.

And now, they'd made it through the most awful part of all... the public consummation of their marriage.

He'd tried to think of some clever way to get out of it, or hide what they were doing, or anything except the usual Viking way. He'd come up empty. He and the girl who loved him were going to start their private married life in full public view. Twelve men, including his father and uncle and two of her uncles, had filed into their house and spread out so they could all see. It might have helped if he'd known that Stoick had firmly warned them all to make no comments, under penalty of having to clean up the Mead Hall after the last of the drunken Vikings had been carried out. But even that knowledge would have done nothing for the towering embarrassment that made him view his marriage bed only as something he wanted to hide under.

She sat on the bed, smiling nervously. He removed her bridal crown; his hands were visibly shaking. Then he sat down next to her. "Are you okay?" he asked.

She just nodded. He realized she was too scared and nervous to talk. He'd thought he would max out the nervousness meter, but she had to add her female modesty to the mix, not to mention the unpleasantness of a woman's first marital experience. He felt such compassion for her, he forgot his own nervousness.

He sat next to her and stroked her hair for a few seconds. She looked down, then gazed into his eyes with the same loving look she'd given him when she spoke her vows. A quick nod of her head told him she was okay with this.

From their first tentative kiss, he completely forgot about the witnesses, and everything else in the world as well. He hoped she did, too.

Now the witnesses were gone; he hadn't even noticed them leave. He was clinging with sweet exhaustion to his bride under the sleeping furs. She still hadn't spoken a word since they'd entered their house together. He kissed her gently and asked again, "Are you okay?"

"Are you happy?" she asked softly.

"Perfectly," he answered.

"Then I'm okay." She gave him that loving look again, and he couldn't help embracing her with all his strength, such as it was. The last time he'd held her that tight, it was on the town docks, and he'd felt her rough outer garment under his hands. Now it was just the soft skin of her back that he felt, and she was warm wherever she touched him, and if she never let him go, that would be just about perfect.

"I'm sorry it hurt," he whispered.

"It wasn't as bad as I feared," she whispered back. "My aunts and cousins told me you'd be some kind of out-of-control brute. You weren't."

After a minute or so, she released him and pulled away. "Hiccup," she began hesitantly, "there's something I have to say to you... this isn't going to be easy for me."

"What's wrong?" he asked nervously.

"I know I wasn't your first choice for a wife," she went on. "I know you probably still have some feelings for... for her... but will you give me the chance to take her place in your heart? Maybe I'm not as –"

He kissed her quickly on the lips, which had the desired effect of stopping her in mid-sentence.

"Heather, whose name did I cry out tonight? Several times?"

"Mine," she whispered.

"When I completely forgot we were being watched tonight, who do you suppose I was thinking about?"

She blushed a little.

"When I was rejected by one girl and left behind by the other one, which one did I move heaven and earth to go after?" She didn't answer, but he saw her eyes beginning to fill.

"There is no 'her'," he continued. "You're my first choice for a wife, because you're the one I married. You've won my heart, Heather. I don't know how you did it, or when, but you did it. I'm all yours, and you're mine, and we aren't going to talk about anybody else. You're my wife, my only wife, and you have no competition, past, present, or future. Okay?"

She laid her head on his shoulder. He felt moisture.

"Those had better be happy tears," he whispered.

"They are," she sniffled. "I thought I was supposed to make you happy, not the other way around!"

"I never could do things the Viking way," he smiled.

She raised her head to give him that look. "I love you, Hiccup."

"I love you too, Heather."

"You... you do?"

"Mm-hmm. I do. Just like it says on your ring. Always." He kissed her, she wrapped her arms around him again, and nothing else in the world mattered.