A/N – Whoo! Look at all these timely updates. If only I could get my act together on all my stories like this. Dreams, am I right? Enjoy!

X

Chapter 14

"Do you remember that night?" Hiccup asked. "We danced?"

She nodded. She stepped closer to him, and like he'd done before, he set one hand on her waist. He felt the soft material of her blue dress. She felt like she had before, real, but not real, like a dream-version of herself.

She slipped her cold hand into his and set the other on his shoulder.

She looked almost alive. Yet, she looked as frail as moonlight. Her skin shimmed like light at the bottom of a pool. Her hair appeared as pale gold, liquid strands flowing about her face. When he touched her, her skin held a warmth he could not rightly justify. He began to lead, and as they silently danced about her bedroom floor, he caught whiffs of powder and perfume, sweet linen, vanilla, and sandalwood.

For a short while, he had no idea what time he stood in, 1880 or 2016, and he didn't mind either way. With Astrid, he didn't mind where, when, or what might happen come morning. With her, nothing else mattered. He could stay, with her, like this, until time ended.

They paused, and with more magnetism that before, Hiccup bent down to kiss her. Her lips felt as real as any he'd kissed, soft and supple against his own. She kissed him back; her tongue felt warm and welcoming. Her arms circled his middle. He traced the fine lines of her jaw and neck.

Yes, Astrid Hofferson felt as real as any girl, and it was only when he thought about it, when he remembered, when he reminded himself that she was not. She had died, he told himself, a hundred and thirty years previous.

Yet, he kissed her again, because he could, because he wanted to, and she kissed him back.

When had he fallen for the dead girl? Honestly, he didn't know. He had, however.

Time didn't matter, but at some point, Astrid pulled him back to the master bedroom. He laid down, utterly exhausted, but he was afraid to fall asleep. The next time he would cross would mostly likely be to witness the end of Astrid's life, or as he had for Jacob, to attend her funeral. He'd rather not. He would rather stay, like this, with her, for a while longer.

Astrid crawled onto the bed with him. The bed and blankets shifted with her touch. Without thinking, Hiccup pulled down the blankets beside him. Astrid, in all her shimmering light, wiggled underneath them. The blankets conformed to the shape of her legs and hips underneath; proof that she had joined him. Dead or not, she was there with him.

Astrid settled, and Hiccup pulled her closer to him. He felt her warmth against his, felt the tickle of her hair on his chin, felt the fabric of her dress under his fingers. Her breath rose and fell in her chest. Her heart beat against his chest.

With her pressed against him, he fell asleep.

X

Hiccup woke up alone. The blankets beside him touched the bed; no sign that anyone else had joined him. He smoothed the wrinkles absently. Astrid had been there… hadn't she? Yes, he had fallen asleep with her.

He got out of bed and pushed back the curtains to the window. Bright, midmorning daylight streamed inside.

How long had he been sleeping?

Hiccup made his way downstairs to the kitchen where his life-saving coffee pot sat waiting. He hadn't any left from the night before, so he made a new pot. While it brewed, he walked around the house; he walked the stiffness out of his legs. By the time the coffee was finished, the stiffness had gone.

He poured himself a cup of coffee, prepared for the sudden shift when the coffee pot would vanished, but he returned the carafe to the brewer without incident. He sipped the coffee and meandered into his office. He sat down and started to flip through his notes.

Astrid Hofferson, died 1880, apparent suicide.

Hiccup took a deep breath. The next time he went back, it would be closer to the day Astrid died. The day of, perhaps, and the entire idea filled him with dread. He knew she'd died. He knew that her body had been found in her room, hanging from the ceiling, but he didn't want to see it any more than he wanted to see anyone else he knew dead.

Them being dead was one thing, but actually seeing them dead was another.

He couldn't avoid it any more than he could avoid his annual check-up. He'd have to get it done, like it or not, and it was for his own good. To find out what had happened to Astrid is what he'd wanted. It was his goal. It would be the ending to his book – before he would help her move on and reconcile the past.

It's what had to be done.

After several sips of coffee, Hiccup turned on his computer. First, he checked his email. A few junk emails, promotions, social media updates, writer blogs he followed, and… an email from HesaCow45, simply titled "Read Me."

Hiccup didn't know if HesaCow45 was trying to be funny or serious. Either way, he opened the email first.

Hiccup, I can't believe what you're going through. I say that as in I'm jealous, in awe, and worried. I wish I could be there and study you while it happens. It sounds utterly amazing to see. I'm also worried. Since there are no studies, it's hard to say what the long-term effects are, if there are any. It sounds like you're having trouble coping. I don't know if it will be alright or not, so I won't bore you with false hope. I simply don't know enough about trans-time crossings.

I can say, after speaking with some of my contacts, that these things are thought to happen around a central event, something connecting the person to whenever he's going. You, for example, are going to a certain point in time. You are going back to some event that happened at that house. You're going back for a reason. You may or may not know that reason yet. Some say that it's a preordained happening. Can you tell? Can you see an impact you've had on the time line or has it stayed mostly the same?

My contacts seem to think that because you're going back, each time a further along the time line, you're getting closer to some pinnacle event. Once you get to that event, no one knows.

Keep me informed. Tell me everything, no matter how insignificant you may think it. Every single detail, Hiccup, could be important.

Hiccup sat there for a while, rereading the response. A pinnacle event? Surely, he meant Astrid's death. Everything seemed to revolve around that moment. They didn't know what would happen once he reached it… what did that mean? Would he see her death and be trapped there forever? Is that why no one claimed to experience the trans-time crossing? Because they were trapped in the past?

Fears and doubts raged through his chest. What should he think?

To quell those thoughts, he typed a response explaining that event as Astrid's death, and how he didn't think he'd effected the timeline. Astrid had known him before he'd arrived, he told him.

Sending… sending… sent.

Hiccup leaned back and took a deep breath. He swallowed a large gulp of coffee.

He will go back. He will find out what happened to Astrid. He will help her remember. He will help her move on. He will write his book. He will move on, too, because, as much as he didn't want to admit it, the Hofferson house had been tearing him apart from the start.

Hiccup leaned forward and put his head into his hands.

The front door opened – Hiccup sat up straight, ready to defend his home against intruders, but Astrid walked inside. His desk had been replaced with Randal Hofferson's, and his books were gone. Hiccup stood up. At some strange point, his computer chair had been replaced with another – he hadn't felt the shift underneath his own thighs.

Astrid wore the blue dress, the same as her ghost. Her hair was loosely braided over her shoulder and loose strands fluttered about her face… just like her ghost.

Hiccup's heart fell into his stomach. She would die today.

Astrid walked into the foyer and closed the door. She turned to head up the stairs; she spotted Hiccup. He must have looked worrisome, for she asked quietly, "Are you alright? You look sick?"

What should he do? Tell her than she's about to die?

Hiccup had no words. His own breath caught and fumbled in his throat. Astrid took a step toward him, worry between her eyes.

"Astrid?" Randal's voice came from upstairs. "Is that you?"

"Yes, it's me," she answered.

"Come upstairs."

Randal didn't sound happy.

Astrid started upstairs and Hiccup followed on legs that felt like lead. At the top of the stairs, Astrid paused. She looked nervous. Her father, or uncle, Randal stood in her bedroom, holding a leather-bound book.

"What are you doing?" Astrid asked at once. She stopped in the threshold.

"What is this?" Randal spat, pointing at the journal.

"That's my private journal," Astrid said, gripping her skirt.

"I can see that," he spat. "I'm talking about what is in it!"

Astrid look beyond invaded… embarrassed and exposed. She glanced at Hiccup's reflection in the vanity mirror.

"I saw him again last night," Randal read aloud from the journal, barely containing his anger. "I don't know where he comes from. He just appears." Randal looked up at Astrid with a cold, livid stare. "Who the devil are you talking about?"

"I-I…" Astrid started, but her father interrupted.

He read on, "I went upstairs to fetch Mother's present. He was standing at the window; we talked, and for the first time he didn't vanish. He didn't know how to dance, so I taught him."

"Those are private thoughts!" Astrid shouted.

"Private indeed," Randal spat at her, looking wilder than he had before. "Who was up here! Who was in my house?"

"No one!"

"I can read, Astrid, someone was up here with you!"

"No one was up here! I-I made it up," Astrid cried.

"Made it up… lies," Randal spat. He clutched the journal. "You've been seeing this man, too?"

"No, it's not like that!"

"I give you a good home, provide a life for you. I made sure that Eret had a fine job before he could have you. I made sure that you would have a good life here. This is how you repay me!" Randal threw the journal at Astrid. She threw her arms over head; the journal smacked into her folded arms and thunked to the floor. "You're just like your mother! Whoring around the moment I leave the house! I could have married a nice girl from home, but no, I wanted an American wife."

"No, you don't understand!"

"Hussy! Whore! You're a disgrace to the Hofferson name!"

Astrid, nearly in tears, tore out of the room. Her father ran after her. Hiccup flattened himself against the wall to avoid being in the way. Astrid made it to the stairs. Her father reached out and grabbed her by the arm.

She slid.

Her father held her, then he let go.

Astrid, already off balance, fell backward, down the stairs. Hiccup shut his eyes and winced at each thud, each clatter. When the terrible sound stopped, he opened them again. Randal stood at the top of the stairs, holding onto the banister as if he too might fall. He heaved each breath. Slowly, on legs that felt like water, Hiccup walked to the railing. Astrid lay by the door, staring lifelessly upwards. Her neck had been broken.

"God," Randal groaned. He stumbled backward and fell to the floor.

Hiccup couldn't move.

Her father had killed her because of him. He'd caused her death. By going back in time, by meeting her, he had caused her death. He sank to the floor.

Hiccup was just as much to blame as her father. He might as well have pushed her himself.

Randal, sobbing, picked himself up. On jerky limbs, he walked down the stairs. Hiccup watched helplessly as he carried his daughter's body back up the stairs. He left her lying on the bed while he fetched a length of rope from downstairs. He fitted it to the light on the ceiling, and then he hauled his own daughter's body upward. He fit the rope around her neck and let her hang.

Randal picked up the discarded journal. He shut the bedroom door and left her there. He started down the stairs. Hiccup, unable to stay there knowing Astrid's body hang just a short way from him, followed Randal. If he could, he would have pushed him down the stairs, too. Randal walked into the living room, to the fireplace, and lit a warm fire. When it roared, he tossed the leather-bound journal into the flames. At once, the pages curled and blackened.

That's why the journal wasn't found, Hiccup thought.

Once the journal was unrecognizable, Randal went outside, out back to the wood pile, and began to chop wood. Hiccup, who eagerly awaited his return to 2016, followed. He didn't want to be in the house anymore.

The hooves of a carriage sounded out front. Randal paused his work and stood, axe in hand, with his back to the house.

Hiccup walked out to see the carriage; Mrs. Hofferson exited. She walked to the house and went in the front door. Hiccup couldn't move.

Through the windows, he spotted Mrs. Hofferson moving about inside. Randal stood frozen in the yard, his hands trembling on the axe.

A moment later, Mrs. Hofferson's terrible, ear-splitting scream filled the house.

X

Hiccup returned to his own time, but didn't remember doing it. He'd stood in the Hofferson's yard, unable to move, as Randal, summoned by his wife's screaming, returned to the house. He couldn't go back inside. He couldn't face the scene that was no doubt playing. When he did look up, the carriage was gone; the woodpile was gone; and the shutters had changed colors.

They thought she'd killed herself.

She'd died because of him, because she'd talked to him, danced with him. If he hadn't asked her to dance that night, would she have lived? Would the house be haunted?

What had he done?

Hiccup walked back into his house, his house, as he'd moved in, and found it utterly empty. He meandered upstairs to Astrid's closed bedroom door. The guest room door was also closed. He walked into the master bedroom and into the bathroom and left the door open. He knelt over the sink and washed his face in cold water.

When he looked up, Astrid stood in the bedroom. Concern played over her fine features.

"I know what happened," Hiccup choked out. "I know how you died."

The crease in her brow vanished; surprise replaced her worry. She motioned, urging the news.

Hiccup dried his face and dropped the towel on the counter. He turned to face Astrid as he told her, "Your father read your journal. You…talked about me. He thought…I'm so sorry, Astrid. He thought you were seeing someone else, someone besides Eret, but you were talking about me. He shouted…he…you slipped." His voice cracked.

Astrid ran into the bathroom and slipped her hand into his. She laced her fingers with his and her other hand curled around his upper arm.

"You fell down the stairs," he said. "Your father blamed himself and made it look as though you'd killed yourself."

Astrid's expression darkened. She might have remembered, or she might have simply accepted his word as truth. Either way, she seemed to shrink. She laid her head on his shoulder.

"I'm so sorry," Hiccup said again. He repeated it several times. "If it hadn't been for me…none of this…you'd be alive. You would have married Eret and lived a fine life. You wouldn't have been stuck here for so long. You wouldn't have suffered like this…it's my fault."

Astrid's hand moved from his arm to his chest. She placed it over his heart and stood so that her eyes met his downcast eyes. Even though she should despise him, nothing in her warm gaze suggested she held him accountable for anything. She touched his cheek and ran her thumb along his cheekbone.

"Why aren't you mad?"

She smiled. Her lips moved softly, and a sweet, ghost of a sound met his ears, "It was worth it."