Chapter Text
Astrid was no stranger to death. She was a viking, for Thor’s sake. It was famously an occupational hazard. People went missing all the time: a freak incident with a dragon in the endless raids, a heroic death, a solemn funeral, a boat lit, and the village respectfully let the family grieve while they moved on.
Somehow, she’d only lost one loved one to dragons, in comparison to the orphaned, scrawny kids of Berk who roamed the streets. Her uncle Finn, who died at the hands of a Monstrous Nightmare attack on his home. It was Astrid who watched him screaming for help no one could give as he was incinerated, his dying words a cry of terror. It was her who ran for help, a training axe in her sweaty palm, tugging on her father’s sleeve, getting him to hurry.
She sobbed more than she could remember. She sobbed until her throat ached, and her eyes stung and throbbed from rubbing her knuckles into them.
No one could bring back her beloved uncle Finn. She wanted to cry forever. But her mother dried her eyes, and firmly said “stop crying, my dear. You are a girl now, not a child. You will soon be a viking, and strong vikings do not cry.” She nodded, pressing her lips together, that same training axe clutched in her little fist, and solemnly swore, as solemn as a five year old could be, to make her mother proud.
She hadn’t cried for ten years, until she was fifteen, and watching her best friend fall into a hypnotic vortex of fire.
This time, it wasn’t just Astrid who watched, but the whole village. They stood, stone-still, watching Hiccup Horrendous Haddock -at the tender age of fifteen- fall to near-certain death from the sky, and a Night Fury diving after him. It was the first time they’d seen a human ride on a dragon, let alone a dragon diving into flames to save a human. Astrid watched in disbelief, then shock, then horror, as the last of the Night Fury’s tail disappeared into the fiery depths in a blaze of smoke and wrought metal.
They were gone.
Her mother wasn’t there to watch her breaking down in tears, her knees giving out beneath her, and she was thankful for that at least, because she really wasn’t in the mood for feeling strong. She was weak: weak and helpless. Helpless to save her best friend from falling into that hypnotic swirl of fire.
Her eyes blurred with tears as the last of the fire faded, but she couldn’t tear then away. The village chief Stoick the Vast -less well known as Hiccup’s strict father- rushed towards the lump of black on the ground, kneeling beside him. Astrid couldn’t make out words, but from his stooped shoulders, and the solemn silence, it wasn’t good.
Hiccup is dead. Hiccup is dead. Hiccup is dead. The words rang around Astrid’s head like the warning bells to a dragon raid. A small pang in her heart prompted her to wonder if those would be over. Or, perhaps, if they were only just beginning. What would cause the village to riot more than the death of a chief’s son at the hands of a dragon?
A roaring reverberated around her ears, and she first thought it was in rage, but she’d know that sound. No, it was something much more foreign... it was joy.
“This dragon saved my son; saved us all!” Stoick announced triumphantly. Gobber trotted up to Stoick’s side, and mumbled an audible murmur of:
“Well... you know... most of ‘im.”
.o0o.
The ride back was a blur of blood, bandages, and silence. Astrid carried Hiccup’s limp body on Stormfly, since she was probably the most confident rider, after Hiccup, of course, and she could get back to Gothi the fastest. Toothless rode on the boats, unchained this time, hailed as a hero. The other riders flew beside her, Gobber behind Snotlout to assist with the healing, all unable to speak. They were all feeling the gravity of the situation as much as she; she could only guess how she would fare once the initial shock wore off. The relief he was alive was indescribable... but how long would it last? How long before he hit the very real possibility of having lost half his left leg?
She set those questions aside for later, carefully landing Stormfly near enough to Gothi’s hut. She carried him in her arms up most of the steps, but Gobber came up beside her, and gently prised him out of her arms. She protested, then screamed, threatening all sorts of things she’d undoubtedly regret later. Her hands clawed at his tunic, waistcoat and leggings, fighting for any purchase on him she could hold onto. She couldn't lose him; not again.
“Astrid, let go!” A voice behind her persuaded, yanking her by the shoulder. She readied her fists, hand flying to behind her right shoulder where her axe always was, but saw it was only Fishlegs. Probably the kindest of the gang to Hiccup, which wasn’t saying much, but it said enough to stop her from murdering him.
She sprinted for her hut, and collapsed onto her bed, miraculously undestroyed by the constant activity. No dragons disturbed her, and that was somehow worse. She dug under the bed for her backup axe, and held it in her hands while she lay down, like a child cuddling her toy, except she was Astrid, a Hofferson . Hoffersons don’t cry.
Maybe they would disown her if they found her like this. A girl with no family, no heart, and the only love of her short life on the brink of death, far far away from her.
The adrenaline from the day finally wore off, and Astrid sobbed herself to sleep, certain she could never see fire in the same way.
.o0o.
The next month was pure torture, the kind Astrid didn't know could exist until she was in the midst of it. The horror of knowing what has happened, in tandem with the building anxiety every day wrestled with the urgent need to rebuild the village, move on, learn to live a new life alongside these dragons. It didn't help the worry, growing like a tumour inside her, that Hiccup simply would not wake. He'd be stuck for eternity in a catatonic state, unable to see the world he'd helped build.
She spent every second she could by his side. Gobber and Stick gave up on telling her to go home after the first few days, and gave her small errands to run instead: herbs to fetch from Gothi’s, metal to weld. Gobber began building him a prosthetic leg, and she assisted.
The one sweet spot in her life that month was her dragon: a sleek, pretty Nadder she called Stormfly. She learned to fly on her, but moreso, learned to trust her. She fed her chicken, and gave her chin scratches until she found the sweet spot Hiccup used to win in dragon training. And she formed a bond she could only call friendship.
The day he woke up, she was riding Stormfly, going high, and diving down. Astrid loved it, throwing up her hands and screaming in joy (and definitely not pent up terror). She was mid dive when she noticed a commotion around Hiccup’s hut. Her heart dropped. This was either a very good or a very bad thing.
She landed Stormfly and jumped off, her body shaking so badly she almost tripped. She watched the door with bated breath, waiting for something, please Thor, anything, to happen. Something clattered inside. People were not crying. Astrid let her heart raise in excitement.
Then, there he was. Leaning onto Toothless for balance, unsteady on his new limb, but smiling, and seemingly hadn't aged a day since the battle with the Red Death.
Astrid strode up to him, and firmly punched him in the shoulder.
“ That's for scaring me.”
“Wha- what, is it always gonna be this-”
She grabbed him by the tunic, and kissed him.
They broke apart, and Hiccup stared at her, his eyes soft with happiness. “I… could get used to it.”
Astrid gave him a look that said ‘you’d better’ . She tried to act angry at him, but the demeanour faded the minute she looked at him. The smiling face of him barely matched up with the unmoving boy she could see in her mind’s every time she shut her eyes at night.
As he took off into the sky, her and the other riders following suit, she wondered if he knew just how close Stoick was to lighting his funeral boat.