#(but yeah also PLEASE stop confusing others with the ages issue PLEASE STOP SPREADING MISINFORMATION ABOUT THE AGES S T O P)

[fuckyeahkagepro]

Kagerou Project ages

also you know what -

i seriously want to make an ages chart because tbh i am sick of ages issues

legit most of them are closer in age and also depending on timeline than not

the gist of it I get is basically: - Momo is supposedly a “ first year in high school ” BUT has a “conflicting age” [ also in novel 1 she was taking supplementary summer courses ..... so ] (because her birthday is in February and the loops happen August 15th.) (and the Japanese school year begins in April and ends in March) (technically SHE ISN’T SUPPOSED TO HAVE HAD HER BIRTHDAY YET) (meaning closer to 15) [ her official pixiv profile states this as well, also in Japanese ] [ you can even translate it yourself ] [ though the conflicting age issue was also confirmed by others ] ( * even the anime staff has noted the “conflicting age” issue due the script? ) [ .... my theory is the loops screw up her age considering August 15th ] [ either that or supplementary classes related things and job as an Idol ] [ that’s a theory though but we’ll see if we get more info on that time period ] [ the time period of February 14th, her birthday, that is ]

- Kido & Kano are in their second year of high school Kano is officially stated to be 17 in newer materials, too. [ also his birthday’s May 10, older than Kido ] Kido is closer to [a late ?] 16-going-on-17 her birthday is January 03, only about *seven months behind Kano. [ keep this in mind ] - Seto is in the same year as Kido & Kano. [March 28th] closest to Kido / the youngest of the Trio.

- Shintaro is 18 exactly but his birthday is April 30.

the Japanese school year begins in April and ends in March. (he’s only been 18 for about 29 days or so ... ?? [seems that way ? but....] - Ayano’s birthday is November 22. - Ayano also has the “conflicting age” issue due to her birthday. - Hibiya as of Mekakucity Talkers is old enough to be very close to junior high school as he is taking entrance exams. - note his birthday is also November 4th. ( in a they-break-out-of-the-loops scenario or canonically to Talkers ) [ he also is said to be in school again later after the entrance exams one but ... ] ( ALSO REMEMBER his birthday is November 4th. ) ( LITERALLY barely two-three months after the current August 15th ) ( HE HAS ALREADY HAD ANOTHER BIRTHDAY ) Hiyori’s birthday is March 03. the Japanese school year begins in April and ends in March

source for Japanese school system details ”Children who have their 6th birthday on or before April 1 enter the first grade of elementary school of that year.” though there are some issues with exact ages placement still the basic thing to remember is Kagepro is set IN JAPAN. Not in America do not use an American school system when trying to calculate/refer to ages also note how Japanese high school is only three years. Junior high is also only three years, putting Hibiya CLOSER to Momo than not. (Elementary is 6 years, not 5 years like in the US.)

[losing-my-will]

A/N: Yay, second chapter is up, and I wanna thank the wonderful @itsasumbrella, who she not only has great patience with me and I really don't deserve her, but because she's my beta for this story. Also, she has an amazing fic called "Wicked Game", if you know Spanish please I beg you; go read it!

ISOBEL

Summary: Grounded in a place she barely knows, stuck in a marriage she loathes. Astrid Hofferson has thought of her fate as the beginning of her end, a wheel starting to crush her life. But also on how she mustn’t completely accept it.  AU. Hiccstrid.

CHAPTER 2

TWICE AT THE NECK

When she was a little girl, Astrid Hofferson nearly drowned in the springs of her village —she went unsupervised to the forest, no one ever knew of the event ‘til months later when Cami noted how much her sister was scared of water, she coaxed her one night to spill the truth but the child clumsily concocted a story; she was put in taught in the next weeks. Little Astrid ended up enjoying it, the very challenge itself of floating and not sank, and the test of her breath when under the water.

She wouldn't ever prospect that that’d help her swam out after jumping from almost twenty-five feet.

‘Fuck’ and with a pop in the k was the first noise reverbing from her. The cold of the water was too much to bear, and the sand kept getting between her toes, shoes apparently lost forever in the murky ocean.

Aside those problems, there were even more when she started rushing through that unknown land, there were no signs of any tribe or village, it was just green esplanades near and far and nothing else.

Has that taken away her exhilaration when she ran? No, no it didn’t, she’d never felt such adrenaline before, it was a reckless blending as one with the blood within her limbs.

However, Astrid has to admit she was scared, adding acutely aware.

When she thought she’d ran enough to be far from the shore, she ran some more, and when her feet begun to feel sore, she stopped under a treetop and leaned on its thick trunk. The trees in this land were tall and alive, unlike those in her village, and then she promptly realized too; none raid nor has violence ever touched the place, reason why maybe the water in that myriad of lagoons dispersed seemed so clear.

She had left her right foot rest on the boulder and inspected the sole if there was any more damage than the already open wounds and dry blood. Knowing she’ll only be attended by a healer if she finds a tiny but village at the least she unglues from the tree and went ahead in search for that source of life, birds’ chirps weren’t enough but they fill the silence comfortably.

“On we go” she breathes.

Since toddler, Astrid has relished in the action of walk, explore, she considers herself a highly active kind a person, and mostly because she mulls over when alone too, so whether or not the girl finished her chores she’d usually sneaked out of them and go strolling across her village or into the nature. There was no responsibility in doing that, but Astrid hated so much the work her aunt or other people assigned it at her. And not because she belittle them, but because she wasn’t meant for those chores.  

Being a soon-to-be-wife of a barbarian didn’t fit in that category too.

She really hopes to rendezvous that village soon and convince any farmer with its life settled to adopt her.

Yeah, that’d be nice.

Just as nice when she finally come upon with one those lakes, the water it is clear and seeing the fishes swimming makes her stomach grumble in hungriness.

“I should have eaten.” she says pensive. Looking at her grime, trembling reflection.  

“Yeah, you should have.”

A new face appears next to hers, Valthjof stares at her serious. She gasps his name.

“You followed me!” she hollered at him accusingly. And then felt rather dumbly, of course he would had.

He nodded. “I have to protect you.”

Astrid stares back at him innocently for a short but taut moment. “I didn’t get far enough, did I?” He shook his head.

Sighing heavily, she rose on her feet with eyes set on the few fishes. “I’m hungry.”

Valthjof nods again and stalks forward from her.  

Astrid frowns at his back, quietly confused if she has to go after him or not.

Sensing her distress, he spins on his heels, watching her carefully. “We’ll fish, but none of this lake.”

“Why?” she asks, “Is something wrong with this one?” Astrid scowls. Does she really have to go further with him alone? Does she? Go with a man she recently met with? Is she overreacting? Valthjof is meant to shelter Cami and her from any harm, yes. ‘Give a chance to someone and let them prove it wrong’ she goes with that philosophy. She has to trust him. However, the bounce of his sword attached to his hip and his absurd height squirms her, and reminds her how easily he can tear her apart if he wishes, shove the flat side of his blade against her throat and forces himself into her. What if the Council lied about him? He’s a retired warrior, and a brave warrior dies with honor and blood spewing out of their mouth in battled field instead of retiring in cowardice. Why would they send a coward? Why would they risk foolishly? A war would inevitably unleash, and Brynhild it's terribly vulnerable nowadays, fuck, that’s strategy; the berkians’d win over them and conquer her home converting all the inhabitants into thralls.  

“Trust issues?” He guesses.

“I barely know you.”

Valthjof seems to understand at her words. Scratching his nape, he says softly through thin lips; “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

“So much for an assurance.” She bites back.

“What do you want, child?”

“I’ll query you if you don’t mind,” Astrid replies severe, “While you lead us.”

He nods, and stretches his palm at top of his chest. “I’ll answer truthfully.”

The girl, shivering and in bad fumes, balled a portion of her dress in fists and stepped before him.

He holds his hand up, “Wait. I’ll give you my boots.”

“What? No.”

“Yes, don’t worry. I’m wearing wool socks.”

He unties the cords stained with dirt and handed the shoes at Astrid, she puts them timid and thanking him.

He makes a noise of approve, adjacent clearing his throat; “Be concise with the questions, without subdue your curiosity. You may begin.”

Astrid mutedly agreed with his terms, and whilst wrapping her arms around herself, she thought of the hundreds of questions buzzing in her mind.

“Uh, ok.” She bits her bottom lip. “What happened in the ship after I jumped?”

“Your sister made it anchor there and then.”

“You’re the only one who got down?”

He nods.

“Where are we? Why’re there lots of lochs?”

Valthjof fixed at her with something near as astonishment glinting within his sunken eyes.

“I don’t know. I’m asking you precisely for that.”

“Pardon.”

“You’re not first.” Astrid mutters and its tone is like it left a resentful taste.

She shrugs after sighting his almost puzzled semblance, “You’d be surprised how much wedge there has been in my education and Cami’s”

“Oh”

“It’s understandable. She has to read, and memorized, and learn everything.”

“And you?” Valthjof asks as he unshed his sword and nicked a web of bushes.    

“And I’m there.” She grimaces inwardly —the untreated gashes of her feet; she felt them bleeding, if they don’t watch it they’ll get infected.

“You ok?”

“Yes.” The girl lies. “You were telling me…” she trails off.

“Waterlands.”

Her brows rose unimpressive. Whoever thought they were being creative naming isles would be scandalized with Astrid’s disappointment. “Logical.” She ends up replying, awkwardness bubbling up.

There’s a pause while they pass a streamlet.

“You didn’t false your age and name, did you?"

His jaw sets, “I needn’t spread misinformation.”

Astrid learns first thing about this mysterious man; he’s an awful liar. But that leads her towards the next question; “You said you were once a warrior.” she pulls it out, accommodating it for her consequent shot, “At least, I think Berk wouldn’t chose a wimp who fled from battles to protect his heir’s future wife. I’m pretty sure they would have disowned you. Is there anything you’re not being truthful about? Because I sense you’re hiding it.”

Valthjof’s eyes hardened on her as his nostrils flared, she had visibly upset him and it showed. Poor Astrid had to fight against a flinch that threated to strike her entire body from head to toes. Oh, she’s overstepping, she should apologize for such indecency—    

“I prefer you naïve than witty sleuth.” He quips.

Offended, she glares him, “And I will prefer you to tell the whole truth.”

“You have quite a character hidden within you.” he paused, and then inhaled profoundly, tired, “I wasn’t neither conceived nor brought out of my mother’s uterus in Berk.”

“W-what?” she stutters.

“I met with the Archipelago when I was a boy your age, teen and doltish. Recently escaped from home, and dragging sweet childlike dreams of being a warrior behind me.”

“What you were before that?”

“Bastard-son of a roman soldier. My mother a harlot, my father a man who couldn’t be denied.”

“Why did you ran off your home?”

“Mother found great enjoyment in flagellated me with a scourge. I stabbed her in the leg and left her bleeding, then I shielded under the protection of a tradesman.”

She swallows hardly, like there was a big lump stuck midway of her throat. “And that’s how you befriended with Berk, by the trips.”

He nods, “I combated alongside them for many years, and even defended the father of his current Chief and himself. They weight a lot of trust on my shoulders, and vice versa.”

“And now you’re retired.”

“Not by choice.” he tsks, “They begged me.”

Astrid frowns.

“I “retired” two years ago to go back to that life of merchant and rest how’s appropriate.”

“And… did you wanted?”

He laughs loudly, “I confess I grew fond with the Viking Way.”

She licks her lips before reminding boldly; “But you still lied and said you were from Berk.”

“Yes, that’s a cover, child.”

“I-“

“Your culture embraced me and I embraced them.” Valthjof heckles, “You may not know due it your village is the furthest and separated, but inside the Archipelago; Berk is the wealthiest, more respected village in that packet of savagery, brat heirs and ruthless Chiefs. And the most secretive, there’re only a few things they let go out of their cliffs.”

Astrid slowly processes the news, and ultimately gives the conclusion, “So they took you under their wing, so people wouldn’t despise you once they made you step off from the violence.”

“You are clever. Yes, I present myself from Berk, and so people don’t look at me twice. If people knew it; bastard and non-Viking.” he chortles.

“A matter of reputation.” Astrid deduces.

“Aye.”

The man fidgets with a layer of leather of his waist pulling out a small canteen. He opens up the lid with his index and brought the nozzle to his lip, but before it could touch it he halted and looked at her sideways, “Thirsty?”  

“Can you tell me more of Berk?”

Valthjof took a quick swig of whatever was the content but didn’t respond.

///

THUNK!

The whetted steel sunk with a sickly snap through flesh and spines and onto the trunk. Valthjof whirled his wrist as he pressed his fingertips in the slick skin of the freshly, butchered fish; he slid his long fingers in the slit letting drain blood and all its reeked fluids.

Astrid, who’d sat meters away witnessing the disembowelment— couldn’t stopped herself of wrinkle her little nose at the sight.

“If it bothers you so much, why you sat there?” he asked it whilst cleaning up the blade with a ragged cloth. “Take a sit over there.” the rough man jerks his thumb behind him.

She peers where he pointed; another mucky boulder, “No. I wanted here.”

“Then you've to stop with the grimacing,” he spits his phlegm, “You’ll face worst things.”

“Like what?”

He shrugs, “Your wedding night, when your husband’ll spread you open and fucks you.”

The girl stares wide eyed at him, baffled. And in expect of a rapid apologize.

“You didn’t like that, did you?”  

No she didn’t like it, she loathed it. Hurt and despair washed on her. The words felt near a welt striking her existence with a mammoth accurateness; as soon they arrive in Berk, she’ll be introduced, wedded, and taken on knees and palms.  

“You deserve better than a honeyed fable,” Valthjof says after a moment, inserting the blade around the ventral fin again, the fish’s hacked head finally fell on the ground with a muffled sound as its protruded eyes connect with Astrid’s. “Don’t fret, child. Though be prepared, I heard the consummation'll hurt to you first time.”

“He’s… Is he— the way you described it,” her tongue glide over her lips, anxiously and nervous, “His demeanor—”  

He scowls, “Berk’s heir is many things. I will not spoke of him nor Berk.”

Astrid shook her head, blonde strands swinging, “No.” the girl surveys the clear before her, “You won’t,” she stood, “But you’ve to, please. I’m their bride. I’m part of that trade.” softly pleads.

“You’ll meet them when you’re there.” his only answer before twirling the torsk once more and smoothing his hand over its last ripped scales, “And don’t usher that childish argument of “because I have the right”.” warns.  

His butcher knife was gone after he’d laid it briefly on the trunk, but no for so long before it pointy, menacing end was thrust with force on the wood by delicate, trembling fingers gripping tightly the haft, sneering; the girl says; “Is in my right.”

The bulky man impassively contemplates her, “You threated me or asserted your words?”

Astrid doesn’t want a quarrel with Valthjof; he’s been nothing but polite and unfeigned to her. And admittedly, he lets her disadvantaged in many, many things. But to refuse the slightest details of the northern isle preoccupied her.  

“I’m begging you. Please. I departed my homeland to save it, because Berk promised us offerings, plenty of supplies; livestock, nourishment, furs, meat, coin. And weapons too. Valthjof, please, I can’t go ignorant to a country that’s helping us. My country is perishing, my people are vulnerable, and we burnt every night since three months ago by the fire-breath of dragons.”

“Then why’d you tried to escape?”

She froze, “What?”

“We’re here; you pleading, and I’m making our dagveror, because of you, we stand in this soil because you jumped. You’re trying to convince me with a speech even after you had run off. Where do your words fall?

He hadn’t touched her, and yet it felt like he slapped her.  

“I’ll not speak of Berk. Now, help with the bonfire, child.”

Having taken the initiative rapidly; Astrid searched after dry branches and flat rocks and made a neat heap of dead leafs meanwhile Valthjof finished slicing the fish in parts and lighting said bonfire. Together and summoned in their thoughts pierced the flesh’s chunks in the surplus branches bracketed by nature noises.  

“You mentioned dragons,” commented Valthjof after spitting spines that’d mired in his teeth.

They were half-eating, sitting near the heat source, he had insisted on going anywhere but the dirt, but she declined and had said that there was no salvation for her dress anyway, even then; it was a pity that the hem of the fabric had turned from a rich scarlet to a dark brown.

“I did mention them.”

“They’re the causing of yours devastation I heard.”

“Yes,” she swallows, “They have been raiding us since Mörsugur.”

“You know why?”

“Of course I don’t know. We actually don’t understand. After six years of peace… we foolishly thought the beasts were gone.”

“No guilt on that. I imagine your village suffered all those years.”

She nods.

There’s another wave of tranquil and definitely more comfortableness, before Valthjof cleared his throat, “I recall a vivid moment when I was seven, when one of my mother’s colleagues told me that dragons have their own place, not a nest nor an island, more like a… world. A world never visited by mankind.”

She frowned skeptical, “And— and you believed her?”

“I was young. I would have assumed the existence of a margýgr if someone would told me,” he chuckles contagiously with Astrid too, “She said a drunken sailor told it at her when he finished with her, adding he had seen it. And if hadn’t been for the thick fog, he could have it visualized finely.”  

Astrid smirked, not quite capable of picturing a small Valthjof awed-struck. Amusement quickly dissipated; she asked frowning, “Where supposedly would be this world?”  

“Located at the edge of ours,” he says dryly.

“I wish these beasts fell and died at the edge of the world.” responds scathingly.  

He snorts.  

“Funny? The pests are separating and ending families, and I’m sure we’re not the only village target it of their assaults—”  

"No, it’s not funny. I’m aware of how bloody and destructive their onslaughts are."

“You ever saw dragons, right?”

“Many times.”

“You had ever slay them?”

“Many times.”

She scrutinized him in the mere second restful of such ruffled talk, she kept studying him though; mindful of his sudden strain in movements, as if he was being careful in his body language, and also of the delivers of his replies. She commented nothing about it. They barely exchange glances, and just gathered their stuff and started the road back to the shore.

“Don’t expect me of me not to scold you. You were incredible irresponsible, you could have killed yourself from the height you leaped. Astrid, I love you so much, but for your stupidest you will be locked in your chamber, you will be washed and dressed inside with the assist of Hrefna, and feed by the hand of Póra. Learn the consequences of your actions,” had coldly said Cami when she met with her.

Despite following Cami’s dire instructions of Astrid not being allowed in leave her room for the six days of the voyage —Even if against her will—. Both held the knowledge of how much they cared for the one and the other. Regardless of how much Astrid wanted to wrench her sister’s frigid and despotic attitude with less courteous words, Cami’s severity displayed on her straightforwardness can’t be blamed at all. She’s been assigned an obligation; she’s acting based on what superior authority had edict her to do, whether they like it or not.

///

Purple smeared over the sky in its dawn whilst it transited into the greyish classic of the early mornings. Long, golden tresses weren’t resting in the pillow anymore, with the gown ridden up by her thighs and bent in the hip; she probed the gashes through the whitish bandages with the little aid of frail sunrays and candlelight. Though attended, the keen pangs of her feet injuries had almost made her rue her escapade.  

Howbeit it turned into a blunder, and had bothersome her sister further; not only it had irked them, it had shifted the date of the arriving to late evening of Laugardagur, and not Frjádagr as had been scheduled.  

That time has shortened, and now in only some hours they’ll reach the northern isle, they pictured it in quite the calm ambiance, that was until disagreeable news came.

It was during a second where Astrid was pondering if whether relief herself in the solitude of her gelid chamber, when a turmoil blasted and roared outside the door, followed by unintelligible mutters and indecorous swears. Hrefna kicked her way in and —with an apologetic smile, and a hurried “Good day”, hastened her in a linen bluish dress, another of those romans garments Brynhild had stolen. If she hadn’t chided her, the woman would have forgotten to even wipe her face with a cloth soaked in clean water.

“I’ll not be cleansed?” Hrefna flickered down at her, confused by the unmistakable tone of disappointment from the girl. It wasn’t the cleaning that Astrid has been complaining for days, of course not, it was the action of being bathed like she couldn’t do it by herself and the goddamned prayers, and that the servant lefts her skin chafed and reddened after the end of every bath.

“No. Later.”

Cozy in a thick fur she went out to the wide deck of the fleet, in time to watch her sister’s plain indignation expressed in her knitted brows, Valthjof seemed explaining of some stuff at her feet distanced.

She stalked towards them, eventually picking up their en going discussion.

“No,” her sister solidly interjected. “We are not gonna get down this ship,” her scowl deepened as she spats, tugging her own fluffy fur, concealing her flimsy arm-freckles and that crimson dot birthmark aloft the curve of her right shoulder.

“It is required,” he insisted.

“And they can shove up their pretty requirements wherever they choose to like,” her sister stretches her arm at her, quickly holding hands, “I’ll repeat it; no one is getting down this thing.”

Astrid’s blonde head tilts, fixing her blue eyes at Valthjof, “Are we‘ll get down?”

“He says so, a berkian boat will pick us,” responds her sister in a latent enraging.  

Her face hardens, and in such coldness —that Astrid has never heard her use ever, voiced her realization, “Because they have insolated themselves,” she juts her chin out, attempting to level her short height with his’ massiveness.

He crosses arms under his chest, “It’s a measurement of protection.”  

“Nonsenses,” she shrieks, “This secretiveness, this self-marginalization is not sane!”

Valthjof exhales resigned, chest significantly deflating at the clear remorseful for his subsequent words, “You wanted me to prattle about Berk, I denied it, but now it may be your only soothing,” he stroked his eyelids distressed, as if he’s battling an argument with himself. When he straight his back and swiped his tongue over his lips, he seems he lost it; “You two are heading to a tribe with starkly differences with yours, inhabited by people as sturdy as their soil. People who wears leather on their waists and clad-armor upon their shoulders, not linen but wool, not soft but harsh, bloodlust warriors at the best and when it comes to defend Berk,” he then sets eyes on Astrid, “And you’re the fortunate to stay there; to live, to eat, to piss and shit, to breath among them, fucking too and breeding the next heir. Better adapt quickly.”  

Astrid stiffens at the last mention, “Not a baby-oven,” she snarls baring her teeth.

He looms over her, squinting at her lithe presence, “Then prove them otherwise.”

“They’re here!” shouted someone.

"Pack your things and get in that boat," he rushes them.

“N-no,” Cami stutters.

"Here," he mutters, withdrawing two daggers from the sheaths at his sides, "You know the basis, how it works; you swing and cut."  

Disbelieving; the girls took each knife, “We don’t know how to fight,” cleared Cami.

“Aye,” he resumed his short lecture ignoring her protests, “Twice at the neck if necessary; stabbing or slitting,” making a demonstration by circling his own neck with the thumb.

That’s the last they saw of Valthjof of Berk; a ghost of a smile dancing on his thin lips and his right hand gripping his sword’s hilt, the ever proof he existed heaving in his former blades now dangling in the girls’ fingers.

At the boat two brawny men plucked their stuff away from Hrefna and Póra, barely making eye contact with them, and had already begun to unroll the flag. The older with the red tuft stared contently at Astrid.

He took a pace forward, she took one back.  

It’d made him roll his eyes. “We won’t harm you, we’ll not touch you. You are our heir’s bride,” he brushes off snot of his nose, and continues hauling the khaki rope whilst surveying her sister, “and I have understood you’re the heir of your little village.” With a final tug, the rope strained and the flag sprawls with a gentle flap, “If I want to fuck, I go with a whore, not squealing high-born girls.”    

Needless to mention neither couple exchanged words with the counterpart, if not urgently needed. And though the last path of their sailing went tensed after the offense and mere insult, it notably carried acute expectation, suspense and heightened fearfulness. And had hit Astrid disastrously, basked in Cami’s bony arms and wailing helplessly after having realize how it was actually happening, she resented and had scold herself for her weakness, but the moment had simply surpassed her; the cruelness of the Council in subtlety selling her, yes; there’s a grand reason lurking behind it, but the cost to get rid of her and bare her of decisions and a possibility for a distinct fate?  

Albeit shrouded in a fog and a night as dark as coal upon them, Berk starts clearing up at quite a decent distance.

Nearby the coast were stood two large, too burly and broad figures and one remarkably skinny. When the blurs lessens, his appearances slowly reveals, the lanky had a mop of auburn hair at top a head comically too big for his body.

And she sees green, green eyes glinting in the torchlight.

Green eyes that stride away from the shore and gaits towards her new home.