#and i love when Arvid is just COVERED in someone else's blood

[invinciblerodent]

i am once again on my hands and knees begging Larian, Bioware, and every single video game company in general for a romanceable dwarf dude companion, so I won't have to make my own and fall in passionate love with my own goddamn character

i mean look at him, he's such a nice sweet lil bloodsoaked cleric boy; always just trying to do the right thing

he's babygirl, he's malewife, he's an adult man in his fifties whose head comes up to roughly nipple-level

a compact fella built like a boulder but also just a nice blue boy with so much love to give

[lokidokiliteratureclub]

Frostbitten (Chapter Three)

Y/N L/N is a child of a Jotun and an Asgardian. She spends her life hidden in the dungeons of Asgard, with no one to talk to other than one of the princes- a man who seems completely incapable of leaving her alone and entirely unable to give up on helping her. Y/N and Loki Odinson have always been inseparable, it seems- even when there is a cell wall, or a village, or an entire kingdom between them.

Even when he disappears, even when you run away, and even when his world falls apart; you are inseparable.

Previous Part

I’m gonna pretend that this didn’t take me way too long to write and I’m just gonna,, leave this here,,

This part of the story is mainly just exposition so that you have an idea of the baseline for the rest of the story. Romantic development starts very, very soon.

Tags are open! 

"If you were king, what would you do?"

Loki peers up from his book at the question, frowning sideways at you through a curtain of dark hair. His desire for the throne has always been evident, but he rarely ever talks about it. It always seemed like something he was.. afraid to mention. "What do you mean?”

"Oh, you know," you wave your hand dismissively, "how would you behave? What would you change”

He sweeps his hair behind his ears, and sighs. "Well, aside from an inevitable war or two, I'd, well, first I’d free you. Then, perhaps set up a system of trial- one that involves more than just the king, since we’ve seen how well that works out. I'd allow more children to study magic if they'd rather not partake in physical battle practices. Create a public library or two.” He shrugs. “I'd marry, probably have a child to pass the throne onto... You know, the very basics. Change the kingdom to focus less on glory and more on intelligence- wisdom. Strength is good short-term, but knowledge lasts forever."

You nod approvingly. "How very noble of you. I’d love to live under your reign.” That much is true. “But, really? No bragging? At all?" That part is a joke, mainly.

He grins, looking back down at his book. "You asked me what I'd do as a ruler, not as a man."

"My apologies. So, then, what would you do as yourself?"

"Everything I mentioned before, but I’d also create a very, very large statue of myself. Just as a constant reminder to Thor, since he never fails to remind me that because he is older he will inherit the throne.” He pauses. “Oh, and several very, very dramatic theatrical pieces. Community theatre would return in screaming colors.”

You snort. “There he is! There’s the Loki I know and love. Always one for drama.”

“What? As if you wouldn’t do the same.”

“I would.” You add, “but you know you’re allowed to exceed my expectations, right? You have full permission to be better than me.”

He scratches the spot just underneath his jaw with two fingers, turning the page of his book. “Why raise your expectations when I can drastically lower them and therefore have to work less to achieve appreciation?” 

Your eyes give a slight roll. “You’d better be glad there’s something keeping me from you right now. If I could, I’d snap your spine.”

Loki turns the page again, looking back up at you in between the motion. His grin flashes into a smirk. “I’d like to see you try.”

-

“What the hell?!” Thor bellows, stomping over to his brother and ripping him away from you by the shoulders. “You are not supposed to be here, brother!”

“Says who?” Loki retorts, feigning cluelessness. He takes a few heavy steps, his armor tight enough not to be shifting around, his boots soft enough to not make a sound on the hard ground. Unintentional mental rhyming. “Oh, my,” he gasps, lifting a hand to his mouth in shock, “did father explicitly tell you that I wasn’t to be here? That may be an issue. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I tried to tell you, but you cut me-” he breaks off and releases a loud grunt of frustration. "You tricked me!”

“He’s the god of mischief,” you speak up, standing up and taking in the cool atmosphere. Bits of jagged ice prick at your bare feet, but for some reason they don’t hurt you. Your head feels lighter in the new environment. You feel more awake. More... at home. “You should expect that of him. He’ll never fail to disappoint you.”

Loki rolls his eyes but smiles faintly. “I think you all need to lower your expectations.”

“Why can’t Loki be here, anyway?” Asks Sif, her green eyes glassy in the cold. “What’s the issue with that? Why not him instead of I? The point of this affair was to prove our sense of diplomacy, wasn’t it? Thor came along to prove to Jotunheim that Asgard unequivocally cared about the reform. Why not two princes rather than one?”

Thor runs a troubled, angry hand through his shoulder-length hair. “I’m not sure, but father made himself clear. Besides, he’s a total pain in the-”

Suddenly, the Bifrost closes. There’s a whoosh of wind followed by an awful, earsplitting silence. The others in the group look at you, then their eyes shift to Thor, then Loki, then Sif. There is a notable absence of trusted adults in the area, and you feel the collective blood pressure of the group begin to rise.

“Where’s Arvid?” asks Sif stiffly. She slowly turns her head toward Loki, who stares confusedly back. “Loki,” she takes a stride toward him, her hand inching toward the hilt of her sword. “What did you do to him?”

Loki frowns, putting his hands up in surrender. “I’ve not touched him. If I killed every man I opposed, I'd never be able to get away with treason the way I need to, even though I’d love a chance to see him suffer.”

Thor starts pacing around the area, moving in heavy, quick steps. “Heimdall!” he shouts at the sky, voice echoing across the terrain. “Heimdall, open the Bifrost!”

You straighten your back and pull at your tattered clothing, shifting your gaze to a dark formation of pillars and spires behind you, some collapsed and some upright- about fifty steps away. It bears a bit of resemblance to Asgard’s palace, but it’s much smaller. It’s beaten down- unrepaired after a history of war. Loki told you about his father’s experiences here, about the casket that resided in Odin’s treasure room. That casket- that war was both the thing that ensured your creation and the thing that took your life away. You should not feel a sense of pride for Jotunheim, but for some strange reason, you feel the urge to protect it. Or, at least, let it die of old age rather than in the heat of battle.

“Are you alright?” whispers Loki, moving closer to you. You think that Sif hears, because her head turns toward the pair of you for a second too long. You don’t really care. “You look shaken.”

You don’t respond. A prickly, steady sense of fear travels through you, crawling up your spine and nesting in your chest. 

“Heimdall!” Thor shouts a final time, raising his fists at the sky, before slouching, defeated, in a fit of anger. “We’re stranded!” he announces. “What are we supposed to do?”

“Why did you bring me here?” you say in hardly an echo, turning your back to what remains of the Jotunheim palace and looking out at the group. “Whatever your reason is, I assume you’ll have to go through with your intentions, with or without him. I’d rather I find out now if you don’t mind.”

Thor stops pacing to stare you in the face and then starts to approach you, practically fuming. Your fight or flight reflexes start to kick in, but instead of reacting you stand your ground, keeping your face set, your pulse thrumming in your ears. “If you believe for a second that it’s within your rights to speak to me, you-”

“Brother, I hate to remind you, but we’re in her realm,” Loki states firmly, just before Thor reaches you. When he freezes, you calm a bit, releasing a breath you didn’t know you were holding. “Besides, she’s a princess, now, is she not?”

I’m not Laufey’s daughter! You think, raising both eyebrows. The fear is joined by subtle exasperation.

Thor turns to tower over Loki, but despite being quite a bit smaller he doesn’t flinch. “Watch your words. Neither you nor her need to know of the plans, especially now that they may not be set in motion. Now that Arvid isn’t here to perform the-” he breaks off, groaning loudly. He raises his fists to the sky. “This is all going to Hel!”

“I read the plans, brother. And I still have many questions. So should you.” Loki steps forward and lets his arms hang at his sides, staring daggers into the blue eyes of the older prince. “Until someone explains why this ordeal is to take place in the first place despite the obvious inhumanity, I’d suggest you stop acting as though you’re in control. As if you know what the Allfather has planned.”

“Loki, you know not of what you speak,” offers Sif, her breath fogging in the cold air. “Give it time.”

He turns to her, his lips parting into a somehow-menacing smile. “I’m sorry, is this not a sufficiently appropriate time?” He lets the words ring out, and then scoffs. “No, then? Sif, the two of you need a magician, correct? Are you going to ask me next to sew her lips shut and heal the wounds? To drain the thought from her mind, the soul from her body?” he points to you, and you blink in horror at the thought, shoulders tensing. Loki did make a move to warn you about what might happen if you didn’t escape, but this just sounds... very un-Asgard like. 

It makes you think there’s something else going on. Odin is covering something up, or he’s scared. Maybe both. Your legs, weak from lack of use, begin to shake under your weight, and you try to steady yourself, pressure building.

What could an all-powerful being have to be afraid of? 

Unlike before, Loki seems to be completely unaware of your mental state at the very moment. “Would you like me to take Arvid’s place as the puppeteer?” You’re going to lash out. You’re going to lash out. You’re going to lash out. “Speaking for her, moving for her, breathing for-”

“What in the Allfather’s name is happening?!” You snap, balling your hands at your sides. You glare at Loki, despite your intent to remain calm, and it takes him aback. “Assume we’re stranded here, how about! Assume we’re stuck on this frozen ice-land, and Heimdall and Arvid have been killed by some unknown force of nature. We’re stuck in Jotunheim, not Asgard. I don’t believe the rest of you have any means of surviving here, so perhaps it’s a good idea to tell the one person who can possibly keep you alive what you’re here for!” 

“I don’t believe you’d be of much use-” Sif begins, scowling, but you cut her off.

“Was your intention to take over my body and use Laufey’s belief that I’m the heir to the throne in your favor? That’s what I’m gathering, and I hate to break it to you, My Lady, but if Arvid was meant for that job, and he’s gone, your best chances lie with me.” You glare harshly, and then, noticing the jagged ice stemming from around your feet, take a deep breath in and try to relax. It barely does anything. “I have no intentions of hurting any of you, despite what you might have forethought.”

Sif is offended, but firm. “Do you think that we’re feeble-minded enough to trust you with the throne? Your word means nothing. You’d have us all killed if you had the chance.”

You laugh, the last of your patience fading away. “Would you like to test that theory? I’ve plenty of methods to prove you wrong, and plenty more to prove you ri-”

“Asgardians?”

It’s a cold, rumbling voice from behind you, familiar and foreign at the same time. You turn toward the noise and lay eyes on several Jotun soldiers emerging from behind the large, jagged bits of rock and ice that sprout from the desolate ground. In the midst, a large, guarded Jotun glowers down at you and the others, looking amused and angered

Your aggravation fades and leaves only the prickly, paralyzing fear. The Jotun speaks again. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Did he hear you speaking earlier? He had to have heard Thor screaming for Heimdall. Did he hear you and Sif arguing? How much does he know?

You find yourself backing up, and you stop when you feel Loki’s hand, outstretched slightly, press against the covered surface of your back, gently steadying you. When you look at him, he seems to be at a loss for words. You can’t say you feel any differently.

Thor, who had spoken loudly and boldly just moments earlier, is silent and pale. Sif, stepping silently and shakily forward, is the first to speak.

“King Laufey,” she utters, doing her best not to display signs of despair, “while the circumstances of our visit could very much be better, we come to return a prisoner.” The last word is a threat toward you, a reminder that previous plans have been canceled. She is going to get rid of you.

The giant, his face lined with intricate, deeply marked lines, looks quizzically at her, then at you. “Small for a giant’s offspring. ” He speaks slowly. It sounds like an insult. You take in a deep breath, refusing to look away. “Twenty years of age.”

“We understand that you believe her to be your daughter,” starts Sif, but she breaks off suddenly, sounding as though the air has been pulled from her body.

"We bring your daughter here in a gesture of peace," Loki says, and you notice that at the same time Sif lost her breath, Loki curled his fist, as if he had been the one to stop her talking. She looks at him accusingly but doesn’t do anything else, probably terrified. "Asgard's rulers have come to the conclusion that our quarrels with this realm ended inefficiently. We'd like to take some time to organize a proper treaty."

Oh, he's good.

Laufey chuckles, amused. He doesn’t seem to notice Loki’s magic. "And three of you? What well-dressed expandables Asgard must have."

Loki smiles faintly, signaling to Sif. "This is Lady Sif, one of our fiercest warriors. This is my brother, Thor," he signals to Thor, who is still looking a bit flabbergasted, then to himself "and I am Loki. We two are the Odinsons."

That piques his interest. He steps forward, and the four Jotuns surrounding him follow his movement. "The princes?" Laufey turns his gaze back to you. "And you, child. You're my daughter?"

You freeze for a moment, waiting for someone to speak for you, but they don't. You clear your throat. Your voice only shakes a little when it comes forward. "I certainly don't believe there to be any other undersized Jotuns my age, dead or alive, that were taken during the battle. It's not a very popular title."

To your relief, the answer seems to satisfy him. "Then they've kept it from you?" Laufey stares down the princes, lingering on each of them for far too long. Thor looks as if he’s going to speak, but Loki’s fist clenches tighter, and his lips seal shut. "They have locked you up, kept you from the truth, and even now, they restrain you." The handcuffs, frozen but refusing to break, feel heavy on your wrists. "If you were to one day sit on my throne, I wonder, how would you have these men pay for their crimes against you?"

Sif is giving you a cold, silent warning stare, and Thor looks like he might pass out- he does not appear to be breathing. Loki, on the other hand, edges closer to you, growing calmer with each passing moment.

"Well," you say, staring straight ahead. "Lady Sif has had no part in these doings. She hardly ever went down to the dungeons. So, even though I'm certain she'd have me hung if she had the chance,” the soldier is holding her breath, frozen, “she's technically innocent. Her only crime is disrespect." You practically feel the surprise bouncing off of her, and then her face contorts into an expression of suspicion. Loki is controlling her ability to speak- she must think he’s controlling yours as well. "Thor was arrogant, bothersome, but like Sif, he has not tried to harm me. The two of them live in Odin's shadow. They have no knowledge of what to do aside from what he instructs."

Laufey doesn't move, he just shifts his eyes between them, thinking. You don’t dare wait for him to speak, practically tripping over your own tongue in haste for this conversation to be over.

"Loki is so kind that he’s hardly even Asgardian.." You look over at him, asking silently for permission to go more into detail. You don’t want to spill your lifelong secrets if he doesn’t approve. He glances back, holds your gaze for a moment, and then nods wistfully, looking toward the ground. You turn your eyes back to Laufey. "He snuck down to the dungeons. Taught me how to read, how to speak, how to go as many places as I could without leaving my cell. I'd have gone mad without him.”

“They’re all innocent?” He furrows a brow, frown deepening. He’s testing you. “You don’t wish to put them through an inch- a fraction of the pain they put you through? Not even for a moment?”

“You asked me what I’d do as a ruler,” you quote, trying not to smile when Loki’s eyes light up at the familiarity. It’s always a joy to know he remembers your conversations. “Not what I’d do as a man.”

He barely registers any physical reaction before speaking again.

“How amiable. Unfortunately for them, I’m not quite as generous.” Laufey’s red, beady eyes sweep the four of you a final time, and then he turns, beckoning the lot of you, plus the soldiers, after him. “I’d normally have them chained to the walls and beaten to sod. However, your kindness has inspired me.”

Guards move behind you, pushing the other three forward, quite forcefully. Sif breaks free of Loki’s spell and unsheaths her sword, swinging toward the giants, but one of the guards closest to her grabs hold of her wrist, and she drops the weapon before she gets a chance to strike, holding her wrist close to her chest and stumbling back with shock. Two Jotuns seize her by the shoulders and steer her back with the others. She struggles against them, and Thor, alarmed by the sight of the wound, moves to help her, but the giants swat him aside just as easily as they did her. Loki doesn’t bother fighting, resisting. He seems to already be thinking of a plan. He looks calm. He doesn’t look at you.

“I’ll leave them alive. They’ll live what time they have here in the dungeons. And as for you,” he turns around once more, and you freeze, watching the three Asgardians as they’re shoved toward a downward stairwell, leading into a lightless below. “You’ll join my other children in their quarters. They will be awaiting you.”

He walks out of the room, double doors closing loudly behind him.

Frostbitten Tags:

@natalia-rushman @what-inspirational-name@jessiejunebug@fandomdestroyer @a-new-schematic @iris-suoh @pandacookieowo @givememyskittlesback @awesomefandomsunited @itsanallygator @arttasticgreatnessoftheawesome77 @fire-treasure-iii @strangerliaa @for-the-love-of-the-fandom @woohoney @itsanallygator

[golden-pickaxe]

Odal - Part 2

Fandom: Vikings

Paring: Ivar x Reader

Type: Viking Times

Word Count: 2313

Warnings: none

[All Parts Here]

A/N: Part 2 is here already! Idk how much I am able to write in the next 2 weeks, as I am working at a very big and important science assembly until the 31st, but I will try and make time ^^

Also, I made a playlist, and I think it fits amazingly to this story, so here!

Summary: When you were just a child, you had been adopted by two shieldmaidens, as one of six sisters. Now, all grown up, the lot of you join king Harald to avenge the death of Ragnar in England. A journey, that is going to change the life you’ve known before.

Tags: @lightningwitcher (for some reason the tagging does not work?)

A few days later you, Yeva, Gudrun, Hrafna, Hallgrim and Asta said goodbye to your mothers, hugging them tightly and promising to come back with gold and victory. They watched you from the door of your farmhouse, arm in arm, as you left, making your way towards the town of Vestfold.

 All of you were dressed in your armours, wide Rus trousers and tunics, your belongings on your back and a sword and an axe on your hips. Everyone of you carried also a big, yellow shield of your kingdom, the symbol of the aegishelm painted on them.

 You felt proud and quite excited, but also anxious and nervous. You did not know what would expect you in England. Asta had of course told you all about it, but she had only raided smaller villages at the coast, not battled with the king’s armies like your were intending on doing.

You also did not know what to expect in Kattegat, for that matter, the large kingdom where the great army was to gather, before departing over the sea.

You wondered if Hrafna was nervous about going back there, if that was where she came from, but did not dare to ask. She always got very defensive and even angry when asked about anything that had happened before she lived with your mothers.

 It was half a day of marching, before the six of you reached the town, arriving there around noon, the strong smell of fish hitting your noses from miles away already.

 “As always, you smell it before you see it!” Yeva had joked.

 The city itself was, even before you had passed the gates, full of life. Between all the usual merchants, fishermen and traders you were used to seeing, there was a great amount of warriors, more than you were able to count. They had, as it seemed, gathered from all over Norway, to join king Harald, and thus the sons of Ragnar, for the journey to England.

 Walking through the muddy streets, you met old friends, saw familiar faces, warriors with whom you had fought side by side in battles gone by, and with whom you had celebrated your victories.

You even spotted Arvid in the mass of people, a young man around your age, which whom you had had a short relationship in the previous summer. It had not ended badly, both of you simply agreeing that it just wasn’t what either of you were looking for, but it was still a bit awkward to see him now, and you averted your gaze as your eyes met.

 “That was Arvid, wasn’t it?” Asta, who had noticed your embarrassment, teased you, putting one of her strong arms around your shoulders. You blushed, ducking your head slightly, causing your oldest sister to laugh. “Oh, don’t be ashamed, little one! If I would blush every time I saw one of my past lovers, I would constantly be red in the face!”

 You could not hold back a laugh at her words, letting her pull you further through the streets of Vestfold, walking by busy smiths, eager merchants and a few drunken warriors, who laughed while telling each other old stories, in a great variety of accents.

 You just loved being in the city. You loved all the life, watching the people go about their day, everyone of them interesting in their own way. It was so different from your life on the farm, much more hectic and alive. Back home you rarely saw a face that was not part of your family, but here you could see so many new people, you had never seen before.

 Finally, you reached the shore, a long, white whale skeleton framing the path down to the docks. Your breath hitched in your throat as you saw the mass of ships, this giant fleet waiting there, slaves and workers loading crates of food and other equipment on the vessels. Your heart pounded with excitement, just thinking about being part of this massive army.

 “Asta! It is good to see you!” you heard a voice behind you, causing all six of yu to turn around, where you spotted a familiar face.

 Hrafnkell, one of the king’s men, stood before you, a smile on his friendly face, blond hair covering half of it, while the other side was shaved. You knew that it covered a huge scar, disfiguring his face, after a nasty berserker had almost killed him with his war hammer.

 “You’re still alive, old man? I’m impressed!” Asta laughed, before hugging him tightly. He simply rolled his eyes at her, murmuring ‘be careful who you call old, woman!’ into her ear, before he greeted the rest of your band of shieldmaidens. You had often fought alongside of this man, and you were sure all of you would trust him with your life.

 “It is good to see you joining us! But pray tell, where are your mothers?” he then asked, as he didn’t spot them in the vicinity.

 “They are not coming with us this time, my friend.” Gudrun shrugged. Hrafnkell just nodded, not asking any further.

 “Nevertheless, I am happy that you six will! Mighty shieldmaidens like you will make it a simple task to bend England’s knees!” he smiled at all of you. “We still have room on our ship, if you want to travel with us.” He then added.

 “Oh, I had hoped you’d say that.” Asta nodded. “Lead the way.”

 You followed Hrafnkell further along the docks, walking over ships via planks, connecting them to each other, until you had reached his ship, where you had found some of his men, who watched over it. You dropped your equipment and belongings, only keeping what was most necessary, before you made your way towards the bustling life of town again. The man guided you to some sheltered tables near the shore, where the rest of his band of warriors and shieldmaidens sat, eating and drinking their midday meal.

 You knew most of them too, and they all greeted you and your sisters as you sat down, one woman passing you a cup of weak ale, and a plate with bread, cottage cheese and a small apple. There was even some fish there, which should not surprise you, as this was mainly a fishing town. You thanked her, starting to eat.

 Moments like this, were moments you were very fond of. About to leave for battle, sitting together with the other warriors you would soon fight with side by side, sharing food, drink and stories with each other. This was life, this was real, and you sure as Hel enjoyed every second of it.

 In the distance you could hear someone playing the lyre, and someone joining in with a horn-pipe, playing a song you did not know, for everyone in the vicinity to enjoy. You could not stop the smile spreading on your face, as you got a bit lost in the moment, until Asta’s voice pulled you back into reality.

 “Say, friend, when are we to depart?” she asked Hrafnkell, who was sitting opposite of her at the long table. You looked over to them, also curious how long you would stay, and when you would leave for Kattegat.

 “King Harald has told us, when the moon is full. So, in three days time.” The man explained. Now that was soon.

 “Well, then I am very glad that we got the message on time, a bit later and we would have missed everything!” you joked, taking a sip from your ale.

 “Say that to your mothers, they keep you six sheltered like princesses on that little farm of yours!” Hrafnkell laughed, but stopped quickly, as Asta gave him a playful slap on the back of his head. It was playful, yes, but due to her strength it had still quite the force behind it.

 “Says the man who does not even teach his daughters how to wield a sword properly.” She raised her eyebrows at the man, who just frowned, hiding behind his horn-cup.

 “It’s Gunhild, who does not want them to learn.” He took a big gulp of ale, speaking of his wife, before wiping his face. “And I stopped arguing about it with her about it, after the third blue eye she gave me.”

 You raised your eyebrows at that piece of information, inhaling through your teeth, but did not say anything else. Oh yes, you had met Gunhold, who was not a pleasant woman. You guessed that the only reason Hrafnkell did not divorce her was, that he was simply too scared of her, and what she would do.

There was no love left in their relationship, which was very obvious due to the fact that the man went fighting and raiding every change he got.

 You turned to Yeva and Hrafna, who sat to your other side, not really keen to partake in the conversation about the man’s horrible wife, when you saw the blond one rolling her eyes, while the red head, biting her lower lip, stared towards the waterfront.

 You raised one of your eyebrows in question, but Yeva just jerked her head into the direction her sister was staring at.

Your eyes followed her movement, where you spotted the king, together with his brother, talking to some men and inspecting their ship.

 “He is just gorgeous, isn’t he?” Hrafna sighed, resting her head on her hand. “Those tattoos.. this murderous look in his eyes.. I just want to eat him alive.”

 “By the gods, calm down, sister. No one is going to eat anyone here.” Yeva rolled her eyes yet again, sending you a helpless look.

 You could not hold back a loud laugh.

Oh yes, Hrafna’s obsession with the king’s brother Halfdan. For years she had talked about this man, told stories of his adventured she had heard, and spoke about taking him right on the battle field, still covered in blood, a sight you truly never wished to see. You did not really understand it, though, as she had never actually talked to him.

 “One day he will be mine.” The ginger smiled, absently minded taking a sip from her weak ale.

 “How will he be yours, if he does not even know you exist?” Yeva raised quite a valid point there, which caused the other one to turn to her sharply, her pale eyes glaring the younger one down.

 “Then I will make him know me, won’t I?” she hissed, tilting her head slightly, both of her eyebrows going up for a second, provocatively. But Yeva, just sighed, knowing how to deal with the moods of the red head by now.

 “Pizdec, sestra. Do what you want.” The blond one smiled innocently, as if she had not just very foul language of her mother tongue, turning her full body towards you.

 “Oh, I will. Just watch.” With that Hrafna stood up, walking down and towards the docks.

 You watched her for a moment, one eyebrow raised while you chewed on your bread, as she made her way towards the king and his brother. You then turned your attention back to Yeva.

“You should really stop making her mad.” You said, swallowing the bread, before picking up a piece of fish.

 “I know, she just makes it hard not to.” She laughed. “It is simply too easy.”

 “Which is exactly why you should stop teasing her, little one.” Gurdun, who had apparently followed the whole scene from her spot a few seats down, dropped onto the bench between you, her long golden hair as so often un-braided, and falling over her back.

Good Gudrun, always defending the other one.

 “At least until we’re somewhere where she can let out all her frustration on Christians.” The woman then added with a wink, taking a sip to her cup. She seemed as if she wanted to say something else, turning her eyes to where the red head had gone, but only a short “Oh” left her mouth,

 You followed her eyes, to your surprise seeing the ginger in conversation with Harald and Halfdan.

“Maybe it was a good thing, that you made her mad after all.” Was everything you could say.

 And this was how the lot of you came about to meet the king.

 “It would be a lie, if I would say that I do not know of all your exploits. A fine band of warriors, your mother had brought up.” Harald smiled, his hands crossed in front of him, while his eyes mustered all of you intently.

 It was later this afternoon, after Hrafna had urged you to come with her, as the powerful man now standing in front of you had wanted to see you. She was standing next to you now, looking very proud of herself, although her pale eyes were glued on the king’s brother.

 “Thank you, my king. Hearing these words from you honours our family.” Asta nodded respectfully, hands resting on the pommel of her sword. She indeed looked honoured, and you guessed that this recognition of not only the six of you, but also her mother, meant a lot to her.

 You were a bit too nervous to speak, not knowing how Asta managed to seem so calm, as standing here in front of the king was very intimidating.

 “I am glad that you all will join us in this fight, now I know that the gods are truly on our side.” Fairhair grinned, looking all of you over for one last time, before he made his goodbyes, turning from you to walk up and away from the docks, back to his hall.

Halfdan and your sister shared one last long, very intense look, before he followed his brother too.

 Somewhere in your guts, you felt that this meeting, was just the beginning of something incredible.

[tysonrunningfox]

Open Flames: Part 14

I know 3 things: Smitelout is too powerful for this world, Festercup makes me fucking cry, and Tuffnut is my favorite 

This is a big chapter, both content and length, and tbh, I sat on it way too long, it just took me forever to stab my boy and get here.  

Masterpost (Note to self, update tonight, part 13 has .1, .2, and .3)

“Odin’s saggy ballsack,” I swear under my breath as the bandage around my forearm bleeds through for the third time. I can’t even feel it, I’m too sick from fighting with Fuse and tired from dealing with Elva’s visit and my head is throbbing worse than the knife wound. It reminds me that the fucker who did it is alive and in our one jail cell, because I don’t even get to make that decision.

I pause at the edge of the dark square, pressing my torn sleeve hard against the wound to try and stop the bleeding with pressure. The linen and wool soak through in a few seconds and I swear under my breath, looking up at the chief’s dark house and sighing.

I don’t want to go up there.

I don’t want the chief to see me bleed, not after tonight.

And Fuse is mad at me and I deserve it and I don’t remember the last time I felt so absolutely alone.

And my arm does need stitches, clearly, because it’s still oozing through my sleeve and dripping down the back of my hand and off my fingertips. I’m glad Bang isn’t with me, he’d be freaking out. I almost think I’d be freaking out if I had any energy left to put into it.

I look around the square again, hoping some option will jump out at me, and my eye catches on the forge’s dark windows. I bet Smitelout has a needle and some thread in there, she has to for saddles, and I’ve stitched Arvid up before. It wasn’t this big of a cut but it wasn’t hard. Luckily it’s my left arm.

I use the key I know is hidden above the door frame to let myself in and shove my bloody sleeve up to see the wound before throwing some kindling on the fire and giving myself some light. It takes a minute to tie a clean rag around my arm, just below my elbow, and tighten it enough that my fingers start to go numb and the bleeding slows down enough for me to clean the cut. It’s not even that bad, I don’t know why it won’t stop bleeding. I know it didn’t hit any big vessels because it never spurted blood, only infuriatingly oozed for hours and hours.

Finding Smitelout’s sewing kit is easy too. There aren’t any curved needles and the thinnest thread in the box is thicker than I would really like it to be, but this is better than going to the chief’s house. It’s better than admitting I fought with Fuse and not being able to tell anyone why.

She cried and I couldn’t make it better. She was crying and she was right and somehow, I really am as bad as the chief if I’ve made Fuse feel so alone. Godsdammit, I don’t know how to make this up to her or myself or anyone. I don’t know what to do.

The first stitch through my arm provides some sense of clarity, because right now, I actually do know what to do. At least for as long as it takes to sew myself up. And it’s harder to focus than I would have imagined because the slow pinch and drag of the too thick thread through my skin hurts more than I expected, even with my fingers numb from my makeshift tourniquet. My right hand starts to shake by the third stitch and luckily I’m taking a quick break when the door slams open.

“What the Hel are you doing in here, Twerp?” Smitelout stomps inside, dropping an armful of weapons on her anvil and pausing when she sees my arm on the counter.

“Oh, you know, catching up on some forging. How about yourself?” I want her to leave and unfortunately, being nice is the quickest way to make that happen.

“Are you stitching up your own fucking arm?” Her tone is irritatingly familiar and I scowl at her.

“Are you using your mom voice on me?”

“You break into my forge,” she pulls a stool over with her toe, plopping down on it and trying to take the needle from my hand. I reflexively try to keep it from her and the cord yanks my arm hard enough that I wince and whimper. She uses my one moment of weakness to snatch the needle away from me, her touch on my hand surprisingly gentle as she pulls it towards her. “You steal my favorite rag, you steal my needle and my favorite thread--”

“I’m just borrowing the needle, technically--”

“I don’t want it back, Twerp, that’s disgusting.” She presses my arm to the table and wrinkles her nose, “these stitches are awful, I really should take them out and start over.”

“I can do it myself.”

“You can botch it yourself,” she scoffs, “are you trying to prove how tough you are or something? Because I think you already bragged about that enough by taking a knife to the arm for no reason.”

“Right, I should have just let it stab the chief of an ally tribe, gotcha, I’ll keep that under advisement.”

“Hold still,” she grabs my hand, pressing the back of it flat to the counter and moving to pinch my skin together with disconcertingly gentle fingers that don’t match her tone at all. Her stitches hurt less and are closer together, her wrist moving smoothly like she does this all the time. “You should really let a healer do this, as much as I fully believe you’re as dumb as a saddle, you’re probably at least a little more complicated to put back together.”

“I always knew you liked me.”

She slaps me.

Hard, with the back of her hand, her knuckles knocking against my cheekbone as my teeth clack together with a bright burst of pain through my jaw.

“What the Hel--”

“Stop it with the tough guy shit, Eret.” She goes back to stitching up my arm, which admittedly hurts enough to distract me from the ringing in my ear from where she fucking slapped me for no reason. “You’re a mess. You apparently spent the entire evening bleeding out from the giant knife wound in your arm and no one even noticed.”

“You hit me.” I’m pouting. I’ll admit it. As if my day hasn’t been bad enough, then Smitelout has to haul off and hit me. I open and close my mouth to make sure my jaw still works and my cheek starts to prickle as I’m sure it turns red enough to match my beard.

“Someone had to.”

“I really don’t think anyone had to hit me--”

“Well, I didn’t know what else would get through that dense head of yours, Twerp.” She ties off the stitches and cuts the thread. “The first few are botched but it should hold. I can’t believe you’re so proud or stupid or I don’t even know--”

“As much as I love you propping up my self-esteem--”

“Thor-dammit, Eret, this isn’t funny.” She looks like she wants to slap me again and I almost ask her to get the other side and make it even, but the words die in my dry throat.

Smitelout looks worried.

More than that, I think she’s worried about me.

“I’m fine, Smite--”

“Don’t make me fucking hit you again,” she shoves me in the chest and I almost fall backwards off of the stool, barely managing to catch myself on the edge of the workbench. My arm flexes against the new stitches and I hiss to hold in a groan at the pain. “And don’t stress those, Thor’s beard, Twerp, you have to start taking care of yourself.”

“Not you too,” I scowl, “sorry, I’ve been a bit busy, a week long trip to the spa isn’t really in the realm of possibility right now--”

“Cut the shit. How the fuck do you expect to take care of those kids you have coming if you can’t even take care of yourself? How are you going to take care of Fuse?” She asks almost gently and that makes it sting worse.

“Fuse and I had a fight.” I cradle my forehead in my left hand, squeezing my temples like it can fend off the headache or the throbbing in my arm or the tired, itchy film across my eyes. “She’s...Gods, I don’t know what to do.”

“Are you asking me what to do?”

I look back up at her and shrug, “if you’re giving advice, I mean...Ingrid is too good for you almost as dramatically as Fuse is too good for me.”

“Gods, you’re so exhausted you can’t talk right.” She shakes her head, “go home. Talk to your mother. I have my own kid to worry about, I can’t be on your case too.”

“What do I say to her?”

“I don’t know, Twerp, have you thought about the fucking truth?” She sighs, “you know, we’re all keeping this secret for you and Fuse but what are you going to do when there are babies coming out of her? It’s already near impossible to hide.”

“I know that,” I squint my eyes shut, “I know it’s--can I just sleep here? I’ll be out by morning--”

“No, you can’t,” she grabs my left hand and yanks me to my feet before shoving me at the door with rough hands on my shoulders, “I’m officially evicting you. Go talk to your mother. Try and infuse some of the truth in there. Do you need a snack?”

“Huh?” I trip on the door jamb and turn back to look at her. “A snack?”

“You lost a lot of blood, you must be light-headed. Do you want a snack?”

My stomach growls, answering for me, and I don’t actually remember eating anything at the feast, I was so busy running interference for Fuse and Elva and diving in front of throwing knives.

“Yeah, I could use a snack.”

She reaches into her pocket and tosses me a small bag of what feels and smells like fish jerky and I open it, shoving two pieces into my mouth and swallowing almost before I can chew them. She wrinkles her nose.

“Go home, Twerp.”

“Yeah.” I look up at the chief’s house and scuff my boot on the ground. “Thanks. Why do you have snacks in your pocket anyway?”

“I have a two year old.” She rolls her eyes, “don’t make me chase you home.”

“Fine.” I sigh. “I’m going, I just--”

“I don’t care,” she slams the forge door behind her, taking the spare key from it’s hiding place, “I’ve got to find a new place for this so that bleeding future chiefs don’t fuck with my shit anymore.”

Future chief. Yeah. Right. Like that’s ever going to happen.

Oddly, it’s just the depressing thought I need to force my feet to move.

“Goodnight, Smitelout.” I wave at her as I start shuffling up the hill, staring at the stitches on my arm briefly before pulling my sleeve down to cover them. Mom doesn’t need to know about those. She’d just worry.

I feel like anyone I tell the truth to would worry. Maybe I’m worried.

Gods, I’m so worried. I’m worried about Fuse and the fact that I’m at exactly the same point in my life that I was at four years ago. Everyone else is moving forward and I’m just stuck here, almost chief, still not good enough.

The house is quiet except for the crackle of a low fire in the hearth and Stoick’s dragon is snoozing peacefully in front of it. I pause in the doorway, letting my eyes adjust, and more than that deciding whether I’m staying or not. Smitelout is right, as hard as it is to admit. I need to talk to Mom.

But the thing that no one ever says is that even if the right thing is obvious, it still takes effort.

I’d still have to walk inside, walk up to the bedroom door, knock, wake Mom up. Ask her to come talk to me. And that’s the easy part, then I’d have to sit down and tell her the truth while she’s looking straight through me and worrying. I should be able to handle this myself. I shouldn’t have to bring her into it.

“Fuck,” I sigh, stepping inside and shutting the door hard behind me.

“What did that door do to you?” The chief's voice startles me as he comes down the stairs, barely there smile apologetic and irritatingly hopeful that I'm not mad.  I wish I were, that'd be easier. “I thought you’d grown out of slamming things.”  

"Never," I barely get the word out, throat closing in on itself, threatening to make me sob or pass out or I don't know what else.  I swallow hard and try to cough, the world spinning around me when I close my eyes.  I open them to the same chief standing in the same place, but he looks more like a mirror than ever, more like a sad inevitability I don't know if I'll never live up to.  "Where's Mom?"  

"Are you ok?" He asks, taking a hesitant step towards me, hand outstretched like I'm a dragon in need of training.  He's not mad anymore, he's worried too, and I wish he'd yell at me instead of looking concerned.  I walked out on a direct order, he should yell at me.  If he yells at me, I'll yell back, but I don't know what I'll do if he's calm.  

"No," I laugh, chest tight and eyes prickling like I'm going to cry.  That's the last thing I want him to see.  "I'm really not, but..."  My knees wobble, I catch myself on the edge of the table and my arm smarts, the sting traveling straight up my arm to my eyes, making them blur.  

"What's wrong?"  His voice is low, comforting, and I want it to work, I want it to make my heart stop throbbing and my head stop spinning.  "Is it your arm?"  

"No, I'm fine."  The words echo in my head like it's a cave with no exit, each repetition making me feel more and more trapped.  

"You just said you weren't, Eret," he takes a step towards me, a dwindling candle on the table catching his face at the right angle to make him look younger, like he's just another person I should be able to take care of.  "Do you--"

"I'm good," I lie, voice shaking, back of my throat again threatening to sob.  Or maybe throw up this time, I'm not sure, and I wish I hadn't eaten anything.  "Really, Chief."  

It hurts him when I call him chief.  I know that it used to, but I would have thought he'd be used to it by now.  Maybe he is used to it and that's why the flicker in his expression is so quickly glossed over.  He puts himself together faster than he fell apart and it almost makes me want to lean on him, like I could learn how to be that sturdy if I did.  

"Do you need anything?"  He offers, easy smile as disarming as Aurelia's but completely lacking intent.  His usual will to make me like him is replaced with something genuine, but it's so seamless that I think maybe I've been wrong about it for a while.  "Some water?  A doctor?  A hug?"  

I tug at my sleeve, making sure the stitches are covered.  I probably should have washed the blood off of my hand.  And my shirt.  And my other hand.  

"I'm good."  Saying it doesn't make it more true and I double down, "do you need anything, Chief?"  

"If you're offering, I could go with that hug."  He opens his arms, ready to laugh about being rejected, and I just don't have the energy to hate him right now.  I don't want to.  I want to lean on something I'm not holding up.  

"Ok," I cross the room and hug him, hooking my chin over his shoulder and squeezing tight enough that the new stitches on my arm burn.  I really might cry now, I'm not sure why this is pushing it over the edge, but my eyes prickle and I glare at the wall behind him, trying to slow my breathing.  It doesn't work.  He thumps me on the shoulder, gently, carefully, and the sobs I couldn't put onto Fuse start coming out, burning in my throat, scraping every raw thing that was said and making it hurt all over again.  

"Whoa," the chief starts rubbing my back like my mom used to when I was little and couldn't stop crying.  

I feel pathetic but trying to stop makes it worse, my chest throbbing with the force of the sobs tearing their way out as the chief keeps rubbing my back, coaxing it out of me.  Maybe it's good, maybe I just need to get rid of some of it and then I can deal with the rest.  

"Hey, it's ok," his tone is easy, controlled, and I cling to it, pressing my face into his shoulder where the wool absorbs the tears.  I'm probably getting snot on him, but he doesn't seem to care.  "It's ok."  

"It's really not," I blubber, pulling away and scrubbing my eyes with my clean sleeve like I can rub away the outer layer and start fresh with one that's less pathetic. When I cough out another sob, the chief hugs me again, thumping on my back like I'm choking and he's shaking it loose.  Maybe it works.  Maybe it was already loose and he's just willing to catch anything I throw at him.  "Fuse and I had a fight, I don't think we've ever had an actual fight before."  

"Do you want to talk about it?"  He lets me take a step back and I wipe my eyes again, breath shaky.  He's shorter than me but it doesn't stop the sudden urge to tuck myself into his chest, to get small and easier to shelter and protect.  

I could tell him.  I don't know how Fuse would ever forgive me if I did, but I don't know how she's going to forgive me anyway.  If it were Mom, I'd want it to be a happy thing, I'd want to be excited and not crying like a pathetic child, but it's the chief.  He knows what it feels like to be conflicted about being a dad, to feel alone, to be unprepared and outside where he wants to be.  

I nod, not quite trusting my voice yet.  

"Ok," he pulls out a chair at the table and sits down, "let's talk, I'm sure we can figure this out."  

I sit across from him, staring at my hands.  

"What did you and Fuse fight about?"  

"She was mad that I took that knife to the arm," I shrug, sniffing and wiping my dripping nose on my sleeve, "or at least that's how it started.  I--and it spiraled.  And I made her cry and I couldn't make it better and I just...I ask too much of her, you know?  I'm asking so much of her."  

"Hey, from what I know about Fuse, she's not exactly going around doing what's asked of her," the chief puts his hand on mine and I don't shove it off, "so I don't think you can put that all on yourself."  

"This is different."  

"How so?"  

I take a deep breath and look up at him, "she's pregnant."  

His face is blank for a long second, his hand cool and still on mine.  I wait for him to brag or be cocky or yell at me.  I wait for him to produce a contract from one of his pockets and try and make me sign it.  He doesn't do any of those things.  His smile is slow and cautious, eyebrows worried as he squeezes my hand.  

"Ok, that's--give me just a second here," he sits up straight and runs his hands back through his hair, "I'm going to be a grandpa, wow, that's--how long have you known?"  He redirects the focus to me and I don't know why I laugh, probably because I'm straight out of tears, but it's hoarse and tired.  

"About four months."  

The chief doesn't answer immediately, face waffling between happy and solid and excited.  I try and tuck my hair back into its tie but give up, taking it out entirely and barely resisting the urge to start hitting my head on the table.  

"A reaction would be--"

"So it's been a secret," the chief cuts me off.  "Probably a pretty big secret if you've known for four months."  

"Honestly, probably a larger secret than you're thinking because it's probably twins."  I laugh again, miserable, and he exhales like the revelation physically hit him in the chest.  "Fuse doesn't want to tell anyone, she's going to be pissed that I told you. Pissed and confused, you're the last person I thought I'd tell."  

"Sounds about right."  

"I couldn't take the thought of you hearing and thinking you won, that you finally had your chance to force me into marriage, but..."

"Would I be forcing you?"  He asks gently and I shrug one shoulder.  

"Not really.  Not anymore, I--Fuse though."  Her words from earlier ring in my ears in time with my arm's throbbing and I wipe my nose again, "neither of us were ready for things to change, but they're changing anyway and well, I--earlier when we were fighting, she said maybe it's better if our kids are Thorstons if I'm going to keep being so reckless," I push my sleeve up and show him my stitches, "because of the whole Haddock mess with heirs, I guess."  

"Eret--"

"And I'm starting to wonder if she's right."  All the thoughts that have been bouncing around in my head start to crystallize and I think about Smitelout being worried about me and Aurelia's fond annoyance and Fuse.  Mostly Fuse.  Fuse crying.  Fuse needing me to be something I should be able to be.  "I'm not someone she can trust or follow or depend on, I'm...and she sees it now and I'm scared.  I'm so scared."  I jump up, pacing back and forth.  Before tonight, I never really put much thought into why Fuse never pushed to marry me, instead assuming it was contingent on me being chief or something.  But maybe she just couldn't handle her kids being half-Haddock disasters like their dad.  "Hel, do you think Ingrid would honor kill me?  I don't think I want Tuffnut doing it, that sounds painful--"

"No one is honor killing anyone," the chief says in the tone that makes it law, "you and Fuse are going to have fights, Eret, you're going to have so many fights and something like a single fight isn't enough to change how she sees you."  

"This is bigger than that.  It's not just a fight, it's--"  

"Can I ask you something?"  He cuts me off before I can find the word for what a frost giant sized turd of a situation I'm in.  I shrug.  "What do you want?"  

"What do I want?"  I laugh, "that's funny, chief--"

"No, it's not.  I'm serious.  I see you running yourself into the ground trying to make everyone around you happy, trying to be who everyone else thinks you should be.  What would you do to make yourself happy?  What do you want?"  

"I..."  I sigh, deflating slightly, "I want everyone to be safe."  

"No, that's not an answer," he insists and anger flares enough to overwhelm my sadness, even for just a second.  

"What do you want me to say then?"  

"You don't see it," he sighs, "you're so much like your mom.  And my dad," his smile is sad and proud and I could crumple under it, the weight of that statue's eyes on my shoulders on top of everything else.  "You don't get to decide for everyone to be safe."  

"Because I'm not chief yet," I snap and his eyes drop to my arm.  

"Trust me, if being chief could keep people safe, you'd be a lot less stabbed all the time."  

"I'm fine," I don't believe it and he doesn't either.  It's too close to what Fuse said, to what Smitelout said, to what must be the truth because the most unapologetic people I know are all orbiting around it.  

"What do you want, Eret?  If instead of making up some answer that you think I want to hear or you think is the most self-sacrificial you actually thought about what you want, what would it be?"  

The chief is the last person who'd ever call me selfish and I hate that it feels protective right now.  I hate how good it feels to let myself think selfishly, to catalog the mental and physical bumps and bruises and weaknesses I want to hide and to put them first, even theoretically.  I swallow hard, forcing my voice louder than the scared whisper it wants to be.  

"I want Fuse."  I sit back down, collapsing into how tired I am, arm throbbing like it's on fire, head aching, "I want Fuse and I want to wake up next to her more often than not.  I want everything with the babies to be ok, and I know I'm not supposed to decide for other people to be safe right now, but I'm going to anyway.  I want them to be safe.  And I want to start living my life instead of waiting for it to start."  I want to be chief but I don't say it, because something about this conversation with...my father is making me feel like nearly killing myself for the title hasn't convinced him of anything.  "And I think I could go with being stabbed a little less.  It does really hurt, it just hurts less than anyone else getting stabbed."  

"Sounds to me like you need to go talk to Fuse."  

I nod, "I'll go now, I doubt she's sleeping any better than I am."  I jump to my feet but he stops me with a wincing look.  "What now?  Is that not the right decision or--"

"Stop second guessing yourself," he gestures at me, "I was just going to suggest that you change out of your bloody clothes.  Maybe get a bandage on those stitches.  If you're feeling really wild you could wash the blood off your hand.  Gods, you're a mess."  He laughs and I join him, wiping my hand over my face and nodding.  

"Yeah.  I am, aren't I?"  I shake my head, "I'll change and then I'll go talk to her."  

"Good plan."  He pats my shoulder as he stands up and I let him, "and you know you have to tell your mother about this tomorrow, right?"  

"You won't?"  

"It's not my secret to tell, but I think you know how much trouble we'll both be in if we make her wait much longer."  His whisper is conspiratorial and I scoff.  

"What do you mean?  I'm already in trouble."  

"But I'm not.  I could still help you if you stay ahead of that."  

I hug him again before I can convince myself not to, thumping on his back with my good hand and laughing when it makes him wheeze, "I'll take you up on that."  Maybe it's because he's not looking at me hopefully or expectantly when I pull away, but I can't call him chief, not now.  "Grandpa."  

"Don't go making me cry," he points towards the stairs, "go change, go figure this out."  

"I'm going," I tiptoe upstairs, trying to think of what the Hel I'm going to say.  

I need to propose, I know that much, but more than that I need to do it in a way Fuse will agree with.  And not just agree with, I need her to get it, I need it to be a decision that feels right to her, because she doesn't do anything that doesn't feel right and I love that about her.  She's more gut feeling than I am, she can't push through months and months of being generally uncomfortable with her convictions for a cause.  I finally feel like that's straightened out for me though and I try not to fixate now on the fact that the chief is the one who helped me reorient.  

A bandage over my arm makes the stitches throb more but burn less and clean clothes make me feel like I'm not quite so walking wounded.  My eyes are dry though and no amount of blinking lets me forget the crying I just did, but maybe it'll incite some pity to make Fuse listen to me.  

I've never doubted that she'd talk to me quite like this, except maybe when I feared she'd heard I was engaged to someone else, and even then I assumed she would know it wasn't my doing.  

I hope the chief is wrong about how many fights we're going to have, but I doubt it.  All my siblings bicker with their wives or in Aurelia's case, husband, but that's kind of double counting.  Maybe I thought if Fuse and I didn't get married, we wouldn't have to deal with all of the supposedly normal married things that I didn't and don't like the sound of, but there's no benefits either, not anymore.  Not for a while, probably even before she got pregnant.  

It's almost sunrise when I go back downstairs, a thin gray line breaking the dark horizon, and the chief isn't anywhere to be seen, which means he probably went to bed.  I'm glad about that, as much as I appreciate last night, I don't want a rehash right now because if there's ever a time I need to keep myself together it's now, and I'm worried I'm still unfortunately close to crying again if someone were nice to me.  And that's why I stop short when I open the front door to see Mom and Dad climbing the hill, chatting comfortably in a way that makes me wary for whatever brought them pleasantly together, because usually that only happens when one of us does something wrong.  

"Glad we caught you," Mom zeroes in on me with peak efficiency and I look over my shoulder, like the closed front door will either produce an escape route or an answer to who got my parents involved.  Oddly, I don't blame the chief, it seemed like he meant it when he said he wouldn't tell her until I had a chance to figure things out with Fuse.  "Can I make you breakfast?"  

My stomach growls.  She drives a hard bargain and I look at Dad, trying to figure out their intent.  If it's just a stitches check, I could stay for some food, but Dad's face is a trap, easy going smile luring me into some sort of lecture that requires their joined forces.  

"I already ate," I lie, patting my stomach and half expecting it to echo like a drum.  

"A second breakfast then," she bribes me and I must have done something really objectionable for her to be luring me back inside this hard.  

"I can't right now," I take Smitelout's advice and infuse a little truth into the situation, and it's not even a lie, I really can't focus on anything until I see Fuse and know there's some chance of her forgiving me and marrying me and moving forward.  

She looks like she's going to argue with that but Dad puts a hand on her arm, and she closes her mouth and nods, "dinner then?"  

"I really don't know how my day's going to go, guys."  I take a side step to move around them and I think Mom is going to try and stop me, but instead she hugs me, too tight, hooking her chin over my shoulder and squeezing.  "Hi, Mom, what's going on?"  I look over at Dad, "is everything ok?"  

"As long as you're ok," he nods towards my arm, the bandage peeking out from under my half-pushed up sleeve, "did you get that taken care of?"  

"Yeah, it's fine," I hug Mom back with the hope that it'll make her let me go so that I can breathe, but it doesn't quite work like that.  Her hair smells like saltwater and she's still wearing her clothes from the feast last night, so there's no armor or thick leather jabbing me and making this uncomfortable, and it's about comforting enough to restart the tears, so I put gentle hands on her shoulders and try to pry her off.  "You good?"  I ask when I'm finally successful, even though she's still holding one of my arms like she doesn't want me to get away.  

"I won't keep you," she takes a step back and I have all of a second to breathe before Dad is picking me up in an Arvid style bear hug that makes me feel small for the first time in a while.  

"Dad! Put me down!"

"Sorry," he brushes off my shoulders when he does, grinning in a way that's out of place with the majority gray of his hairline.  "Just wanted to see if I still could."  

"I think you knew you could, it's whether you should," I jokingly chastise him, straightening my shirt and pointing over my shoulder, "so I've got to go if neither of you have to assault me again."  

"I'm good for now," Mom hesitates a little before continuing, "try and have fun today."  

I look at Dad for confirmation that she's been hit very hard on the head but he just nods at me like this is normal and that's a normal Mom thing to say.  

"What's fun?"  I joke, playing into whatever strange act this is and Mom's fragile smile evaporates.  She looks at Dad and they share some silently communicated thing, like they used to when I was little and they were trying to figure out what I'd done wrong.  It looks weird to me now and maybe it's the lack of sleep or the blood loss or the crying, but everything is starting to feel off kilter, like I'm on an island very similar to the Berk I know.  "I'll uh...see you guys later, alright?"  

"Sure," Dad nods, hand on Mom's elbow as the urges her towards the door.  She doesn't shrug him off, just keeps looking at me with that worried expression, and I hop onto Bang for the short distance rather than feel their eyes on me as I walk away.  

Bang finds a soft pile of hay with Hotgut outside of the Thorston-Ingerman barn and I walk the rest of the way to the Thorston front door, wiping my hands on my pants and building up the courage to knock.  I still don't know exactly what I'm going to say, but I guess it depends on how Fuse acts when she sees me.  I brace other hand to catch the door and hold it if she tries to slam it in my face and then knock three times, like I do on her shed door, the sound of the fire proof wood echoing around my rattled brain.  

The door opens.  

Tuffnut has a black eye that he's holding an ice block to but he sets it down when he sees me, gesturing at my face with an easy, wincing smile.  

"Hey, twins."  

My heart drops, "she told you?"  

This is when it happens.  The honor kill.  I think he has a mace in there somewhere and of all the days to be honor killed, I think that's at the bottom of my list.  It's a bone crunching, blood-spraying way to go and I don't trust him to do it in a single hit.  I should have asked Ingrid, I should have brought Ingrid alone, just in case it came to this.  

"What?"  He cocks his head and then nods, "oh, yeah, she did, but I wasn't talking about that."  He points at his eye and then to my face, "we're facial bruising twins, looks good dude."  

"Huh?"  I pat my cheek to figure out what he's talking about and hiss, because it's tender along my cheekbone and jaw, pulpy and slightly swollen in that new bruise way.  "Fuck," I wince, testing my expression and flinching when a deep frown pulls at the skin, "Smitelout."  

"Mine is my sister's handiwork," he picks up the block of ice and hesitates before offering it to me, "I can get another."  

"No thanks,"  I shift between my feet, trying to figure out what to do with my hands.  Pockets seems too casual and not optimal for blocking the mace swing I'm sure is coming.  Hands out in front feel like surrender, which is only half what I'm here to do, except it's not really a surrender, it's just a new understanding of the solution.  "Um, I'm here to see Fuse."  I point vaguely towards her closed door.  

"She's asleep."  

"Oh," I hadn't thought of that and the barely brightening dawn makes me feel dumber for it, "I can come back, I guess."  Maybe I still have time for that second breakfast Mom offered, except maybe I don't want that because she and Dad were acting so weird.  I could go by the Great Hall, I guess, I know there will be food there for Elva and her remaining people.  

Fuck, she's still here, John is still imprisoned at the arena.  Fuck.  There's too much going on.  

"You can wait here if you want," he gestures for me to come inside and I'm sure the mace is going to come down the second I'm inside, but it doesn't, and I take an awkward seat on a bench near the mostly burned down fire.  

"Thanks."  

Chicken VII pecks at my boot and I lean down to pet her head.  She bites me.  I tuck my hands in my pockets so she can't do it again.  

"So, pretty crazy feast last night, huh?"  He sits on the ground near the hearth and feeds Chicken VII a handful of grain with the hand not holding ice to his face.  "Not as crazy as Fuse hiding being pregnant for months--"

"Sorry about that--"

"No, I'm kind of impressed, you might just be trickier than you look."  He points at me and I frown.  

"Thanks?"  

"Don't mention it."  

Another minute of awkward, heart racing silence passes and I spend it staring at Fuse's door.  I want nothing more than to open it and wake her up or even lay down beside her to finish sleeping, but the fact is she might not want me to and that makes me kind of want the random mace attack to hurry up and happen.  If it even has to happen, I am here to propose, however unconventionally that might end up looking, and now I'm sitting here with Fuse's father, whose opinion she respects more than almost anyone's and I haven't run it by him.  

I clear my throat and he doesn't look up.  

"Uh, Tuffnut?"  I start, heel tapping anxiously as I try to figure out how to say this, "I'm actually here to talk to Fuse."  

"You could try that through the door, if you want, but she's a heavy sleeper."  

"No, I mean I could, I guess."  It's a weird enough suggestion to trip me up, not that it would take much right now, "but I want to both see and talk to her, if that makes sense."  It does, but I doubt it when I say it out loud.  "I'm here to ask her to marry me though, and I just realized I didn't ask you first, which I should, theoretically."  

"Theoretically, yeah, and probably before she was pregnant, but considering I already signed a contract with Hiccup like four years ago, I think the rules are slightly different in this case."  

"Right, I always forget that everything is already all...agreed upon."  

"Except you and Fuse," he pauses, "well, you seem to be agreed upon it now so it's just Fuse."  

"Yep."  That doesn't inspire a lot of confidence and I bite my lip.  "Any idea how this is going to go for me?"  

"You aren't mad at her, right?"  

"No," I shake my head and pause, "she told you about our fight?"  

"A little bit," he shrugs, "she was pretty upset, but the future potential babies stole the spotlight a little bit, as they do.  You'll get used to that."  He nods over my shoulder at Fuse's slowly opening door and stands up, "I'm being overshadowed as we speak, I'll give you two the house for all the yelling and throwing stuff that might be about to happen."  

"Thanks for that," I glare at his back as he walks away.  

Fuse stands in the doorway, groggy and squinting at me, like she's not sure I'm actually here and I wince when the front door slams shut behind her fleeing father.  

"I think I did enough yelling last night," she says quietly, stepping out of her room and making cautious eye contact that I hate.  I hate her being shy around me or more reserved than she usually is, it's like salt in my stitches and I find the chief's question echoing in my head.  What do I want?  

"Any less yelling and I don't know if you would have gotten your point across."  

"That's why I said enough yelling."  She clarifies, sitting down on the bench next to me, "as in I don't need to do anymore."  

I love how precise she is.  I love how she doesn't doubt herself and how clear and honest and direct she is.  And I want more of that, I want it tempering my overwhelming urge to make other people happy, I want it helping me see a straight line through whatever mess is ahead of us.  I clear my throat, looking down at my hands and trying to string the right words together the first time.  

"I think...no, I know we both have a lot of reasons why getting married seems...negative, and I don't think we've talked about them all, because I was so caught up in my own that I never asked about yours."

"There was no reason to," she dodges the suggestion with the same precision, reaching for my arm and pulling my sleeve up to show the bandage.  She peeks underneath like she's making sure I'm not hiding a festering wound and I hate that I made her worry about me so much.  

"You're right, it did need stitches."  I gesture at my cheek with my other hand, "Smitelout did me the favor in exchange for hitting me."  That makes her jaw twitch and I sigh, "and maybe before there wasn't a reason to ask about your reasons, but now there are two, and they're setting the schedule here."  

[tysonrunningfox]

And there’s this.  This...hiccstrid.  It’s hiccstrid.  Fester Hiccstrid, look at them communicate.  

The rest of the AU

Astrid stands in the doorway and looks at Hiccup for a moment, watches familiar fingers testing a knot in something he’s repairing.  She used to want things to go back to how they used to be, but she never thought about them getting better.  She never realized how much he expected her to blindly follow him until he actually started looking to her for advice.  She never realized how much he wasn’t around until he made an effort to come home.  

The last couple months have been…well, not perfect, because nothing is ever going to be perfect again, what with two deeply fractured families crammed together but…they’ve been pretty good.  Better than she would have expected.  

Better than things used to be, really, because somehow he stopped making her feel alone or unimportant. She doesn’t feel like she’s asking too much or like he has more important things to be doing at every second of every day.  He’s acting like he trusts her, and he’s been doing it for so long and so consistently that she’s halfway inclined to believe that he does.  

He mutters something to himself and looks up, jumping when he sees her staring at him.  She laughs, crosses her arms.  

“How long have you been there?”  

“A while,” she shrugs, stepping inside the bedroom—the bedroom that’s supposed to be theirs—and sitting down on the foot of the bed beside him. The few inches she leaves between them feels charged, like the air itself is brimming with potential, and she can’t really remember the last time she felt this way.  Calm but excited.  Comfortable but aching for something she can’t really put words to. “You know, you could have told me that you didn’t like Yaknog like…thirty five years ago.  You didn’t have to keep it a massive secret.”  

“You were always so happy about it,” he shrugs, setting the piece of tack he was working on aside. It’s so very Hiccup in all of the best, most absurd ways, to have their bed covered in dragon tack.  The bed he doesn’t sleep on.  The bed she wakes up in the middle of every morning.  

At first it was nice, the quiet, the feeling that she wasn’t hurting anyone by existing, by being married. But lately it’s just been cold.  

“It’s funny that Yaknog is somehow the thing you’d deal with to make me happy.”  She doesn’t say it like an attack and he doesn’t take it as one, smiling sadly and looking at his hands.  They look the same as they always have.  Even when he was fifteen and clumsy they were sure and smart and steady, maybe the only thing about him that never really changed.  

She finds herself wondering if his hair is as soft as it used to be, even though it’s almost entirely silver now.  She almost touches it, but that would be…she doesn’t know what it would be and she doesn’t know if she’s ready to find out so she clasps her fingers together in her lap, looking at the doorway.  The house is quiet.  The kids are out and Stoick is asleep.  

“It was a small, easy thing with an annual commitment time of a couple days.  That’s about all I was up to,” he laughs, and it’s not self-deprecating, it’s honest in that self-loathing way she used to want to fix.

She feels that long dead but oh so familiar pang in her chest to make him look at himself and see some of what everyone else sees.  Of what the village sees.  Of what she used to see.  

Of what some small part of her is starting to see again.  

“You know, along with being chief and rebuilding an island and changing every single custom you came across.”  

“Yeah, and you deserved more than me pretending to like yaknog.”  He shrugs, his hand hovering at his side for a moment like he’s thinking about reaching for her, but then he stops.  

“That’s true.”  She laughs, staring at his hand, trying to remember the last time they actually touched.  It wasn’t weeks ago.  It was days. More than hours.  Long enough ago that she wants to feel it again.  

She thinks about that day, on the table, when he learned the full extent of all the lies she’d told. She liked it more than she should have, even then, liked the quick, clean violence of it.  It was how she likes to fight, how she’s always liked to fight.  She hates verbal chess matches and drawn out, cold conversations.  It was physical and rough and she was so tired afterwards that she could almost pretend that it was ok.  Constructive even.  Like a good, long workout.  

She hated all those forced pleasantry type touches those first few weeks of marriage.  How he’d hug her or kiss her on the cheek because that’s what he thought husbands did and she felt so pressured to stand there and be wifely that she couldn’t lash out.  She signed up for it, to be the chief’s wife, and every moment of contact felt like an addendum to a contract she’d signed in blood seventeen years ago.

But not touching her and being considerate in a way that seems like he knows her makes her want to touch him.  Even casually, even the punches on the shoulder she used to rely on because she didn’t know how else to act around someone who made her heart pound the way he did.  

“I—So.  Arvid and Aurelia think they’re pretty sneaky.”  He changes the subject like he has been when he’s trying not to make her mad.  

Like her anger is something to be avoided, something he cares about, something he hates.  Like it’s no longer some unavoidable and unpleasant consequence of the plan that had to be right because he thought of it.  

“Arvid’s about as sneaky as a bewilderbeast,” she sighs, because this is worse to think about, the fact that her son still hates her, “I wouldn’t have caught Eret half the time if he didn’t bring Arvid along to brag about it where I could hear him.”  

“I…don’t get mad, or anything, but I wasn’t too happy about my daughter and you know—” He holds up his hands, halfway to surrender, “not that I don’t know Arvid is a great kid, because he was raised by you so he has to be pretty great—”

She kisses him on the cheek. His face turns as red as hers feels. Her lips are tingling, like a bolt of lightning is halfway contained in them, and she licks them, glancing at his mouth, frozen halfway through some word she didn’t hear the first half of.

“Go on.”  She looks at him expectantly.  

“I was saying Arvid has to be a great kid, because he’s your son, but I wasn’t too thrilled with the idea of my daughter hanging around him.”  He’s staring at her, wide eyed and nervous, voice deadpan like he rehearsed this. Maybe he did.  Maybe he sits around thinking about how to talk to her. “But I saw them flying around the other day.  Not—I mean, yeah, they were hiding from me, but I saw my daughter on the back of a dragon in the air, and she was laughing and—that can’t be bad, can it?”  

“Are you asking me for advice?”  

“Of course,” he laughs, runs his hand through his hair, twitchy in a way that makes her ache for nostalgia she thought she got rid of, “Aurelia loves you.”  

“I think that this is the longest I’ve seen Arvid hung up on a single girl.  And I think that Aurelia can take care of herself.  I’ve seen her knock you down a few pegs, and if she can do that, she can handle Arvid just fine.”  

“What’s that supposed to mean?”  He asks, clearly joking with her.  

“I’m saying that if someone that small can get through the armor plated walls of your ego, then she’ll have no problem Arvid.”  

“Armor plated walls,” he clutches his chest, “that hurts, Astrid.  That really hurts.”  

She punches him in the arm and it’s a reflex, the same reflex it used to be, when she was a stupid kid who didn’t know what it meant to like someone so much.  Her eyes widen as soon as she does it, because it feels like flirting and she’s realizing that she wants it to be flirting.  She’s flirting with him.  On purpose.

That he’s still here and that matters and she’s letting it matter.  She’s not keeping him out to start a fight.  

“As does that,” he rubs his arm, wrinkles his nose, “are you trying to break me?”  

She rolls her eyes and looks at the open door into the empty house.  For some reason it’s exciting that it’s quiet and empty, and it occurs to her that she’s doing something she wouldn’t want the kids to see.  She looks back at him, the scar on the side of his forehead that she doesn’t know the story behind, the little silver flecks in his still dark eyebrows, the freckles on his nose and the way that the slanted firelight makes him look younger.  He looks like the Hiccup she used to know, but different too, because she never saw the hopeful look in his eyes at the same time as the angles of his adult face. At least it was never directed at her.

He lets go of his arm and his hand bumps against her shoulder.  He jumps back like she burned him and opens his mouth to apologize, she’s sure he’s going to apologize, and she doesn’t want it.  She doesn’t want another nebulous decades late apology and she doesn’t want him to apologize for touching her, not anymore.  

“Don’t,” she cuts him off, bumps her shoulder against his because if she doesn’t she can feel that she’s going to do something stupid.  She’s going to grab his hand or kiss his cheek again or worse, and no matter how much this is making her feel like some flirtatious teenager, she can’t act like one, just how she can’t act like an angry twenty five year old anymore either.  “I—you’re fine.  You don’t have to be so jumpy around me.  It’s starting to make me jumpy.”  

“Sorry—I mean, not sorry. I’ll work on it.  I’ll keep working on it.”  He nods, biting his lip and looking like he always used to when he was planning something.  “Milady,” he smiles a hopeful smile like he wants to take advantage of the fact she told him she’d rather be flirted with than apologized to.  

There’s somehow no doubt in her mind that he’s standing there planning how he’s going to work on it.  That he’s sitting beside her trying to integrate something that she said into his life.  That she’s somehow not an obstacle anymore but something he’s trying to actively include in his decisions.  

“I think…I think I actually believe you.”  She laughs and stands up, because it’s hard to be in the same room as him all of a sudden, hard to deal with all of the conflicting ideas swimming around in her head.

She wants to kiss him. She wants to pick a fight, to prove that everything she’s come to know again about him isn’t entirely wrong. She wants to hate him for taking so long to get here.  She wants to shove him back on the bed and make up for lost time.  She wants to mourn thirty years of mistakes, like maybe, at some level, she never felt differently she just wanted to.  

“That’s…that’s a good thing, isn’t it?”  He stands up, smile wide and earnest.  “That’s…something.”  

“You’re such an idiot.” She steps forward and wraps her arms around his shoulders, resting her chin against the cool leather of his armor. It feels like coming home, in a way she hates and loves all at the same time.  He rests his hands flat on her back, too tentative and too warm and she sighs, squeezing him tighter for a second before letting go.  

He moves like he doesn’t want to let go and for a second she thinks that he won’t, that she’ll start yelling at him about how they were just making progress, but his hands fall slack at his sides as she steps back.  

“I think I’m going to head to bed,” he stretches his arms out, fakes a yawn in that way Eret always does, “Early morning.  You know, lots of…chiefly things to do.  Early. So I should sleep.  Now.”  

It’s like he knows he’ll do something stupid if he doesn’t leave now.  She knows the feeling.  

“Goodnight, Hiccup.”  

“Goodnight,” he takes a step towards the door then turns back to look at her, “I—goodnight. Yeah.  Goodnight.”  

“Yeah, goodnight.” She follows him to the door and shuts it behind him, leaning against the wood for a second and breathing.  She wants to feel stupid.  She wants to tell herself that she’s just setting herself up for disappointment and another round of heartbreak.  

But something tells her she isn’t, some stupid little naïve voice that she hasn’t heard in years is telling her to slow down, to trust just another moment.