Draugr

Six

Six

Hiccup moved back to their home after the funeral-accompanied by faithful Toothless and, of course, Astrid. And it had been immensely painful to watch the man have to pause at the door of the home they had built, had loved together and have to steel himself to turn the key in the lock and enter.

The hall was cold and dark, the lights not on and a light layer of dust on the surfaces. He turned to the thermostat, switched up the heat and flipped the light on. And stiffened-for the first thing he saw was Astrid's baby blue woollen hat carelessly discarded in the hall table. Astrid gasped as he slowly extended an arm and gripped it, raising it slowly to his face and breathing deeply, catching the last hints of her scent. He closed his eyes for a long moment and sighed.

"Gods, I miss you, Milady," he murmured, then forced himself to put the hat down and walk into the rest of the building. Automatically, he lit the fire in the log-burner in the main living room, put the kettle on and poured a pile of biscuits into Toothless's bowl. The black dog looked up with a whine, then turned to his meal, his tail wagging. "Hmm...didn't take you long to get back to normal," he mumbled, opening the cupboard, reaching out...and then stiffening, giving a low groan.

He had instinctively grasped two mugs when making the coffee: marked Babe and Milady. With a shaking hand, he placed Milady back in the cupboard and closed the door, listlessly spooning instant coffee granules and sugar in, then sloshing the boiling water in. He pressed a hand to his face.

"I can't do it, bud," he murmured. "Everything here reminds me of her. I just expect to turn around and see her." Toothless whined and instantly walked to his side, pressing against his leg. Tousling the dog's ears, he reached for the milk carton and poured a big slosh in. He sipped his coffee and stared down into the big green eyes of the mutt. "Don't leave me, okay? I'm not sure I could cope without you as well, buddy."

Quietly, he walked through the house, emerald eyes sliding quietly across every corner, replaying memories of being here with Astrid. And she watched him, seeing each new memory hit him like a fresh wound, the pain of her absence crippling. The bathroom with her toiletries and make-up neatly arrayed, her toothbrush lying waiting for an owner who would never return: her home office that was pristine, the plant wilting from lack of water-and the bedroom, her side neat with everything stowed and put away meticulously but overall looking wrecked because Hiccup's side was a disaster as he grabbed things for the funeral, trying not to look at the room and the side of the bed that would be forever empty. He pulled his tie off, dumped the jacket on the bed and then unfastened the top button of his shirt, sliding it over his head. It joined the piles of clothes on the bed. He kicked his shoes off and threw his socks aside, then removed his pants. Urgently, he dragged out one of his loose tee-shirts and hauled on a mucky pair of paint- and clay-splattered jeans that Astrid always wrinkled her nose at-and he once again looked like the sculptor/potter she had fallen in love with. Driven by silent purpose, he sped up the stairs to the loft studio and clicked the lights on, letting out a shuddering sigh.

He was home: this was his space, his haven, the place where he was himself most of all. But even here, there were reminders...the wheel where he had attempted to teach her how to throw pots and which had led to so much more, the table where she had been learning to make clay animals...the blanket where they made love. He walked aimlessly-and then he found the small kiln still locked, though stone cold because it had completed a firing the night...the night she had died. He frowned and quietly opened the door-to stare at the little shape within.

It broke him. He slumped to his knees, hands flat on the surface and head bowed, as sobs shuddered through him. Terrible tearing sobs filled the silent room as tears dripped from his desperately closed eyes. It was her last effort, the little dragon she had been so proud of-her own personal species-a 'Deadly Nadder'-that she had named Stormfly. Throat constricted with utter misery, he reached out and cradled the little shape, cool and smooth and slightly rough with the biscuit firing.