#atmelvalds.

[d4rkmoor]

the return to berk is a surrender, not a victory. they land on familiar soil hard, dragons crashing in a flurry of wings and dust, riders dismounting in various states of injury and exhaustion. fishlegs stumbles. the twins bicker as they help each other stand. hiccup's in shambles, checking everyone and their dragons over, refusing to consider himself. while snotlout— snotlout slumps forward on hookfangs' neck, an arrow sticking out his shoulder. they're barely on the island before he's being lifted off the monstrous nightmare by oncoming berkians, blood matting his armour in a way that makes even astrid's stomach tighten. gothi's there instantly, silently sharp, ushering them to her hut with urgency. chaos ensures, topped off by stoick's booming voice demanding the meaning of their uncoordinated return home. astrid intends to explain: it was an onslaught. krogan and the flyers. we had to retreat. berk was closer than the edge. we had no choice. but the moment her boots hit the surface, her leg betrays her. it's subtle, a tremor, but enough; enough for hiccup to notice because that's what he does. this is how she finds herself being steered (against her wishes, though not without purpose) to the great hall, where warmth and necessity mingle in equal measure.

the ambush fell over them, a storm waiting to strike. hunters surged from behind cliffs, out of coves; ships cut through the water with brutal accuracy. nets launched skyward, followed by bolts and arrows— thick, barbed, glinting with a sickly sheen every rider learned to fear: dragon root. no more than three minutes endured before hiccup ordered a retreat; stormfly banked hard in their rush, which was when astrid saw it: one of krogan's men, aiming... not at her, at stormfly. the time to think became non-existent, and astrid acted on instinct— she moved her body into the path of the shot. it was like being struck with fire and ice simultaneously. the skewer drove inside her thigh with precision, poison burning as it mercilessly touched muscle and nerve. the nadder shrieked, nearly losing altitude in an attempt to twist her neck and check her rider, but astrid instructed her forward. i'm okay, girl, i'm okay. keep going! her hand went to the shaft, absent of common sense, and she ripped it out, throwing it away. she yanked it too quickly, and knew it by the shiver that ran up her spine. still, she held herself upright as they caught up to the others, expression carved from stubborn stone; she would not falter.

hiccup trusted joyce, had been fixed up by her more than once; as gothi busied herself with jorgenson, hofferson is taken to the next best thing. he's the sole reason she cooperates, and is now resting on one of the long wooden benches, posture rigid with compelled composure. another bench has been dragged in front and her leg rests across it— straight, unyielding, like sheer stubbornness might stitch her wound together. crimson continues soaking through her skin, refusing to be ignored no matter how she demands it. astrid braces her hands, fingers curling against the rough wood, sitting like a blade left too long in water; still deadly, but dulled at the edges by circumstances she did not like admitting existed. every instinct in her body pulls outward; toward stormfly, likely circling close, believing proximity alone could guarantee safety. toward her team scattered throughout the village, alive but not whole. toward hiccup, who is talking in low, tight sentences with his dad and gobber near the hearth, already thinking too far ahead, wondering what he should have done differently.

just a few more stitches and you'll be good as new. @atmelvalds

joyce's tone is annoyingly comforting. clearly she noticed astrid's desperation to leave, to fix this herself with thread, needle, and a mirror. her constant, frustrated glances around the room; her inability to sit still. astrid grabs the jug of ale on the table (hiccup anticipated she'd need it, probably even apologised to joyce before offering up his betrothed as a problematic patient) and took a long, defiant swig. the bitterness grounds her enough to keep from snapping at every following touch. but only momentarily. "yeah, i know how stitches work." she bites, unreasonable. "i have done this before, you know. all by myself, and everything." pain pulses in vicious waves, each heartbeat a hammer blow driving deeper. the root has done its work; even after she'd wrenched the weapon free, gods, what a ridiculous, reflexive thing that had been, the venom lingered, coiling through without hesitation. "for the love of freya— i'm fine. look, it's basically stopped bleeding, now." it hasn't.

try, a voice in the back of her head urges, be nice. she's on the way to becoming your mother-in-law, for thors sake! shoulders sag, and she exhales slowly, bitterly through the nose. a confession is ripped from some part of her core that very few have witnessed, "i know it was stupid... and i made it worse. shouldn't have pulled it out. i..." she hesitates, words catching like thorns in her throat. "didn't want stormfly grounded." her eyes flicker to the open doors (habit more than anything) but she doesn't attempt to rise this time, to turn the urge to action. she forces the gratitude out, not that her sincerity is false, just that it's hard to express. to be vulnerable. she is trying, believe it or not. "i know i'm not great at saying it, but... i do appreciate this. you fixing me up. i… uh…" she laughs gently, awkwardly, brushing stray yellow strands from her eyes. "relying on others isn't exactly my strong suit." she admits, taking another drink. being sober for this kind of conversation is not inviting. "i'm working on it."

[d4rkmoor]

the air bites sharply against the shoreline, carrying the scent of sea and salt, but more callously, it carries the faint, melancholy echo of stoick's voice, a ghost lingering in every whip of wind and creaking rooftop. the newly crowned chief moved through the island in a lonesome shadow, body stiff, chest tight with a grief refusing to loosen. trekked paths are nearly empty at such a time, save a handful of freshly hatched nadders hovering about near their feeding stations, hunched over the remaining scraps from dinnertime. the dragons' eyes glimmered, similar to molten gold in the dim light, half-fatigued and half-watchful, making hiccup's steps feel like an invasion on some sacred, fragile silence. he drew his cloak tighter and shivered, not entirely from cold.

soon, the moment to cross the purposely avoided threshold arrived: an unassuming hut at the edge of berk, quietly quaint and constantly confiding. knocking at her door was never so difficult. ( astrid spoke to him, hands gentle on his arms but passion solid as stone; she tried, with quiet patience and blunt insistence, to make him acknowledge reason. convinced him, finally, to talk to her— the one who protected him when death stalked close; so close he can still sense it when the weather turns particularly cruel. ) his legs are weak. his heart, ragged from loss, trembles inside the cage of his ribs. here, standing in the witching hour, he feels like a trespasser, a traitor seeking forgiveness in a village holding its breath, waiting to see if he would stumble or stand tall. he finally knocks. it opens after roughly thirty seconds, not that he's counting or anything...

you're here. @atmelvalds

he swallows, fingers fidgeting at his sides, "heh, yeah— better late than never, right? fashionably late, you might say." he opts for a casual demeanour, but the hope, the warmth in her face, denies his false cheer. he'd been much too proud that he didn't need help; far too afraid she'd only perceive that little boy, the one who struggled to fend for himself, when he needed to be so much more, now. her dwelling is a small sentinel within the encroaching dark. smoke curls lazily from the roof, wafting with the aroma of wood and herbs. it vows protection as always— but now promises judgment... should he retreat. he pauses, ( what if she's tired of his hesitations, his pride, the undeserved isolation he imposed between them? ) and imagines turning away, retiring to the solitude of the great hall, hiding behind plans and responsibilities, pretending to be capable.

"uh... can i come in?" hiccup's voice cracks. he dares to look at joyce, this warrior of heart and home, and lets the jagged shards of guilt slice sharper than any sword. after all, what awaits him in his own house but an idle chair set to gather dust? a token of the throne a man he'd seldom be reigned upon. suddenly, he backtracks, stumbling over realisations with a raised hand and taut shoulders, "unless you were asleep! oh gods, you were definitely sleeping. i mean, the terrible terrors aren't even up yet, so..." he sighs, but smiles gently under the moons heavy gaze; it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "later? i'll come back— later."

[snpshits]

jonathan's mind and body shatters awake in a single, violent action. the darkness that held him, whispered and coiled through every inch of his skull, tore abruptly apart as if struck by a force too bright to endure. his chest heaves, burning with the thrill of denied air. the world snaps into focus in jagged fragments: posters, a record player, soft blankets beneath him, crutches in the corner of the room⸺ his room. disorientation clings like a vice, and his gaze darts wildly as he moves to sit up, scanning the landscape for absent shadows, for the red, pulsing atmosphere of the upside down.

but there's no time to climb to his feet, to rush and pound and look for the next exit in the labyrinth of his subconscious, for a tremendous warmth reaches him, SO REAL IT MAKES HIS HEART ACHE WITH SOME PROFOUND LOSS. familiar hands are suddenly there, cupping his cheeks with careful urgency, tilting his chin slightly, brushing the sweat and tears stuck to his skin. (is this his awaited rescue, or the cruelest mirage? a sweet poison woven by the haunted void he narrowly escaped…) the memories⸺ endless corridors filled with already lived horrors, the oppressive company of monsters… it's thick in his lungs, bitter in his throat. yet those hands remain, impossibly earnest; the touch spreads within him like sunlight piercing frost.

it's me, you're okay, i'm here. @atmelvalds

now it's his turn to reach out, shakily recognising his unyielding protector, despite festering doubts. "mom?" her eyes, wide with fear and love, hold him in a trance so penetrating it's like she's trying to expel the very shadow living inside him. "OH GOD⸺ MOM." (i was scared. i was so scared.) the tension in his shoulders loosen as her words seep in, liquid and luminous, washing away the tendrils of suspicion. (she is here.) at last, jonathan lets himself fall⸺ not into a dream, nor illusion, but into the unshakable, radiant truth of her realness. long arms envelope her tiny frame before she has a chance to realise he's moving; a son mounted upon his mother without a lick of warning, pulling her close, rather than the other way around.

jonathan remains still for a great, suspended moment, letting joyce's steady presence press into him, letting the rhythm of her heartbeat anchor the scattered pieces of his own. BUT THEN REALITY REASSERTS ITSELF, SHARP AND INSISTENT. he retreats backwards, and begins mirroring her previous actions: shaken fingers touching her face, gripping her chin, looking her over; what's happened in his absence? how long was he gone? "are you okay? you're... you're not hurt? is will okay? jane?"