Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Once upon a time there was a kingdom so full of joy at the announcement of the Queen’s pregnancy that every day was a celebration. At long last, an heir was coming, and the land, down to every last hair on the back of a dormouse, every blade of grass radiated with happiness. 

Preparations for the christening begin early, new recipes to be tried, and decorations to be hung. The entire kingdom gets swept up into it, and when the Queen gives birth to twins, a perfect pigeon pair, everything is perfect. 

(Or rather, everything is perfect except the Royal Letter Writer got a cramp in his writing hand in the midst of putting together invitations and turned to speak to the Royal Signature Forger and there was a bit of a mix up with one very important invitation. It never gets written. 

And when the Royal PostMaster sees there isn’t a letter for all the fae of the land, she assumes the Royal Surveyor and the Royal Census Taker have just done their jobs. No one has seen the seventh fae of the woods in years, perhaps the fae is no longer with them. The Royal PostMaster shrugs, and thinks no more of it. 

It is a near fatal mistake.) 

The new prince and the princess are showered with gifts from far and wide. New honey cake recipes made in their honour, jewellery of gold and gems, precious spices and herbs, and the fae descend upon the crib to lay down magicks of beauty and grace, joy and humility, and song. Just as the sixth fae of the forest lays it’s hand on the side of the crib the air crackles with tension and electricity and all of a sudden the Royal PostMaster feels faint. 

Whilst no fae, with their trickery and mischief, is one to slight, the seventh fae of the forest is the very worst one to have upset. They stand upon the steps of the throne room, a form twisted and angry, and points one clawed hand at the crib. The Queen screams, throwing herself in front of the babies, happily unaware of what’s going on about them. It makes no difference. 

“Oh, but they haven’t gotten my present yet.” The seventh fae of the forest says with a wicked grin. “On their eighteenth birthday, one of them - perhaps more unfortunate than other, or perhaps both, equally dim witted as one another, who can say - will prick their finger on the spindle of a spinning wheel and die.” 

The seventh fae of the forest leaves the way they came, tension crackling in the air, evil laughter ringing in the guests ears. The Queen turns, melting into the crib to press her babies to her chest, weeping for the horror that has befallen them. One or both, it matters not, she weeps for the life that will be stolen, of the misfortune hanging over their heads. 

“I haven’t given my gift yet.” The sixth fae of the forest says, quiet. They do not want to give out false hope; their job in the forest is to paint flowers and help young birds learn their song and encourage the moss to grow. The seventh fae of the forest is the most ancient of all, magick seeping through the cracks of the earth and rolling with the molten rock, haggard like the old pine trees clinging to life on a mountainside. Still, moss and flowers and bird songs are new life. “My gift to the twin prince and princess is that whilst they may prick their fingers on a spindle, or perhaps anything sharp on their eighteenth birthday, but it will not kill them, only send them into a deep sleep that can only be broken with a true love’s kiss.” 

The magick is bound with the press of the sixth fae of forest’s own kiss, a press to each forehead and the babies wriggle. They are squirming more now, unnerved by the silence of the room and the distressed cries of their mother. They are saved now. 

The King orders all spinning wheels to be banned, rounding them up that very night. The kingdom is happy to build the bonfire, sending the young prince and princess’ doom to rest in one fell swoop. 

The prince and princess grow up all that they were said to be; beauty and grace, joy and as much humility as a fae themselves would have, bright and loud and cheeky. They are adored by the kingdom, although routinely swatted on the hands for pulling pranks. No one tells them of the curse, or the cure, and slowly as they grow and grow the kingdom forgets. There are no spinning wheels, and there are no spindles and the prince and princess are safe. 

It is late morning of their eighteenth birthday and they are exploring the north tower after a breakfast celebration and before the lunch one when they find a door they’ve never seen before. The prince and the princess know all the secret tunnels, all the hidden passages and tiny little rooms. This one is new. This one was not there before. They open the door. 

Inside is an old woman, long silver hair tired back in a cloth, sitting behind a strange contraption neither of them have seen before. Her foot shifts, pressing on a lever at the bottom and the middle moves in a great whirl, spinning away. The prince gasps, entranced by the movement and the old woman looks up. 

“Hello children,” the old woman says kindly, a smile brightening her wizened old face. “How nice to see you? Have you not seen a spinning wheel before?” 

“Who are you?” The princess demands, hands on her hips. She has to reach out a moment later to grab the prince’s arm. 

“What’s a spinning wheel?” The prince asks, very clearly itching to get closer. He is like this for everything, open and curious, laughing when the cook’s cat scratches his face again. 

“Why don’t you come and have a look?” The old woman says and happily the prince does, pulling out of the princess’s grip. 

“Tuff, don’t!” The princess cautions, teaching out to grab at the prince again but she is too late. He reaches out, hand open to touch the spinning wheel and his fingers brush the spindle. 

“Ow.” The prince says. He holds his hand up, a bead of red blood like a ruby against his finger tip, and then collapses. Immediately the old woman is not an old woman anymore, the spinning wheel in front of her vanished, and her new twisted, gnarled form laughs, throwing its head back. The princess rushes to the prince’s side, shaking her brother’s shoulder to wake him. He does not wake. 

When the princess barges into the preparations for the luncheon, panting and her clothes ragged they all know before she even gets a word out. The King strides on ahead, the Queen gripping tightly to her daughter’s arm as the princess rambles on, getting all mixed up in her haste. An evil laugh, an old woman, rubies bleeding from the prince’s skin, a spinning wheel . 

Desperate, they call upon the fae of the forest, sitting in the strange unknown room in the northern tower, the prince asleep on the floor. His breathing is deep, steady, and his eyelids flicker like he is dreaming, fingers twitching every so often. He has been shaken, and poked and pushed and even slapped but it has done nothing. Only the sixth fae of the forest visits in a form with many arms and brown like the bark of an oak tree. Magick is complicated, they whisper like the rasp of autumn leaves, ours is tied with outcomes already true. Joy and grace and beauty and melodic voices; in this state, they could only offer sweet dreams perhaps. 

“I’m sorry, I’m not that much stronger than I was eighteen years ago.” The sixth fae of the forest says, twisting the four hands of this form together. “But, I could protect the prince? Once you lay him down on his bed the castle will slumber with him, and the gardens will shelter him.” 

“Anything.” The princess says, speaking over the King. She will not be forced to do anything alone, to rule or mess around, or be without her brother. 

And so the young prince is laid out on bed sheets of a thousand threads, and sleeps. And the castle sleeps with him.

Chapter Text

The raspberry grove is Prince Hiccup’s favourite place on the edge of the Berk lands, a secluded opening in the forest with an ancient broken gatehouse peeking out of the brambles overlooking a large pond. It is beautiful, peaceful, a place he runs to think, to emote, to have escapades he’s not supposed to be having. It’s a secret, only known to a select few, and a place of tranquility and his personal guard are the only others allowed to visit too. Especially if they’re there to prune. 

“Every year. ” Snotlout complains. He wipes his forehead, sweat beading at his temple. It’s very obviously a ploy to stop working for a little while. 

“Shut up ‘Lout.” Astrid says. 

“I just don’t get why he can’t get a gardener to do this? Isn’t that their jobs? Like what else do they even do? They have so much spare time they clip bushes into the shape of nude people.” Snotlout continues, brandishing the shears  

“That’s a very important job.” Eret says, teasing, but Snotlout makes an awful squawking noise like he thinks he’s being unfairly challenged. He puffs up, pushing his chest out and he looks like an angry barn cat. Small and grumpy, and hardly a foe. 

“Honestly, just shut up. It’s not hard, if you stopped yakking on it’ll get done quicker.” Astrid speaks over the top of him. If they get done before nightfall they can swim in the pond and she very much is looking forward to it. 

“I swear these brambles get tougher every year.” Snotlout mumbles but he goes back to what he’s doing. 

The brambles do. They creep into the clearing, covering up the gatehouse, overshadowing the pond, making the grove smaller and smaller. If not for the delicious raspberries upon the arrival of spring, Astrid thinks by now Prince Hiccup would have ordered them to hack the raspberries down. They would be hard pressed to, it’s a part of the forest no one owns because it’s so overrun with these brambles - of the raspberries at the eastern side, loganberries to the north, blackberries to the south west. Amongst it all are briar roses, flowers beautiful and rosehips making the sweetest tea. The patch is so big it’s several days' ride to the other end, and every year it does feel like they’re fighting a cunning foe. 

There are stories about the brambles, whispered in the corners of taverns and used as scary stories to get children to behave, of a castle in the middle, a land asleep. Of a prince and a princess, asleep in the middle of it all, awaiting rescue after many, many moons. They are stupid stories, Astrid knows, they don’t even make sense - hundreds of years of sleep? Impossible. And yet, a part of her will always believe them. Her Uncle Finn did. 

“Maybe you’re just getting weaker.” Eret offers with a shrug. Snotlout makes a noise of outrage, dramatically putting down his shears and holding his hands up like they’re still squires fighting to prove themselves. 

“Thor help me.” Astrid says, propping her own shears down to intervene. She holds a hand out as Snotlout steps forwards, pushing him back as he raises a fist. “Back off ‘Lout.” 

“Hey, Eret started it.” Snotlout whines. He drops his hands though, crossing his arms over his chest. Astrid steps between them, knowing Eret’s sniggering behind her. 

“If you don’t shut up and finish your job by dinner, I’ll finish it.” She threatens. 

Snotlout snorts, rolling his eyes but steps back. When Astrid turns around she sends a withering glare Eret’s way. He does it on purpose, winding Snotlout up until ‘Lout starts acting predictably once more and Astrid doesn’t think it’s funny. It’s especially not funny with getting to swim in the pond on the line. She doesn’t know what the two of them need to sort out, but it’s 

“Still, these brambles are awful.” Snotlout complains. 

****

“I wish you wouldn’t agree to cut those brambles back.” Her mama says, not looking up from the bowl she’s mixing several herbs into. How she knows what Astrid’s been doing most of the day she doesn’t ask. 

“Mama, you know at this point I’m Prince Hiccup’s general dog’s body.” Astrid says carefully. They’d finished pruning back to where the marked line was, shaping the brambles back to a neat shape half an hour before dinner, so Astrid had gotten two swims in the pond in. Snotlout calmed down enough to join her, Eret skipping rocks at the edge of the pond. She’d felt refreshed, bright, enough spare time to collect a basketful of herbs for her mama. This conversation is not the end to the day she wants. “I just do what’s requested of me.” 

“And what if you need the brambles’ help one day?” Her mama says, pausing mid sprinkle of tarragon to watch whatever’s happening in the bowl. 

“Help?” Astrid asks, putting her basket of fresh herbs and rosehips on the dining table. “With what?” 

“I don’t know exactly what a bramble would do for help, but you never know. You shouldn’t harm the forest.” Her mama says, scratching out a note on the piece of parchment beside her. “Perhaps they could provide food when you’re lost in the woods, or shelter. Those brambles are full of magick, you buzz with it when you come home.” 

“I didn’t notice.” Astrid says, voice tight. Her mama drops her quill, looking up for the first time, expression worried, sorry. “I’ll chop some more firewood.” 

“Astrid,” her mama starts, but Astrid turns stiffly and walks back out the front door. 

They don’t need more firewood. There’s enough to last two winters in the store, and it’s almost the beginning of summer. Astrid, however, needs something to do with her hands and living on the edge of the forest with her mama means there are no unfortunate knights or squires to spar with. When she’s angry or confused, upset or hurt, she chops wood. 

It’s no one’s fault Astrid doesn’t have even the tiniest sprinkle of the magick of the Hofferson family. It’s not her mother’s, or the father Astrid never knew even if his blood diluted what little was left. It’s not Uncle Finn’s fault for letting her play with wooden swords as a young child instead of sitting inside and struggling with magick studies. Astrid was just born a normal human girl, nothing special about her, no magick, no latent abilities. It’s not even unusual in a family with a strong magickal line to have a child once every couple of generations that’s just ordinary, let alone one where the magick has slowly been petering out, but the Hofferson have always run true. Astrid is just a dud. 

Astrid is just a dud, and it’s okay. Astrid has a life she likes, a good one with a roof over her head and a job she loves, even if she doesn’t truly belong anywhere. 

Her mama comes outside once Astrid’s finished spitting five and a half logs. Her hands have settled, her shoulders loosened as she’s fallen into the routine of the motion. There is nothing more satisfying then the thud of her axe, producing something useful. 

“I’m sorry,” her mama says, “I didn’t mean it like that. It was not criticism, it was just respect for the forest. That doesn’t exclude you.” 

“I know mama.” Astrid says. People may call her mama strange and weird, or say witch with scorn and hatred but her mama has never felt out of place. Her mama was never scorned and criticised for being the witch’s daughter, no magick to make the hurt worthwhile. 

“I love you.” Her mama says. Astrid knows. It’s just that they’re very different . You can love someone, but not understand them. 

“I love you too.” Astrid says. 

They stand in silence for several long moments, the chill of the last of crisp spring nights creeping in and Astrid lowers her axe. It needs to be cleaned, the new wood put away, and Astrid wants a few more moments to breathe before she’s tugged back into the swirl of smells and magick that settles into the air of their house. 

“Come inside dear,” her mama says, like maybe she’s reading Astrid’s mind.  “I have a stew cooking, there’s no reason to not come in and feast. We can add some of the herbs you brought.” 

“Let me finish up here.” Astrid replies, steady. Her mama hovers in the doorway for several moments, her hand pressed to the wood, but eventually nods, turning back instead. Astrid heaves a sigh of relief, crisp air curling in her lungs and takes out a cloth to clean her axe. 

Astrid takes her time, cleaning until the axe shines like new and stacking the woodpile until it’s a perfect honeycomb of interlocking pieces of tinder. She wipes down the space, gets the broom out and sweeps up the splinters of wood. Once it’s tidy Astrid does another sweep, just in case, just for another moment. Unable to find any more reasons not to go inside, Astrid lets herself back inside. 

“The stew is ready,” Her mama calls out, already back into her books, a bowl of cooling stew by her side as she scribbles down notes, sketching out the herbs Astrid brought home. 

“I’ll just wash up.” Astrid replies, but steps past the kitchen basin where they rinse their hands and out into the hallway. “I’ve been working in these clothes all day.” 

Instead of heading to her own room to change tunics Astrid continues down the corridor, stopping at the final door just before the washroom. It’s unlocked, although it used to be, the key hidden inside the pantry on a hook too high for young Astrid to reach. The door creaks, hinges protesting and Astrid pauses, looking back down the hallway for several moments. No one comes, or calls out, so Astrid presses onwards, pushing the door just wide enough to slip through and shuts it quickly behind her. 

Inside the simple bed is still unmade from the day Uncle Finn died, room untouched. They’d been in a rush that day, joy in every angle of their faces, Uncle Finn stage whispering he hadn’t done his chores yet during the stage coach ride to the castle. Mama had scolded him, but she’d been open and happy too, her voice teasing and Astrid had laughed. After, once the castle’s physician had set Astrid’s arm and her mama had wiped the blood off her face they’d taken the weary walk back to their house alone. The attack clearly hadn’t been calculated but it had been bloody, and Astrid had dented her new squire’s sword, screamed her own throat sore when a claw had side swiped Uncle Finn. Her mama hadn’t cried through it, mumbling soft words to Astrid as they splinted her arm, stoic and shaken as they walked home, but when they opened Uncle Finn’s door to the messy bed she’d broken down. 

“Hi Uncle Finn,” Astrid says. She smooths down a corner of the bed, sitting down, pressing out a wrinkle for a moment before it springs back into place. “Mama still forgets, you know, even though I’m a fully fledged knight now. She looks at me and doesn’t remember I’m not really one of you. I don’t know how she does, because I can’t.” 

All of a sudden Astrid feels tired; the day of hacking back the brambles in the raspberry grove, of the long walk back, her strained muscles as she chopped the firewood. She casts her eyes across the room, glancing across the books of magick and stories of old conquests, Uncle Finn’s broadsword hung upon the wall, a collection of talismans. It’s like he never left, not a speck of dust out of place, like any second he might open his door, dirty from travels but grinning when he sees Astrid. 

“I miss you.” Astrid says. 

The house settles around Astrid when she gets up, floor groaning, door creaking. She brushes her fingers along the hallway to the washroom, wood rough under her hands. She picks out a fresh tunic, washing her face and sponging off the sweat and grit of the day and joins her mama for supper. 

**** 

“Do you think you can cover for me?” Prince Hiccup asks, hanging off the edge of his four poster bed, legs in the air, crown on the ground. 

“Sure.” Astrid says, mouth twisting as Eret snorts, “I’m sure no one would notice.” 

“Well, Snotlout can’t do it,” Eret agrees, smile threatening to split his face open, and when Snotlout squawks his indigance he laughs. “Manlet.” 

“Well at least I’m not freakishly tall ! ” Snotlout says, stamping his foot. Astrid flicks him a look, his face all red and flustered, and Eret looks absolutely delighted. 

“Manlet.” She coughs into her hand. Snotlout sends her a glare that has a burst of giggles tumbling out of Eret's mouth. 

“It’s just, I hate all these stupid dinners.” Prince Hiccup whines, cutting them off. He slumps further, shoulders hitting the floor as he tucks his head, the crown shoved out of the way. 

“Oh woe is me,” Eret says, his teasing smile turned onto Prince Hiccup, “I’m a prince and I’m super rich and I have to eat fancy food at nice dinners where lots of pretty girls give me attention. My life is so hard.” 

“You guys are the worst. ” Prince Hiccup says, but he’s smiling, eyes flicking towards Snotlout’s grumpy face and smiling even more. 

“I’m still down for pretending to be Hiccup.” Astrid says and it sends the three of them into spluttering laughter. 

Astrid would hate the dinners too, if she was Prince Hiccup. It’s a spectacle of embarrassment, moderately rich men with daughters primed and proper and fake , trying to be different by doing exactly the same thing as everyone else. These girls, some as young as fourteen, a chess piece in their father’s lives, hurt by the lack of interest on Prince Hiccup’s part. A hideous existence. Astrid is thankful every day she gets to stand there and hold a sword, expression blank and tough, a bow instead of a curtesy. 

“Odin!” Snotlout laughs, “could you imagine everyone’s faces when Astrid comes down, blonde hair and blue eyes and saying she’s the prince?” 

“What?” Fishlegs asks from the doorway, a pile of books and scrolls balanced in one hand as he opens the door. He looks at the four of them, laughing, and Prince Hiccup puddled down the bed with wide eyes. 

“Fishlegs!” Prince Hiccup calls, scrambling to get up from his awkward slumped position but his hand hits the edge of his crown and he slips, tumbling off the bed. He lands with barely a thud, but Fishlegs drops the books and scrolls to scurry across the room and help him up, hand lingering over Prince Hiccup’s shoulder as he pretends to dust off a piece of lint. 

“What’s with the research?” Prince Hiccup asks, preening under Fishlegs’ attention, acting far more disorientated than a fall from precisely zero would cause. Fishlegs fusses for a few more moments before blinking, looking back over at the papers. 

“Oh, I found something interesting for Astrid.” He says, attention back on Prince Hiccup, brushing hair out of his face. 

“For me?” Astrid asks, but is not worried when she doesn’t get an answer. She looks over at Eret and Snotlout, the both of them watching Fishlegs fuss over Prince Hiccup, snickering. It happens every time the two of them are in the same room, lingering hands and longing glances, and it had been funny the first few hundred times 

Astrid tips her sword’s sheath to the side so she can bend to look at the pile of books and scrolls, turning several sheets of paper over. Fae of Beserker Forest one book is tilted, a promising And the paths in which you will completely miss their realms as the byline. Another is on plant magicks, natural or otherwise, a third on known curses of the world. There’s a scroll on types of brambles, the paper ripped at the bottom and notes scribbled all over it. 

“What is it?” Eret asks, peering over Astrid’s shoulder and she looks up at him, confused. She has no idea what any of this has to do with her. 

“I don’t know.” Astrid says. “Fishlegs, are these for my mama?” 

Sometimes when her mama wants to double check things, or needs a specific resource she asks Astrid to get Fishlegs to comb through the Royal Library. She’d do it herself, happy amongst musty books in a way that Astrid is around the armoury, but after she ripped a couple of pages out of a hundred year old tome to take to a sky clad ritual she’s not been allowed back. Fishlegs lets them get away with it because he believes knowledge should be shared, and he knows Astrid’s mama shares nuggets of it with every person she meets. 

“No, no,” Fishlegs dismisses, he’s spent a ridiculous amount of time fixing Prince Hiccup’s hair and still doesn’t look up, “I was looking through that Fae book, just out of interest, and a piece of parchment slipped out. A riddle, or a poem or something, half washed out but it looked like your Uncle Finn’s handwriting.”

“What?” Astrid asks, flat. She kneels, sheath digging into her side and flips over all the pieces of parchment, running her hands over things with annotations in Uncle Finn’s hand until she turns over the ripped end of the bramble scroll, ink washed away but a neat set of notes

“Are we allowed to talk about Uncle Finn?” Snotlout stage whispers to Eret. From the grunt he makes next, Eret probably punches him. 

“This is Uncle Finn’s handwriting.” Astrid says. She can feel all their eyes on her, from Snotlout’s questioning frown to Prince Hiccup’s wide eyed excitement, from Eret’s  open expression to Fishlegs’ distracted attention. “But it’s not a poem, it’s in code.”

“Code?” Eret prompts, and Astrid passes the note over. Half of it’s missing, but Uncle Finn told the story to her as a child many times, the words buzzing in her mind like apparently the magick of the brambles cling to her after a day of working on them. 

“What does it say?” Prince Hiccup asks, gleeful. Astrid’s not surprised the next words out of his mouth are “are we going to go on an adventure?” 

“It’s just those legends of the land asleep inside the brambles,” Astrid explains, sorry, but it sticks in her throat a little. How odd, how coincidental this crops up just as she’d been reminded of all. 

“Beer stories?” Snotlout asks, snorting. He folds his arms over his chest, eyes darting between all of them. He doesn’t know what to think, he’s trying to determine what the rest of them all think, what side to be on. 

“Even a legend has a grain of truth.” Eret replies, handing over the piece of parchment for Snotlout to look at. He takes it, but stares at it like he doesn’t know how to read. 

“It might be real.” Fishlegs says, finally dragging his attention away from Prince Hiccup to move over to his pile of research. “I found the note inside the fae book, and then I recognised those drawings from the scroll and so I found the scroll and the piece matches. There’s notes all over the scroll, so I just followed each one to another piece of information. It makes a convincing argument. Plant magick, sleep curses, brambles encapsulating an entire castle, the realm of the sixth fae of the forest.” 

“Uncle Finn was a good storyteller.” Prince Hiccup says, dubiously like he doesn’t believe what he’s saying. Astrid wants to defend him, snap at Prince Hiccup for suggesting Uncle Finn was a liar but then he adds “but all the stories he told of far off lands were true, maybe our own legends have just been forgotten.” 

“Forgotten?” Snotlout snorts. “Except at the end of the barrel of mead?” 

“Curses remember.” Fishlegs says, he chops one of hands down into the palm of the other to dramatise his point. 

“My mama said yesterday that the brambles are magick.” Astrid interrupts. “She said she didn’t like me pruning them because it hurt their feelings, and whenever I come home from being around them I’m covered in magick residue.” She turns to Snotlout, “and you said yesterday it was like the brambles get tougher and tougher every year.” 

“They do.” Snotlout agrees. “Isn’t that just normal plant growth?” 

“So you’re a gardener now?” Eret throws in, parchment back in his hands and not looking up from it, “moving onto nude sculptures soon?” 

“Hey!” Snotlout squawks, insulted. He makes a feint towards Eret and Prince Hiccup calls foul so he goes for a swipe that Eret neatly steps away from. 

“Uncle Finn’s not a liar.” Astrid says. The others stop. “If he thought there was truth to a story about sleeping princesses and princes inside magick brambles, an entire kingdom in need of saving then he had reason to. We should try and finish his research, see what we can discover.” 

“Oh yes, we’re definitely going on a quest!” Prince Hiccup grins. “Let’s leave before this horrible dinner thing, I have a fitting in three days' time, get your horses ready.” 

Chapter Text

It takes two weeks for Fishlegs and Astrid go through all of Uncle Finn’s notes with a fine toothed comb. Prince Hiccup has to go to the dinner, grumbling the whole time. He offends an archduke when he refuses to dance with the archduke’s daughter, a girl all of ten, and has to play diplomat for several days. Astrid takes a break from studying to bring Prince Hiccup and the girl street clothes so they can go eat sweets in the market secretly. 

Once Fishlegs has put together everything, collecting even the most loosely connected ideas, and Astrid checks over everything he calls a meeting. They crowd into Fishlegs’ little study in the library, barely enough room for the five of them. Dust motes dance in the air, the tap of people moving around above them. 

“Is this really it?” Snotlout asks, frowning. There is not much more than Fishlegs’ initial set of research. 

“What more do you want?” Eret replies breezily, grinning as Snotlout turns on him, winking over Snotlout’s shoulder at Astrid. She takes a breath, uncurling the snarl that crawled up in her chest. Following Uncle Finn’s thoughts across snippets of paper, rambling and thoughtful, sometimes in their secret code like a conversation, has left her unsteady, teetering on the edge. 

“Well, this kind of covers everything.” Fishlegs says, shrugging. He goes to gesture with his hands but one is tangled with Prince Hiccup’s so he just spreads the free one out over the scroll on oak trees in front of him. 

“So adventure?” Prince Hiccup suggests, playing with Fishlegs’ fingers, looking at Fishlegs coyly. 

“There’s a distinct possibility we could go on a quest.” Fishlegs agrees, smiling softly at him. Snotlout fake gags. 

“We could seek out the sixth fae of the forest.” Astrid offers. Uncle Finn had spoken to them, although half the words were lost to an ink blot, and what she and Fishlegs could decipher was strange - a spinning wheel and a ruby, a kiss and a song, the garden curling around a prince with flaxen hair and an angry princess. 

“And fight it?” Snotlout prompts, still frowning. Eret snorts, elbowing him. It knocks Snotlout sideways into Astrid as she elbows him back, getting an elbow to her side in return. 

“Speak to it, I imagine. We can hardly give any fae a run for its money.” Eret replies, sagely. It might be because he’s had experience himself before he came to work in the Berk lands, or because he bothered to read the notes over Fishlegs’ shoulder. Snotlout elbows him again. 

“Just to ask about the curse,” Astrid explains when Fishlegs doesn’t, all wrapped up in Prince Hiccup’s attention, “to confirm this legend is actually real before going further.” 

“We’re going into the Beserker forest just to speak to a fae?” Snotlout snorts, but when Astrid turn to get into his face, annoyed, he looks thoughtful instead of dismissive. 

“Sure. Do you want to cut halfway through the brambles in the forest and find out actually there’s nothing there?” Fishlegs doesn’t look away from Prince Hiccup, but he wafts his hand over the parchment again like that explains it. 

“Of course not!” Snotlout replies, and then grumbles, “I don’t want to cut through it for any reason, blasted brambles.” 

“Anyway!” Prince Hiccup crows, pumping his fist in the air and nearly hitting Snotlout. “Preliminary scouting mission! And then a full adventure.” 

**** 

The stables are quiet when Astrid slips in, feedbag in one hand and grooming kit laid over the other arm. After much arguing and grumbling, and Prince Hiccup begging that they had to go over the weekend, they’d finally come to a decision to leave in two days for the Beserker forest. It’s just enough time to get ready and packed for the three day ride, but close enough that Prince Hiccup can get out of going a suit fitting. 

“Hey girl,” Astrid calls out, stepping up to Stormfly’s stall and the mare tosses her mane. She hooks the feed bag over the stable wall and Stormfly paces up to it. Stormfly sniffs at it, huffing at Astrid’s hand before deciding the feed bag is better and settling into to eat. 

Astrid hangs the grooming kit over the door, hanging it carefully before she swings open the stall and steps in. Stormfly doesn’t even look up from the feed bag, chowing down on the oat mix. Taking a deep breath, breathing in the smell of hay and horses, Astrid feels calm settle around her shoulders. As much as preparing for a quest is fun, the gang tends to get caught up in their own world with it all. Prince Hiccup’s enthusiasm for escaping his duties for days on end is catching, bright excitement bubbling up in everyone’s throats. By being his guards they’re all afforded luxuries most of the Berk knights aren’t, but they still have duties that seem to get forgotten whenever they’re geared up for a quest. 

Snotlout always gets caught with ration preparing. His mama is one of the head chefs, and as much as he pretends he isn’t he’s a mama’s boy through and through. He spends hours looking over pot pies and flaky tarts when he’s supposed to be on the southern wall patrolling. They eat well, and when Astrid’s pulling yak jerky and elderflower wine out of her pack she’s thankful, but not when she’s up all night because he doesn’t turn up for a shift. Eret by contrast does come to guard duty, but ends up in the armoury checking tackle and polishing weapons and oiling things. It’s technically not not a real job; it’s just not really what he’s supposed to be doing. Truthfully Fishlegs is allowed these sorts of whims as long as he shelves what he needs to, but he’s not supposed to hide Prince Hiccup away in the dusty corners of the library when Prince Hiccup is supposed to be getting fitted for another set of dress clothes. 

Astrid hums as she pulls out a brush from the grooming kit, resting a hand against Stormfly’s neck. The short hairs over corded muscle are soft, Stormfly’s warmth radiating through that small point of touch. The stable hands have this aspect of everything covered really; all the royal horses are well looked after, but it’s Astrid’s own night before the quest ritual. Stress melts off Astrid’s shoulders as she flicks Stormfly’s mane over her neck and starts brushing, firm strokes along the muscles of her neck, pressing close. 

“It’s only a day or two to get to the Berserker Forest, I think you’ll enjoy stretching your legs.” Astrid murmurs, brushing with strong strokes along Stormfly’s flanks. Stormfly flicks an ear. “It’ll be good to get out of Berk for a little while, won’t it?” Stormfly paws at the ground, tossing her mane back into Astrid’s face. Astrid laughs, wrinkling her nose at the tickle and focuses back on the task at hand. Stormfly will be glad for a proper ride, and Astrid too, truthfully. 

She fusses with Stormfly until the feed bag is empty and Stormfly is shining, reluctant to go home. Although the grooming was calming, the excitement of going on a quest and seeking a fae of the forest means she doesn’t quite feel settled yet. Unsure what to do she takes the long way home, dawdling until the sun dips below the castle walls before heading towards home. 

Astrid opens the front door of her house quietly, holding it still when the hinges begin to creak. She can get it just open enough to squeeze through, missing the third floorboard so it doesn’t squeak. She’s half way into the room when there’s a cough from the kitchen. 

“Are you going to tell me what you’ve been up to these past few weeks?” Her mama asks, not looking up from her potion brewing. Astrid stiffens. 

“Mama.” Astrid says, taut, annoyed. She goes to breeze past, dismissing the question, but she stops in the hallway. 

“I know the lot of you are up to something.” Her mama says, looking up to tap at the side of her nose. “It better not be more destruction of those brambles.” 

“We’re going out.” Astrid shrugs. “A few days' ride to get Prince Hiccup out of another silly dinner.” 

“Oh?” Her mama hums, tone prompting and accusing all at once. Astrid feels like a scolded child and it makes her feel all prickly and angry. The walk and grooming Stormfly hadn’t been enough. 

“Prince Hiccup wants loganberries, and to look for four leaf clovers.” She lies, happy to blame it on Hiccup and something ridiculous. Besides, they will be able to pick berries if there are any. “You know how he is. Do you want anything from that side of the forest?” 

“That’s the sixth fae of the forest’s domain.” Her mama says shrewdly, looking at Astrid with a very strange expression. She puts her wooden spoon down and steps neatly around Astrid towards her herb cupboards. Wiping her hands on her apron she grabs a footstool and drops it neatly in front of the cupboard. Careful her mama stares rummaging through a series of jars, holding them up to the light one after the other. Some look very old, cloudy glass and one with a cracked edge, all rotated in her mama’s hands until she makes a noise of triumph and clambers back down. 

“Here.” Her mama puts a tiny glass jar of something very tiny, perhaps seeds or even dust, into Astrid’s hand. 

“What is it?” Astrid asks, turning the jar over and over in her hand. The cork stopper is old, parts of it crumbling against Astrid’s fingers. It looks like dust. She has no idea what it has to with anything. 

“Goblin gold.” Her mama replies like it’s obvious. Astrid’s not sure goblins are real, but even so calling  a jar of dirt a goblin’s gold is a bit much. 

“What?” Astrid shakes the jar but it doesn’t really make any noise. 

“A moss.” Her mama explains, picking her spoon back up. “It’s very rare, it glows in the dark. I have had that jar of spores for a long time wondering what to do with it. But! An offering for the sixth fae of the forest is perfect! I’m sure they’d Iove spreading it around.” 

“Why,” Astrid starts but stops herself. Of course it’s polite to offer fae items of worth if you’re going through their parts of the forest. She doesn’t need magick to know basic hospitality. She considers the jar for several moments and then almost surprises herself asking, “Is there something we can offer the brambles?” 

Her mama stops for a moment, half way back to her potion. She looks Astrid over, noting her grimy clothes and the pieces of hay stuck to Astrid’s trousers from when she knelt down to check on Stormfly’s hooves. For a strange, awkward moment Astrid feels worried her mama doesn’t like what she sees, that this will turn into another fight, but then her mama smiles brightly. 

“I imagine brambles like water and fertiliser and such things,” her mama suggests. 

“Just horse manure?” Astrid asks. It seems very simple. Too simple. She feels a bit off centre, disarmed by the way this conversation has gone. 

“Sure.” Her mama smiles. “‘Maybe some compost? Nothing too strong all at once, it might burn the roots.” 

They don’t talk about the upcoming trip the rest of the evening, chatting amicably about the miniature of their days as they have dinner. Her mama had visited several sick children in the village, helped re-strap a broken arm and sold a couple of potions before heading to pick some herbs. Astrid mentions her frustrations at the latest guard duty roster and how she’s not sure the newest squires are being put through the same level of exercises as last year. It’s almost calming, the edge Astrid feels like she’s standing upon most conversations with her mama receding a little. They talk about nothing until the candles burn low, flickering in the kitchen against the potion cauldron and Astrid’s yawning. 

“Well, I’ve got an early morning.” Astrid says, picking up her bowl to scrape the remnants of the stew into a compost bucket. Her mama stands too, passing her bowl over and hesitates visibly. Astrid places the bowls down, looking up expectantly. 

“Before you go to bed,” Her mama grabs Astrid's hand, holding her tight. She pulls her down the corridor of their house, stepping carefully like she’s trying not to wake someone up. 

Astrid expects her to stop at her room, or what’s supposed to be the linens cupboard and find some kind of charm. Normally her mama sews runes into her under tunics or presses the herbs between the fabrics but sometimes she urges Astrid to tie braided leather and metal wards to her saddle. Most of the knights have a little collection by now, so Astrid’s ready to grasp another handful but they pass those doors until they stop at Uncle Finn’s room. Astrid opens her mouth, not entirely sure what she’s going to say but her mama hushes her and then opens the door. 

They haven’t been in this room together since that night. Astrid knows it better than her own room, and looks at her mama instead. She’s somehow the same woman that had laughed that morning but somehow incredibly different. Her forehead is crinkled with wrinkles, crows feet by her eyes, a tiredness draped around her shoulders Astrid hadn’t seen before. It’s weird. Uncle Finn’s room had been kind of stuck in time and now it’s like a glamour has worn off. She looks up at the mirror to the side of Uncle Finn’s bed and she’s almost surprised to see her own face staring back at her and not a gap toothed eight year old. 

“Here,” Her mama says, pulling away and reaching up to pull Uncle Finn’s broadsword off the wall. She turns, holding the sword out towards Astrid. 

“Mama,” Astrid replies, taking a step back. She’s never touched it, not since it had been placed back the next evening by a procession of mourners and friends. She might throw up if she touches it.

“It was always going to be yours one day,” Her mama says, still holding her hands out, “I’m sorry Finn couldn’t give it to you. We’ve both been holding back, and I think you should take it with you on this quest of yours.” 

“I can’t.” Astrid says. Her mama reaches out and takes her hand again, thumb rubbing over the callouses on her palm and presses her hand to the cool leather of the handle of the sword. Astrid stares at her own hand, fingers against the leather that Uncle Finn held, the edge of her palm against the guard, her mama’s hand holding her there. She doesn’t feel sick really, she feels like it’s going to fit in her palm perfectly. 

“You can.” Her mama says, “you can.” 

Astrid takes the sword.