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They named her Zephyr, reminiscent of the west wind that had once blown through their hair as they glided across the infinitely vast ocean, held up by expansive wings. The sun bearing down like a warm balm, the rush of air rendering them feeling invincible, the world merely at the tips of their fingers.
But like all things in life, nothing is forever, they reminisce. Their minds grasping onto the fragments of memories seared into them from that fateful day. The sun blazing across the sky, dyeing it in deep hues of indigo, gold and vermillion—it’s beauty lost amid the sights of hundreds of wings flying away. The figments of their silhouettes farther than a valley of stars embroidered across the night sky.
Stars, they mused, looking up and eyeing the blackness of the night. Something that had always seemed within reach of their fingertips now seemed infinitely far. Their flickering light, almost mocking, weighing them down until they are left gasping, holding each other, foreheads pressed together. The world had never seemed so small.
But it is now, many winters later, as they hold their daughter—wounds healed and scarred over by the gentle timbre of time—do they see a new world.
Hiccup finds it in the bright, azure depths of her eyes, carbon copies of her mother’s, already so sure of her place in this corner of their small world. He sees it in the telltale curve of her lips as she quips about her cousin's latest blunders.
“She’s already so much like you,” his wife murmurs one night, into the hollow curve of his neck. He lets out a laugh in reply, more sigh than laugh though, as he recounts Zephyr's latest mishap of an adventure.
“Must be the universe punishing me for all those grey hairs I caused Dad.”
Astrid counts the evidence of her new world in ten tiny fingers and ten tiny toes. She finds it in the marks of a map—not a map drawn in their youth, nor one bought in by traders from foreign lands, but a map in the splatter of freckles across her daughter’s small face, more entrancing and beautiful than any constellation in the sky. She tells her this one day, fingers tracing over a button nose that squirms in laughter at the feather-like touches.
•✧•
Every moment of her life feels like a milestone that should be etched and hammered into stone for all to see: her first smile, first laugh, first steps, and her first word. A raised brow and a ghost of laughter across his lips remind him how unrealistic that would be. For every day, every moment with Zephyr was new. So, they stick to writing it all out in a book—pages filled to the brim with charcoaled words and illustrations. He reduces the fevor again, once his mind registers the fact that he may need to build an additional room to store the books if he kept up at this pace.
•✧•
Six years of being dragon riders, un charting across new lands, had ingrained a sense of immunity in expecting and seeing the unexpected. Fear became a second thought, compartmentalised and hidden to deal with later under the layers and layers of plans for what should and needs to be done.
But Zephyr? Not when it comes to Zephyr.
The fear that carves and claws its way out of Astrid's heart is raw and unyielding. The pounding of blood in her ears is deafening, and for a moment, she thinks she must have been struck by a thunder-drum, trapped and frozen, watching Zephyr cry and writhe under the hands of the aged healer.
It is only when they are back at home, with Zephyr tucked under their blankets, the pounding in her ears reduced to a dull throb, her husband's warm, calloused hands tracing patterns on her skin does she finally allow herself to cry.
“I was so scared.”
And for a moment, Hiccup is taken back to that night. The night of Zephyr's birth. Those horrible, horrible few moments when his daughter’s small, too-small body remained still. Those few moments that had him wrenching awake from sleep, stumbling until he reached her crib, hand placed gently on her chest, counting the soft rises: One, two, three, until finally, he felt like he could breathe again.
•✧•
Zephyr is seven when Astrid finds herself mourning, cursing the cruel hands of time—because her firstborn, her baby, is already attempting to grab onto the reins of childhood independence. Her title tilts between "mama" and "mom," most of her words no longer tumbled by missing milk teeth but replaced with strong incisors—showing she truly is her father’s daughter.
And Astrid learns to accept this all in stride, encouraging her daughter to reach and bound for whatever it is her heart may wish for. Because this is her daughter, her child, and she would give Hel to anyone who dared to limit her horizons.
She makes sure to tell Zephyr this, holding her close as she brushes her hair into two intricate braids—a routine she refuses to pass on for many years to come, despite Zephyr’s insistence and mutterings. But the small curve of a smile Zephyr gives Astrid through the mirror tells her all she needs to know.
•✧•
The Chief of Berk stands under the monument of Stoick the Vast, gazing up at the larger-than-life figure casting shade across the town square, stripping him of all aliases until all he remained was his father’s son.
He smiles, watching the sun dip in the west, molten rays of gold dripping through the gaps in the trees, like a river running downstream, racing across the cracks until they reach Zephyr, tracing over her features, igniting her hair in russet copper.
The sight pulls on a chord in his heart. He can see his father in her—can see it in the strong, stubborn tilt of her small shoulders, the furrowed brows when she disagrees with something, and in the crinkles at the corners of her eyes when she smiles.
He feels the west wind come in as Zephyr reaches her arms out, and he crouches down, sweeping her into his arms. Her laugh rings out, loud—"Mama, look!"—as Hiccup feels a comforting warmth envelop him from the side. Well, two, he muses, the bump obvious in Astrid’s figure. Fixing Zephyr in his arms, they make their way to the Skye docks, gazing out over the vast, gleaming ocean. Distantly, his mind latches onto a memory from years ago, a time long past.
Hiccup, aged five, cradled in the strong arms of his father, overlooking the glistening ocean that surrounded old Berk, listening but not understanding the notions his father had voiced. He thinks back to all those years spent not understanding his father’s subdued nature in discovering the world beyond the icy borders of the archipelago.
But now, in the embrace of his family, Hiccup realizes that he does understand, has for years now—that the notion has buried itself deep in his heart, awake and thrumming with life under memories and memories of Astrid, Zephyr, and already their soon-to-be-born child.
‘I understand, Dad. I get it now.’
A warm breeze ruffles Hiccup’s hair, so achingly familiar.
“The world is not out there, son. It is here, in our hearts, in the people and moments we hold dear. Whether they walk with us in the light of day or send signs from the gates of Valhalla is of no precedence. For a person's soul lives on in our actions, in our words, and in our hearts.”