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trans_92010-06-02 06:53 am
i-saw-myself.livejournal.com) wrote in trans_92010-06-02 06:53 am
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Sticks and Stones [closed]
He couldn't find her in the great hall, and that meant that she had likely heard, too, heard the truth. He wasn't sure if he should look for her, wasn't sure if she'd want him to find her. It wasn't that he expected her to run off and cry, but Astrid, by her nature, was the type to deal with things like grief alone.
In fact, he remembered when they were younger, when her father had died, she'd just... withdrawn; disappeared to practice like the crazy person she was. He wondered sometimes if the Astrid of the present, who made everything look so effortless, had been built on those quiet afternoons in the Berk woods, as she worked out her grief with relentless practice.
He still found her anyway, trying to find somewhere to be alone himself. It was a room that wasn't really a room. It led to an open sky, a meadow surrounded by trees, somehow still inside the ship. They weren't trees like back home, but they were trees. What he didn't know was this was Stacy showing off the Sensoriums to anyone nearby. All he did know was that he heard screaming. Over and over. And thunking noises. Scream. Thunk. Scream. Thunk. Scream. Thunk. Grief and anger with its own percussion. As if just screaming or just thunking alone weren't enough.
He watched her, and for once she didn't see him coming, she was so lost in it. For a moment, he wondered idly if he should leave, since she hadn't noticed him coming in, but found that he just...didn't quite want to. Right now, as far as he knew, she was the only Viking left, the only person from Berk left alive with him. After a while of standing there, watching, listening, he started to shake, and then closed his eyes, his mouth setting in a firm line.
Then he pulled his knife out of its sheathe, and his eyes opened again, and there was his own scream, his own thunk, as he threw it into the same tree Astrid was using as her unfortunate practice dummy. It actually hit the tree for once, next to her axe. And it even stuck. A testament to what he was feeling maybe.
(Everyone always told him he needed to focus more.)
Then he stood there, shaking with pent up...something waiting to see if she'd yell at him to get out or not.
In fact, he remembered when they were younger, when her father had died, she'd just... withdrawn; disappeared to practice like the crazy person she was. He wondered sometimes if the Astrid of the present, who made everything look so effortless, had been built on those quiet afternoons in the Berk woods, as she worked out her grief with relentless practice.
He still found her anyway, trying to find somewhere to be alone himself. It was a room that wasn't really a room. It led to an open sky, a meadow surrounded by trees, somehow still inside the ship. They weren't trees like back home, but they were trees. What he didn't know was this was Stacy showing off the Sensoriums to anyone nearby. All he did know was that he heard screaming. Over and over. And thunking noises. Scream. Thunk. Scream. Thunk. Scream. Thunk. Grief and anger with its own percussion. As if just screaming or just thunking alone weren't enough.
He watched her, and for once she didn't see him coming, she was so lost in it. For a moment, he wondered idly if he should leave, since she hadn't noticed him coming in, but found that he just...didn't quite want to. Right now, as far as he knew, she was the only Viking left, the only person from Berk left alive with him. After a while of standing there, watching, listening, he started to shake, and then closed his eyes, his mouth setting in a firm line.
Then he pulled his knife out of its sheathe, and his eyes opened again, and there was his own scream, his own thunk, as he threw it into the same tree Astrid was using as her unfortunate practice dummy. It actually hit the tree for once, next to her axe. And it even stuck. A testament to what he was feeling maybe.
(Everyone always told him he needed to focus more.)
Then he stood there, shaking with pent up...something waiting to see if she'd yell at him to get out or not.
no subject
His bold statement left her speechless. This silly boy...
A thing, huh.
... Then after a silent moment, he'd find the space beside him occupied; the female viking claiming her spot on the strange bed. No longer hesitant, she shut her eyes, shifting in a more comfortable position onto her stomach, folding arms out in front of her and shielding lower face against them. Exhaling, her eyelids re-open, a solemn, almost complacent, stare off to the side.
"Idiot... you can't sleep that long. What will I do then?"
He can't sleep forever. She assuredly can't. Absence of sleep will be many, her mind--her worries unwilling to rest.
Surely the nightmares will come tonight.
no subject
He curled against her, arms enfolding around her. He shifted until they were both comfortable, his chin finally coming to rest on top of her head.
Just be like this. Held and warm.
He closed his eyes.
no subject
She welcomed it, taking in his warmth and the shelter of his embrace. A small bit of bliss within an empty, cold galaxy around them.
"...And I won't go anywhere," she assured him gently, and, although she wasn't looking at him directly, he can attest to this promise from the pure resolution in her eyes.
"And I'll hate you if you disappear, too. I'll never... never forgive you."
Harsh, but the shock of losing him is an even harsher reality. It nearly happened once. A scary realization she never knew until after that particular incident. If she were to lose him, then she will have lost everything.
So for this night and the next, she will welcome this closure.
no subject
Maybe their village, their whole world had disappeared in the relative blink of an eye, but they had each other.
The kind of things they whispered to each other were the things they'd never want anyone to find out they'd said, but that was okay. Half of those little nothings would be forgotten by the morning, and a warm feeling of comfort, safety, and the opposite of loneliness was all that would remain.