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Hiccup's leg jumped from under the table. A rhythmic spasm, fast as his pulse, slow as the anxious perspiration at his temples. His hand clamped over his mouth, stuck there for so long the flesh had gone red and numb, his lip dimpled from the nervous bite of his teeth.
He'd always worn his worry on his sleeve. It was a habit he couldn't shake - usually, he'd curse it because it told an enemy much too much information than he wanted, or opened the floodgates for conversations he didn't want to have, or made his lies much too blatantly obvious. Now he didn't care, for he could still hear Astrid's groans of pain from the hall's dining table as he stared emptily into the smouldering ashes of the firepit.
His mom worked at a slow pace around the house's kitchen, cleaning, maintaining, but keeping a safe distance from the cooking pot or the barrels of sour whey (besides, Hiccup had already cooked three of Astrid's favourite meals for when she felt alright enough to eat), fluttering anxiously in a way as visible as Hiccup, but much more vocal and active. Hiccup wondered, as he had for months, if the baby would adopt this trait of his and Valka's. Or maybe they'd sit in stony, stubborn silence like Astrid, before leaving as swiftly as possible to level a cropping of trees. Or maybe they'd have their own way of fretting, little traits from those they socialised with or viewed or just did out of habit.
This was the part of parenthood he was prepared for - no, excited for. Watching a little baby start out as something so dependent and blank turn into a full person of personality and habit and thought, skill and talent and speech, from all the minute experiences of their life. But the part he wasn't prepared for in the slightest was the inevitable despair. The upset. The rage and the squabbles that couldn't always be remedied (he had an awful lot of those with his own father) and-
Astrid's groans swelled into all-out shouts of agony.
That part, he wasn't prepared for either.
Being shut out, away from her, and forced to sit and dwell in his thoughts as this was a battle he couldn't help her with.
Valka had tried to help, but living completely isolated from humanity for twenty years made her drop any eloquence and tact when it came to sensitive times like this. All she could say was a repeating line of 'Ashild is up there with her, Hiccup. And Ruffnut and Longspur and Aslaug. She has all the support in the world, dear' over and over until it wheeled in his head like a spinning top, hurting more than helping.
Astrid's screams crested, suddenly breaking, sounding throaty and dry and pained. Every muscle in Hiccup's body tensed. His veins burned from the friction of blood rushing so rapidly around his body. His tendons felt as if they might snap. Surely this wasn't normal? She'd been labouring since midmorning of the previous day, and midnight was fast approaching. As chief, he heard of whoever was labouring, and a few hours would pass, say, from dawn to dusk, and he'd be sent for by the husband to give his blessing to the newly born babe.
This labour had lasted well over thirty hours. And, from the grave looks the women wore when rushing down the stairs to grab more water or hot cloths, he had every right to worry.
Screaming is normal, he reminded himself stubbornly. Every woman screams when giving birth. It's natural.
But this was Astrid Haddock. Even when shot by a dragon root arrow in the thigh, she didn't scream (at least, not out of pain). When she'd broken her femur from a nasty flying crash, she'd been more agitated over twisting Stormfly's wing wrong when dragged from her saddle by the impact.
The saliva in Hiccup's mouth thickened discomfortingly.
Something was wrong.
A clatter of feet at the stairs sounding purposeful, not hasty or routine, made him straighten up, peel his hand away from his mouth - and immensely regret letting a red mark bloom so vividly on his jaw - and look hopefully at Ashild, who stood in the hall with armfuls of bloodied blankets. Hiccup's face paled horribly. He felt sick. He didn't even wait for a word to pass her lips before shouldering past the poor woman, darting up the staircase with a speed he thought the Red Death had taken, already calling out Astrid's name desperately, wishing against all the odds that everything was okay-
He stumbled, falling to his knees by the bed, and looked with all the panic and worry and fear and distress in his body to the limp form of Astrid on their bed. She held a much more sickly pallour than what he was used to, and it reminded him dreadfully of when the Scourge had taken hold of her and almost stolen her life from right under Hiccup's nose, except this was meant to be normal, natural, even. Was this the risk of bringing life into the world? He swallowed, making a pathetic noise of grief.
"She's alive. She just..." Longspur closed her eyes, steadying herself. "She just might take a while to recover."
"But she'll be okay. Right?" He folded his fingers into the opened palm of Astrid's on the mussed furs. Longspur's eyelids lowered sympathetically.
"...Yes."
Hiccup released a breath that he hadn't even known he'd been holding, but had clutched at his ribs with a stubborn ache that lingered even so.
"I love you. So much." He whispered, dropping a kiss into Astrid's sweat-soaked fringe, rubbing at her knuckles where their hands were linked. She squeezed back reassuringly, blinking her eyes open drowsily. He expected a smile, a tiny huff of laughter, something positive and affirming... but all she gave was a soft moan of anguish. His eyes widened in shock, but he fixed his expression back, reaching up to gently comb his fingers through her hair. "What is it, m'lady? You okay?"
It felt like a stupid thing to ask - she'd just pushed a whole baby out of her body - but he asked it anyway, needing to know. She opened her eyes again, but they were wet and veined and red with emotion. She cleared her throat, but even then her voice was crackling and withered from her exhaustion.
"The... our, baby... Hiccup, our baby..." She mumbled, breaking off to sob.
Hiccup's insides went icy.
"W-What's wrong, Ast?"
She couldn't find breath to reply. Longspur nudged his back with her knee, and he turned, to see a pile of shawls in her arms. His eyes stung. She carefully lowered the baby into his arms, although he had to detach himself from Astrid to do so, and suddenly there was a small, warm weight pressing into his forearms and his chest, and now the tears were flowing. He sniffed stupidly, but blinked, determined to see... and suddenly the clear, blueish-toned image of his child stared right back at him.
His breath caught in his throat as he drunk in every detail; their round cheeks and thin nose. Circular eyes, squinty, wet, and dark, the steely blue as all baby's were, but distinct in the streaks of the iris that reminded him of Astrid's own. From under the cocoon of blankets they were cradled in, the trademark Haddock hair showed itself in soft wisps, red as the winter sunrise, and soft little freckles were scattered over their whole face, deliberately placed.
But that was all the good he could say.
For they were far, far too small. Too frail. Too sickly.
Their skin was a harrowing pasty yellow, their nose tipped an unnatural orange that told of jaundice. Their lips were blue, their under-eyes purple, every vein picked out in harsh reds and violets and pinks, and as he peeked beneath the shawls, his stomach sank as he saw their scrawny torso laddered deeply with their ribs.
They wouldn't survive. He knew that now.
He knew why Longspur looked so troubled, why Ashild looked so grave, why Astrid cried in a way he'd never seen before, why Ruff in her habitual indelicacy had cleared before she could blurt out something insensitive. Hiccup's tongue seemed to rot in his mouth, a sour taste invading into every nook in his gums, the pit of his stomach hollow and aching with emotional pain he couldn't ease. His arms began to shake where they cradled their baby, a living corpse, in his arms. His breaths came quicker, harsher, a guttural cry wrenched from his windpipe. Astrid gave a sad whimper of her own hurt, but she was too feeble to raise her arms to shield her face so Hiccup eased himself onto her bed, resting his cheek on her warm scalp, their child wedged comfortably between their chests. He closed his eyes but the tears leaked out anyway.
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Hiccup tried in vain to keep their son alive.
He helped Astrid with feeding, propping her up with pillows and bundled furs, easing every hurt he could. He tended to their son at every moment he wasn't spoon-feeding Astrid broth or cows milk, never moving from that dim bedroom even when Valka told him of soups the Riders had prepared downstairs, stuck rocking and soothing and humming to a babe still and silent as stone, face lax and asleep, chest faint with every breath that Hiccup prayed wouldn't be his last.
He'd asked Astrid to name him Stoick. She'd said yes.
He hoped that naming such a tiny creature after the strongest person he knew would pour that strength into the babe. He hoped that the name would bring a natural colour to his flesh, that he'd start crying and fussing with healthy lungs, that he'd kick his feet out and blink up at his parents with all the vitality and vigor one could bestow into such a minute form.
Nothing worked.
The next day he woke to Astrid's cry, and he knew Stoick was dead.
His body was falsely warmed by the blankets of his bedside crib, but he was a little too heavy, his face too empty, his ribs stiff where they caged his useless lungs.
Please, Dad... care for him. He begged as he wrapped Astrid in a tight embrace, pressing his nose into the nook of her neck. Please.
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