it's practiced, easy, the same as styling her own hair—— except it's not. there's something like nervousness in the way astrid moves, fingers clumsy and heart quickening as she weaves one strand of hair over the other. one, two. one, two. one, two. how delicately she holds her breath as she finishes, as if one stray wind will knock everything askew. but in the end, she completes the small braid with no complications. ❝ done, ❞ she says. ( she hopes she doesn't sound weird; out of breath or anxious or anything that betrays the calm demeanor she's been trying to show. ) ❝ now we match. ❞ ( from @decaysate / astrid. )
ㅤit’s lovely (loving), gentle, the same touch as when she’d wrap his wounds after battle—except it’s not. there are more heart drums, there’s more adrenaline, and somehow there’s worship. håkan had been dressed in wolfskins and silver before, had listened to drunken cheers of crowds and tasted godly mead with hunger. yet nothing had ever made him feel as adorned as he did now, sitting on a riverside stone, sun dripping like honey and astrid by his side, her fingers brushing against his ear as she worked on brunet strands, prayerful. the ræsi bowed his head without being told, eyes slipping shut. he didn’t need to look to know @decaysate was frowning now: he could feel it, somehow, the wrinkle between her brows as familiar as the way she chewed her rosemary-stained bottom lip when facing a challenge with her axe. he had fallen for that look when he was eleven and adored her from afar ever since.
ㅤany child of berk would know the custom: wives would weave the mane of warriors before battle rites—simple, tight, strong, a final honour before preparing to voyage towards valhalla’s halls. though the braiding astrid offered hiccup now was not for battle or the pyre that came after it, but for another kind of surrender. to let another plait your hair, the aged skalds used to pipe, was also to open your shield wall and welcome freyja’s sword in the chest. to wear silver from another’s hand was to stand before the clan and say: this one i have chosen / this one i am bound to. he should have feared that, perhaps, just like chieftains and heirs before him. but he didn’t. he sat still and let himself be claimed by her touch alone—as tradition was concerned, at least. he had always been hers.
ㅤthe clasp the warmaiden fastened was shaped like a twin-serpent knot; ancient, intricate. he knew its meaning without needing a seer; ᛐᚱᛆᚢᛍᛐ, ᛆᛍᛐ, ᛂᛁᛚᛁᚠᛚᛂᚵᚱ: trust, love, everlasting. when she withdrew her hands, he reached up slowly, admiring her precise work. håkan rubbed the metal between his thumb and forefinger, a newly-gifted oath that felt as delicate as a flower. and he, proud fool that he was, smiled like a boy crowned for the first time. it was short like their years still, but it’d grow. he kissed it then, before tilting his head and looking back at her with flushed cheeks, wind-kissed freckles, and a sigh that loved those sharp blue eyes she always tried to make look less tender than they really were.
ㅤ“it’s perfect.” but he wasn’t talking just about the braid when his left hand found the curve of her waist. perhaps he was more greedy than she would ever know. “you should let me braid you sometime.”
