Peter Mercier and the Hunters of Artemis

Chapter 18

Peter's eyes strained to see in the dark, a chill rolling up his spine as he leaned up and looked around. His eyes settled on the frosted glass, a grey shadow barely visible on the other side. The tapping continued for a few seconds, and he stretched and stood up from the floor to see if Amber heard it. "Amber?" he softly whispered, his voice shaky, watching her blanket-cloaked chest rise and fall. She didn't respond, still deeply asleep, resting on her coat. Reluctantly, he walked towards the window, the wood creaking as he lumbered across it with his bare feet.

He heard the wind hitting against the house and what he assumed was thunder rumble loudly outside, shaking the roof. The window had a small clear dot where the frost had been smudged away at Peter's chest level. Bending down and peering through it, he saw snow pouring heavily down outside; large white flakes brilliantly tumbling down from above.

Just as he was about to turn away, he heard the front door open downstairs. He glanced at Amber, who hadn't moved at all. "Dammit," he grumbled, walking into the hallway. He knocked on the second door on the left and opened it, peering inside. "Eret, I think Hiccup-" he started, faltering when he saw the chief fast asleep on the floor, wrapped in sheets and snoring quietly. The captain shuffled around, clearing his throat. "Is he up?" he asked softly, on his side, facing the dresser. "I... think I'll take care of it myself," Peter slowly said, looking curiously at the stairs. Eret sighed. "Ok," he replied simply. "Good luck."

Peter shut the door quietly, walking fast back to his room and grabbing the bow and two arrows from the nightstand. He nocked one of them, cautiously walking down the staircase, the shrill sound of shuffling coals echoing throughout the otherwise deathly silent house.

He turned into the foyer first, seeing the front the door slightly ajar, a cold wind emanating from outside and nudging it open. A snowy trail of small bootprints littered the wood, leading into the kitchen, and he followed them after he shut the door, poised to attack. Briskly rounded the corner into the kitchen, his hands were sweaty despite the rest of him shivering. "Don't move," he instructed the shadowy figure on their knees, hunched over as they dug through the ashes in the stove. He pulled back the bowstring, the muscles in his arm tensing. "Who are you?"

"Peter?" the figure called, cocking its head sideways. They held a hatchet in their hand, a piece of grey flint in the other. "Are you a hunter?" he asked, taking a step backward. "No," the figure grumbled, their voice quaking as they shivered, reaching for their head and prying up the blue-green metal visor. White flaxen hair erupted, spilling down the figure's shoulders. She stood up and hurried forward, and Peter dropped the bow and arrow. "If I was, you'd be dead," Astrid smiled wearily, now holding the helmet in her hand. She set the hatchet and flint on the counter. "The armor's pretty tough."

She hugged him, and he awkwardly returned the gesture. She was very cold, her skin blueish-gray, illuminated by what little moonlight came from the frosted windows. Choking down a sob, she looked him in his eyes and drew a deep breath. "Is Hiccup here?" she slowly asked, her lip quivering ever so slightly. "Everyone's here, healthy and very, very tired," he assured quietly. She glanced at the floor and exhaled, shaking her head in relief. "Need help re-lighting the hearth?"

"Sure," she said, keeping her voice down as well. "Did you hear me tap on the window, or did the Light Fury wake you up?"

"Probably both," he admitted, taking a few strides towards the stove. He paused for a second before he knelt, and his expression soured. He looked at her, furrowing his brow. "Are you supposed to be here?"

"What do you mean?" She leaned on the counter, lifting her arms and stretching out her back. A few small pops rang out. "Hiccup said he told everyone not to use the dragons unless-" he started.