When they get moving at last, Freyja drops back to walk beside Eitri. A wire-thin line of blood is beading along the side of his throat, just below his left ear. “Are you all right?” she asks.
“Fine.”
“You’re bleeding,” she says, reaching for the livid graze on his neck. He jerks fiercely away from her hand.
Freyja stiffens. “Are we going to do this all the way back to Ivarstead?”
The name of his hometown does not seem to soothe his temper; he bristles like a wolf at bay, mouth set in tight line. “I can find my own way back to Ivarstead.”
“And I never leave a job half-done.”
“It’s not a job,” he says, through gritted teeth. “I’m not paying you.”
“I promised to bring you home.”
“Home.” He snorts bitterly through his nose.
“Look, I am sorry about your cousin. And as for the other fellow, I don’t like it any more than you do, but that’s just how it is.”
“A man is dead and that’s all you have to say?”
“Yes,” Freyja snarls. “Sorry to disappoint you. I’m not a hero. I’m just a sellsword, and I can’t save the whole world.”
“We could have tried.”
“Go to Oblivion. I would have tried if there had been any chance at all, but there wasn’t, and I’m not going to weep and wail over something that couldn’t be helped. I am a killer,” she says, frank and fierce. “Look at me and tell me that that isn’t what you see. Look at every scratch on my armor. Look at every notch in my shield.You think the jarl hires me to walk into a bandit camp alone and talk the bastards down? You think men pay me just to crawl through some damp cavern after trinkets like an alchemist’s assistant after mushrooms? Men pay me to kill. If you want a woman with a soft heart for a hopeless cause, find a pretty tavern bard without scars on her face.”
“You made it very clear that it doesn’t matter what kind of woman I want.”
“That’s not what I meant!”
Even as she says it Freyja wonders if it’s true. She steadies her voice with an effort. “What is it that you want from me? Because if it’s an apology for doing what any warrior would have known needed doing, you aren’t going to get it.”
“I want you to let me be.” He slings his pack over his shoulder, striding brusquely ahead.
Ungrateful bastard. Freyja watches him stalk away, the carriage of his shoulders high and stiff. Calls after him. Her voice is clear on the cold air. “I could’ve, you know,” she says. “Let you be. There on the road, with the Thalmor.”
He pauses, one knee bent, foot not quite fully placed back down in the snow. He does not look around. Freyja watches the back of his head while wind ruffles his tawny hair, the fur of his cloak. When his voice comes it is quiet. “Maybe you should’ve,” he says, and strides off along the beach.
Re: Songs for Nomads 5.6
When they get moving at last, Freyja drops back to walk beside Eitri. A wire-thin line of blood is beading along the side of his throat, just below his left ear. “Are you all right?” she asks.
“Fine.”
“You’re bleeding,” she says, reaching for the livid graze on his neck. He jerks fiercely away from her hand.
Freyja stiffens. “Are we going to do this all the way back to Ivarstead?”
The name of his hometown does not seem to soothe his temper; he bristles like a wolf at bay, mouth set in tight line. “I can find my own way back to Ivarstead.”
“And I never leave a job half-done.”
“It’s not a job,” he says, through gritted teeth. “I’m not paying you.”
“I promised to bring you home.”
“Home.” He snorts bitterly through his nose.
“Look, I am sorry about your cousin. And as for the other fellow, I don’t like it any more than you do, but that’s just how it is.”
“A man is dead and that’s all you have to say?”
“Yes,” Freyja snarls. “Sorry to disappoint you. I’m not a hero. I’m just a sellsword, and I can’t save the whole world.”
“We could have tried.”
“Go to Oblivion. I would have tried if there had been any chance at all, but there wasn’t, and I’m not going to weep and wail over something that couldn’t be helped. I am a killer,” she says, frank and fierce. “Look at me and tell me that that isn’t what you see. Look at every scratch on my armor. Look at every notch in my shield.You think the jarl hires me to walk into a bandit camp alone and talk the bastards down? You think men pay me just to crawl through some damp cavern after trinkets like an alchemist’s assistant after mushrooms? Men pay me to kill. If you want a woman with a soft heart for a hopeless cause, find a pretty tavern bard without scars on her face.”
“You made it very clear that it doesn’t matter what kind of woman I want.”
“That’s not what I meant!”
Even as she says it Freyja wonders if it’s true. She steadies her voice with an effort. “What is it that you want from me? Because if it’s an apology for doing what any warrior would have known needed doing, you aren’t going to get it.”
“I want you to let me be.” He slings his pack over his shoulder, striding brusquely ahead.
Ungrateful bastard. Freyja watches him stalk away, the carriage of his shoulders high and stiff. Calls after him. Her voice is clear on the cold air. “I could’ve, you know,” she says. “Let you be. There on the road, with the Thalmor.”
He pauses, one knee bent, foot not quite fully placed back down in the snow. He does not look around. Freyja watches the back of his head while wind ruffles his tawny hair, the fur of his cloak. When his voice comes it is quiet. “Maybe you should’ve,” he says, and strides off along the beach.