Freyja looks up quickly. Thorald tilts his head, regarding her, elbows braced earnestly on the table. “You’re going back to the Stormcloaks, then?” Freyja asks.
“Aye. I swore my blood and honor to Ulfric’s cause, and that was before...before.” Something raw and haunted sparks in Thorald’s eyes, so close to the surface that he blinks and swallows it down. Freyja nods. She’s heard some deeply unsettling things about Ulfric himself, but the idea that the Legion would simply hand over a prisoner to the Thalmor – however reluctantly – is troubling too. She can’t blame Thorald for being angry. She’s even half-tempted by his proposal, but it would only be another way of running from her fate.
She keeps her voice soft, deflecting. “I don’t think I’d make a good soldier.”
“It’s not like joining the Legion. Regulations and orders and lists—”
“My father fought with the Legion,” Freyja says, sharply.
Thorald softens. “Aye, and so did mine. So did half the old men in Whiterun, right up to the jarl himself. It was something to be proud of then, but it’s different now.”
“I’ve lived in Cyrodiil for years,” Freyja muses. “It’s been my home. There are fields, in the West Weald, where nothing will grow. Empty far as the eye can see. You’re walking through these golden ripples of grain high as your waist, and then you step over a rise and it’s nothing but cinders and earth. The elves did something to them, with magic. Like sowing salt.”
“And that justifies throwing the provinces to the wolves?”
“Of course not. Hammerfell’s worse, far worse – the Empire’s got a lot to answer for. But they didn’t make the decision lightly.”
“That doesn’t make it right.”
Freyja sighs, recalling the nameless dead man in Northwatch Keep. The brief catch of resistance before her dagger drove home, the scalding blood on her fingertips. “Sometimes right doesn’t have much to do with it.”
Thorald doesn’t reply to that. “At any rate, I can’t go back to Whiterun,” he murmurs, after a moment. “The Thalmor know I’m a Grey-Mane – it’s the first place they’ll look. It wouldn’t be safe for my family.” A deep crease forms between his brows. “Gods – they must think I’m dead.”
“Whiterun’s not so far out of the way on a trip to Windhelm,” Freyja says. “Nor to Ivarstead, for that matter. You could get a message in – I’ll take it myself, if you like. We can keep company till it comes time to cross the White.” Thorald gives her a grateful smile.
They retire early. The beds are simple, low and latticed, stuffed with straw and covered in furs; Freyja’s has a broken slat, but it feels soft as down after weeks of lying on the ground. And yet she cannot sleep. Long after the clamor from the tavern dies down she finds herself staring up at the ceiling, watching the light that drifts in from the firepit flicker amongst the rafters. She wonders if the dragon the hunters sighted is still in the mountains somewhere, feasting on goats it snatched from the edge of a crag. Or perhaps it did make its way to Mount Anthor; perhaps even now it hunches vulture-like over the peak, nearly invisible in the dark, slitted golden eyes glaring down at the battlefield where one of its ancient kin met his foe. Freyja wonders if dragons care for their own history, if they hate like men and hunger for revenge. Shivers. She can hear the innkeeper and his daughter arguing softly behind the bar. “She would want you to be happy, father,” murmurs the girl. “Entertaining the guests, and drinking, and making your lewd jokes like before.”
Her father is quieter; Freyja has to strain to make out his words. “…sorry,” she catches. “…Just don’t feel up to entertaining anyone.”
The bed-straw rustles as Freyja turns restlessly, pulling the furs more tightly around her shoulders. He’s not the only one who’s ever lost someone, she said to Thorald earlier. She wonders how the innkeeper’s wife might have died.
“Do you want to talk?” asks the girl, a little more gently.
Freyja can’t hear the innkeeper’s answer, but it must be a refusal. The two do not speak any more. Only the dull clink of tankards and the scruff of a broom remain to lull her to sleep.
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timeasmymeasure
Songs for Nomads 6.5
Date: 2014-03-30 04:28 am (UTC)“Aye. I swore my blood and honor to Ulfric’s cause, and that was before...before.” Something raw and haunted sparks in Thorald’s eyes, so close to the surface that he blinks and swallows it down. Freyja nods. She’s heard some deeply unsettling things about Ulfric himself, but the idea that the Legion would simply hand over a prisoner to the Thalmor – however reluctantly – is troubling too. She can’t blame Thorald for being angry. She’s even half-tempted by his proposal, but it would only be another way of running from her fate.
She keeps her voice soft, deflecting. “I don’t think I’d make a good soldier.”
“It’s not like joining the Legion. Regulations and orders and lists—”
“My father fought with the Legion,” Freyja says, sharply.
Thorald softens. “Aye, and so did mine. So did half the old men in Whiterun, right up to the jarl himself. It was something to be proud of then, but it’s different now.”
“I’ve lived in Cyrodiil for years,” Freyja muses. “It’s been my home. There are fields, in the West Weald, where nothing will grow. Empty far as the eye can see. You’re walking through these golden ripples of grain high as your waist, and then you step over a rise and it’s nothing but cinders and earth. The elves did something to them, with magic. Like sowing salt.”
“And that justifies throwing the provinces to the wolves?”
“Of course not. Hammerfell’s worse, far worse – the Empire’s got a lot to answer for. But they didn’t make the decision lightly.”
“That doesn’t make it right.”
Freyja sighs, recalling the nameless dead man in Northwatch Keep. The brief catch of resistance before her dagger drove home, the scalding blood on her fingertips. “Sometimes right doesn’t have much to do with it.”
Thorald doesn’t reply to that. “At any rate, I can’t go back to Whiterun,” he murmurs, after a moment. “The Thalmor know I’m a Grey-Mane – it’s the first place they’ll look. It wouldn’t be safe for my family.” A deep crease forms between his brows. “Gods – they must think I’m dead.”
“Whiterun’s not so far out of the way on a trip to Windhelm,” Freyja says. “Nor to Ivarstead, for that matter. You could get a message in – I’ll take it myself, if you like. We can keep company till it comes time to cross the White.” Thorald gives her a grateful smile.
They retire early. The beds are simple, low and latticed, stuffed with straw and covered in furs; Freyja’s has a broken slat, but it feels soft as down after weeks of lying on the ground. And yet she cannot sleep. Long after the clamor from the tavern dies down she finds herself staring up at the ceiling, watching the light that drifts in from the firepit flicker amongst the rafters. She wonders if the dragon the hunters sighted is still in the mountains somewhere, feasting on goats it snatched from the edge of a crag. Or perhaps it did make its way to Mount Anthor; perhaps even now it hunches vulture-like over the peak, nearly invisible in the dark, slitted golden eyes glaring down at the battlefield where one of its ancient kin met his foe. Freyja wonders if dragons care for their own history, if they hate like men and hunger for revenge. Shivers. She can hear the innkeeper and his daughter arguing softly behind the bar. “She would want you to be happy, father,” murmurs the girl. “Entertaining the guests, and drinking, and making your lewd jokes like before.”
Her father is quieter; Freyja has to strain to make out his words. “…sorry,” she catches. “…Just don’t feel up to entertaining anyone.”
The bed-straw rustles as Freyja turns restlessly, pulling the furs more tightly around her shoulders. He’s not the only one who’s ever lost someone, she said to Thorald earlier. She wonders how the innkeeper’s wife might have died.
“Do you want to talk?” asks the girl, a little more gently.
Freyja can’t hear the innkeeper’s answer, but it must be a refusal. The two do not speak any more. Only the dull clink of tankards and the scruff of a broom remain to lull her to sleep.