Eitri’s voice is soft and unexpected behind her, and when she turns his face looks grim. It puts her on the defensive. Freyja sits up, shoulders pressed to the rock. She speaks more harshly than she means to. “What do you want?”
"To apologize," says Eitri. Freyja just looks at him. He doesn't sit - remains on the other side of the fire, flexing his off hand in the way that's become a nervous habit.
"You did right," he says. "But I couldn't stop thinking whether he might have a brother or a friend somewhere, wondering what happened to him."
"I know."
"It's just - they'll never know."
"I know," she says again, feeling very tired.
"I'm sorry."
Freyja shrugs. "Me, too."
Eitri is quiet for a moment. "I do know," he murmurs. "Thanks to you. Don't ever think I'm not grateful."
She softens, a little. "I wish we'd found him alive."
"Me, too," he echoes. Fidgets.
Freyja nudges the cold ground beside her. "Sit down, then. If you're not going to sleep."
He does. Frost-coated spruce branches tinkle against one another as the wind moves, sending a swirl of snow to hiss and sputter in the fire. Otherwise the night is very quiet. Not even a wolf howls. Both moons are hidden behind the clouds of an impending storm, and all the creatures of the forest are bedded down, awaiting the coming snow.
“I’m going with Thorald,” Eitri murmurs, after a long while. “To Windhelm.”
It doesn’t surprise her, not after all the talking the two men have done. But Freyja finds it strange to picture Eitri in the padded mail and mismatched blue wool of the Stormcloaks. They talked of his home so much that the idea of him anywhere else – without the wind in the golden leaves, the sun on the laughing river, the sweat on his brow from the heat of the forge – seems wrong. She feels a sudden pang. She’s going to miss him; even after the chilly silence of the past few weeks, she’s going to miss him. She wonders if he’ll survive the war. Wonders if she’ll ever know, if he doesn’t.
“It’s safer that way,” she assures herself, and then realizes that she’s spoken aloud. “If the Thalmor are still hunting you, you’ll never be safe in Ivarstead.”
“Aye,” he says. Gazes into the fire. “Brokkr meant to join, I think.”
It’s the first time she’s heard him say the name since Northwatch Keep. Suddenly Freyja aches for him. After losing Indros she buried herself in the forest to hunt and rage and weep herself insensible in solitude, but the three of them have been squeezed into such close proximity; Eitri’s only privacy has been during the lonely watches in the night. "It helps to talk, you know."
"I know," Eitri says, but he doesn't seem able to find anything more to say. The wind gusts again. The fire flickers.
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timeasmymeasure
Songs for Nomads 6.9
Date: 2014-03-30 04:41 am (UTC)"To apologize," says Eitri. Freyja just looks at him. He doesn't sit - remains on the other side of the fire, flexing his off hand in the way that's become a nervous habit.
"You did right," he says. "But I couldn't stop thinking whether he might have a brother or a friend somewhere, wondering what happened to him."
"I know."
"It's just - they'll never know."
"I know," she says again, feeling very tired.
"I'm sorry."
Freyja shrugs. "Me, too."
Eitri is quiet for a moment. "I do know," he murmurs. "Thanks to you. Don't ever think I'm not grateful."
She softens, a little. "I wish we'd found him alive."
"Me, too," he echoes. Fidgets.
Freyja nudges the cold ground beside her. "Sit down, then. If you're not going to sleep."
He does. Frost-coated spruce branches tinkle against one another as the wind moves, sending a swirl of snow to hiss and sputter in the fire. Otherwise the night is very quiet. Not even a wolf howls. Both moons are hidden behind the clouds of an impending storm, and all the creatures of the forest are bedded down, awaiting the coming snow.
“I’m going with Thorald,” Eitri murmurs, after a long while. “To Windhelm.”
It doesn’t surprise her, not after all the talking the two men have done. But Freyja finds it strange to picture Eitri in the padded mail and mismatched blue wool of the Stormcloaks. They talked of his home so much that the idea of him anywhere else – without the wind in the golden leaves, the sun on the laughing river, the sweat on his brow from the heat of the forge – seems wrong. She feels a sudden pang. She’s going to miss him; even after the chilly silence of the past few weeks, she’s going to miss him. She wonders if he’ll survive the war. Wonders if she’ll ever know, if he doesn’t.
“It’s safer that way,” she assures herself, and then realizes that she’s spoken aloud. “If the Thalmor are still hunting you, you’ll never be safe in Ivarstead.”
“Aye,” he says. Gazes into the fire. “Brokkr meant to join, I think.”
It’s the first time she’s heard him say the name since Northwatch Keep. Suddenly Freyja aches for him. After losing Indros she buried herself in the forest to hunt and rage and weep herself insensible in solitude, but the three of them have been squeezed into such close proximity; Eitri’s only privacy has been during the lonely watches in the night. "It helps to talk, you know."
"I know," Eitri says, but he doesn't seem able to find anything more to say. The wind gusts again. The fire flickers.