"I had this friend," Freyja offers, suddenly. "Some scholar with more money than sense hired us both for an expedition to Morrowind because he thought he’d found the resting place of some relic. I--" she laughs ruefully. "I hated his guts at first, he was so unbearably snide. I wanted to take his head off. We fought better on the same side, though - right from the beginning we could move in battle like one person, like we'd been doing it all our lives. It was uncanny. After we got back to Cyrodiil I think we spent the next year shaking ash out of everything we owned, and we never quite got rid of each other, either. Worked together - five years, almost." It's a vast oversimplification, but she doesn’t feel up to telling him the full tale. Even now her throat is tight. Freyja swallows, the skin of her face and throat feeling stiff in the cold.
"What happened to him?" Eitri finally murmurs, when she does not continue.
"Bandits, if you can believe it. Only two of them. Stupid ones, too, to attack a couple of armored sellswords, but we were laughing over a joke he'd made and they caught us off guard. He just - missed his footing," she says, through numb lips. "I'd seen him fend off two and three men at a time, it should have been easy, but he stumbled at the wrong moment and this bandit's axe caught him in the throat. It was that fast. It didn't take me more than a moment to finish them off, and by the time I did he was already gone."
That was the part that had stayed with her at the time, gone round her head in dull, incredulous refrain - the suddenness. Even now she can see it happen: a shear of awkward motion, a gurgling yelp, and nothing. By the time she dropped to her knees his pupils were fixed and the dust of the battle was sticking to the glassy surface of his unblinking eyes. There were no last words, no tender touches or darkly-humored quips. Just a slip and a cry.
Eitri is looking at her with too much sudden understanding. "A friend," he repeats, slowly. “Is that why you don’t...?” Then he stops, his mind catching up with his mouth. Freyja looks away.
“He fought bravely,” Eitri finally says. You’ll see him in Sovngarde, is what he means.
Freyja closes her eyes. “He was a Dunmer.” Eitri has no answer for that. “A Dunmer of House Hlaalu, he used to say, the proud bastard, nevermind Hlaalu hadn’t been a Great House since before he was born.” Her throat closes. Freyja watches the sparks from the fire rise into the night and whirl themselves out.
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timeasmymeasure
Songs for Nomads 6.10
Date: 2014-03-30 04:47 am (UTC)"What happened to him?" Eitri finally murmurs, when she does not continue.
"Bandits, if you can believe it. Only two of them. Stupid ones, too, to attack a couple of armored sellswords, but we were laughing over a joke he'd made and they caught us off guard. He just - missed his footing," she says, through numb lips. "I'd seen him fend off two and three men at a time, it should have been easy, but he stumbled at the wrong moment and this bandit's axe caught him in the throat. It was that fast. It didn't take me more than a moment to finish them off, and by the time I did he was already gone."
That was the part that had stayed with her at the time, gone round her head in dull, incredulous refrain - the suddenness. Even now she can see it happen: a shear of awkward motion, a gurgling yelp, and nothing. By the time she dropped to her knees his pupils were fixed and the dust of the battle was sticking to the glassy surface of his unblinking eyes. There were no last words, no tender touches or darkly-humored quips. Just a slip and a cry.
Eitri is looking at her with too much sudden understanding. "A friend," he repeats, slowly. “Is that why you don’t...?” Then he stops, his mind catching up with his mouth. Freyja looks away.
“He fought bravely,” Eitri finally says. You’ll see him in Sovngarde, is what he means.
Freyja closes her eyes. “He was a Dunmer.” Eitri has no answer for that. “A Dunmer of House Hlaalu, he used to say, the proud bastard, nevermind Hlaalu hadn’t been a Great House since before he was born.” Her throat closes. Freyja watches the sparks from the fire rise into the night and whirl themselves out.