Avulstein springs up, his face crumpling in relief, but this time it's Lady Grey-Mane who interrupts. "Wait," she says, putting a hand on her son's shoulder. Her kindly, wrinkled face is hard as she turns to Freyja. "How do I know that you aren't just telling me what I want to hear? That this isn't a trap to steal my other son from me?"
"Thorald said tell you to suffer the winter's chill," Freyja says, "for it--"
"--bears aloft next summer's seeds," Fralia finishes. The expression on her face is indescribable. "That's my boy. That's Thorald. Go to him, Avulstein."
He hesitates. "We can't come back, you know. Not until this war is over. I took a risk, this time, but—”
"Go," she says, kissing him. It makes an odd picture, the tiny old woman lifting herself on tiptoe to smooth back her big burly son's hair and press her papery lips to his cheek, the way she must have when she tucked him in as a boy. “Your father can get you out of the city, same way he got you in. Tell your brother that I love him - enough to know that an old woman travelling out to meet him will only attract attention. Take care of each other."
"Of course," says Avulstein, gruffly. He pulls a cloak from a peg, tugs the hood up to hide his face, and slips out.
The proud smile she wears for her son flashes briefly into pain when the door closes behind him, but Fralia Grey-Mane takes a shaky breath and steadies herself, graceful as a queen. "And you," she says, turning. "How can I ever repay you?"
"There's no need," Freyja mutters. "We couldn't leave him there, once we found him. It was the only decent thing."
"You've given me back my son," the woman insists. With a sudden determined purse of her lips, she marches into the bedroom where Avulstein was hidden. Freyja watches her pull a sword down from a plaque above the bed. “Eorlund made this,” she murmurs, returning. “As a...well. He told me to mourn and accept our son’s death. But then he spent weeks forging this sword, and he wouldn’t hear of selling it.” Gently, she presses the weapon into Freyja’s palms.
Freyja weighs the blade in her hands; it's solid, balanced, alive with a cold red gleam. Skyforge steel. The weapon almost hums in her grip, guarding an inner light, like a coal eager to leap into flame. "I can't take this," she gasps. "This is your son's, this is--" priceless. The sword is enchanted – and in the old Atmoran fashion, with runes glowing dully near the guard, not etched but worked into the metal itself. Less potent than a spell woven with soul gems, but it will last for a lifetime. The art of runic enchanting is nearly a lost one. There are two or three smiths in Tamriel who can do it, perhaps even fewer. Freyja is no merchant appraiser, but she knows swords – and this one is probably worth more than the house they are standing in, and everything it contains.
"Eorlund can forge him another, when this war is over," Fralia says. Freyja does not miss the woman's uncertainty, the breath of fear when she speaks of an end as yet unglimpsed, an end neither of her sons is guaranteed to see. "You should have it, dear. You've proven you'll use it well. Your parents would be very proud of you, Freyja."
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timeasmymeasure
Songs for Nomads 9.6/9
Date: 2014-10-05 02:44 am (UTC)"Thorald said tell you to suffer the winter's chill," Freyja says, "for it--"
"--bears aloft next summer's seeds," Fralia finishes. The expression on her face is indescribable. "That's my boy. That's Thorald. Go to him, Avulstein."
He hesitates. "We can't come back, you know. Not until this war is over. I took a risk, this time, but—”
"Go," she says, kissing him. It makes an odd picture, the tiny old woman lifting herself on tiptoe to smooth back her big burly son's hair and press her papery lips to his cheek, the way she must have when she tucked him in as a boy. “Your father can get you out of the city, same way he got you in. Tell your brother that I love him - enough to know that an old woman travelling out to meet him will only attract attention. Take care of each other."
"Of course," says Avulstein, gruffly. He pulls a cloak from a peg, tugs the hood up to hide his face, and slips out.
The proud smile she wears for her son flashes briefly into pain when the door closes behind him, but Fralia Grey-Mane takes a shaky breath and steadies herself, graceful as a queen. "And you," she says, turning. "How can I ever repay you?"
"There's no need," Freyja mutters. "We couldn't leave him there, once we found him. It was the only decent thing."
"You've given me back my son," the woman insists. With a sudden determined purse of her lips, she marches into the bedroom where Avulstein was hidden. Freyja watches her pull a sword down from a plaque above the bed. “Eorlund made this,” she murmurs, returning. “As a...well. He told me to mourn and accept our son’s death. But then he spent weeks forging this sword, and he wouldn’t hear of selling it.” Gently, she presses the weapon into Freyja’s palms.
Freyja weighs the blade in her hands; it's solid, balanced, alive with a cold red gleam. Skyforge steel. The weapon almost hums in her grip, guarding an inner light, like a coal eager to leap into flame. "I can't take this," she gasps. "This is your son's, this is--" priceless. The sword is enchanted – and in the old Atmoran fashion, with runes glowing dully near the guard, not etched but worked into the metal itself. Less potent than a spell woven with soul gems, but it will last for a lifetime. The art of runic enchanting is nearly a lost one. There are two or three smiths in Tamriel who can do it, perhaps even fewer. Freyja is no merchant appraiser, but she knows swords – and this one is probably worth more than the house they are standing in, and everything it contains.
"Eorlund can forge him another, when this war is over," Fralia says. Freyja does not miss the woman's uncertainty, the breath of fear when she speaks of an end as yet unglimpsed, an end neither of her sons is guaranteed to see. "You should have it, dear. You've proven you'll use it well. Your parents would be very proud of you, Freyja."