Fralia Gray-Mane set her basket on the hearth, offering a tired smile to her husband. “The Thane has returned. There’s talk that she’s going to take Breezeholme.” She tugged her cap from her head, her snow white hair pale in the firelight. “Danica said that she was heavy with child. It won’t be long before she births her child.”
Eorlund paused in sharpening the dagger in his hand, raising his blue eyes to meet his wife’s. “I take it you and the other women of the village will help with the birth then.” He watched his wife nod and swallowed. “It will be good to have that house occupied again,” he allowed cautiously. His stomach clenched as he mentally calculated the last time he had seen the Thane of Whiterun to the present. No, it was not possible. Surely—just the once? “Is she intending to stay?”
Fralia shrugged, frowning as a sharp rap sounded on the door. “Who could be calling at this hour?” She rose from the chair she had been settled into, her expression confused. What with the division between the Gray-Manes and the Battle-Borns, the visitors to their home had dwindled. It was truly unusual for there to be any visitors after dark. Dark was the province of thieves, vampires and werewolves.
Eorlund stood, grabbing for his two-handed silver axe and starting past his wife. Whiterun was a relatively safe town but bad things—such as the recent spate of vampire attacks—did sometime happen to good people. “Hold, wife,” he ordered, stepping past his frail bride to the door. He pulled it slightly open, shock filling his face. “Avulstein?”
“Let me in, Father. Please,” called the desperate voice of his younger son. Eorlund pulled open the door, hauling his son out of the night.
Fralia set the ladle in the pot and hurried towards her white-blonde haired son, her hands tracing his face as if memorizing him. “Avulstein, what’s wrong?” she asked, her voice brittle. She had not wanted to let her sons go off to fight the Imperials—not both of them. Wasn’t it bad enough that her Olfina pined after that Battle-Born boy? She didn’t want to lose all of her children.
Avulstein shook his head, fear filling his blue eyes. “Thorald was taken,” he admitted quietly, watching the horror blossom in his mother’s cornflower eyes. “By the Thalmor,” he added.
Eorlund’s expression sobered, his blue eyes shuttered. “How long ago, Avulstein?” He set the axe back against the wall and dropped heavily onto the stool he’d been sitting on before. He saw this war for what it was—the petty squabbling of two giants with innocent people trampled underfoot. And now his eldest was lost to him—to the Thalmor. Why could his sons not have just been happy to learn the craft of their ancestors—to learn to man the SkyForge and serve the Companions?
Avulstein sat across from his father, a bowl of stew pressed into his hand by his mother. “Nearly a year, Father. I’ve been avoiding patrols and Imperials since then and only just made it back. But they’re looking for me and if they find me, I’ll be sent to the Thalmor too.”
Eorlund groaned tiredly, his broad hands wiping down his face. “I told you, Fralia, that we had no business getting involved in Ulfric’s war.” He met his wife’s gaze, seeing the fury rise. “We are blacksmiths—but you needed to take a side.” Turning to face his youngest son, he saw the same passion of his wife’s in the younger Gray-Mane’s eyes. “You can stay here as long as you like, Avulstein. I beg of you, do not go looking for a fight with the Thalmor. Or the Battle-Borns.” He stood, brushing off the lap of his hide armor and starting upstairs. “I’m to bed. Goodnight.”
Fralia shook her head as Eorlund disappeared upstairs to their bedchamber, her lips pressed tight. “Damned Battle-Borns. They know something, I’m sure of it.” She glanced at Avulstein, her expression softening. “My son. Let’s get you to bed.”
Re: F!DB / Eorlund Gray-Mane "Skyforged Chains" 5/?
Eorlund paused in sharpening the dagger in his hand, raising his blue eyes to meet his wife’s. “I take it you and the other women of the village will help with the birth then.” He watched his wife nod and swallowed. “It will be good to have that house occupied again,” he allowed cautiously. His stomach clenched as he mentally calculated the last time he had seen the Thane of Whiterun to the present. No, it was not possible. Surely—just the once? “Is she intending to stay?”
Fralia shrugged, frowning as a sharp rap sounded on the door. “Who could be calling at this hour?” She rose from the chair she had been settled into, her expression confused. What with the division between the Gray-Manes and the Battle-Borns, the visitors to their home had dwindled. It was truly unusual for there to be any visitors after dark. Dark was the province of thieves, vampires and werewolves.
Eorlund stood, grabbing for his two-handed silver axe and starting past his wife. Whiterun was a relatively safe town but bad things—such as the recent spate of vampire attacks—did sometime happen to good people. “Hold, wife,” he ordered, stepping past his frail bride to the door. He pulled it slightly open, shock filling his face. “Avulstein?”
“Let me in, Father. Please,” called the desperate voice of his younger son. Eorlund pulled open the door, hauling his son out of the night.
Fralia set the ladle in the pot and hurried towards her white-blonde haired son, her hands tracing his face as if memorizing him. “Avulstein, what’s wrong?” she asked, her voice brittle. She had not wanted to let her sons go off to fight the Imperials—not both of them. Wasn’t it bad enough that her Olfina pined after that Battle-Born boy? She didn’t want to lose all of her children.
Avulstein shook his head, fear filling his blue eyes. “Thorald was taken,” he admitted quietly, watching the horror blossom in his mother’s cornflower eyes. “By the Thalmor,” he added.
Eorlund’s expression sobered, his blue eyes shuttered. “How long ago, Avulstein?” He set the axe back against the wall and dropped heavily onto the stool he’d been sitting on before. He saw this war for what it was—the petty squabbling of two giants with innocent people trampled underfoot. And now his eldest was lost to him—to the Thalmor. Why could his sons not have just been happy to learn the craft of their ancestors—to learn to man the SkyForge and serve the Companions?
Avulstein sat across from his father, a bowl of stew pressed into his hand by his mother. “Nearly a year, Father. I’ve been avoiding patrols and Imperials since then and only just made it back. But they’re looking for me and if they find me, I’ll be sent to the Thalmor too.”
Eorlund groaned tiredly, his broad hands wiping down his face. “I told you, Fralia, that we had no business getting involved in Ulfric’s war.” He met his wife’s gaze, seeing the fury rise. “We are blacksmiths—but you needed to take a side.” Turning to face his youngest son, he saw the same passion of his wife’s in the younger Gray-Mane’s eyes. “You can stay here as long as you like, Avulstein. I beg of you, do not go looking for a fight with the Thalmor. Or the Battle-Borns.” He stood, brushing off the lap of his hide armor and starting upstairs. “I’m to bed. Goodnight.”
Fralia shook her head as Eorlund disappeared upstairs to their bedchamber, her lips pressed tight. “Damned Battle-Borns. They know something, I’m sure of it.” She glanced at Avulstein, her expression softening. “My son. Let’s get you to bed.”