Jade Fern Grove ᛁᛋᛉᛁᛚᛋ

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ᚦ — it has been days traveling with @Anoré. he would tell you it has been pleasant, if you ask him. and he has been the perfect gentleman. hunting for her along the way, though half the time only to find she has already rustled prey for herself.
only, in his eyes, enlightening him further upon her. making him see the wisdom in his decision to pursue her after first running her off with his belligerence. now they settle for the night, making camp. it is only another day and they will arrive within the circle.
now fiercely guarded by many who had sworn vow to fight and live alongside the jarl. @Asvardr, @Siggvard, @Vémundr. he chuckles to think the boys would have come back so soon, to test their luck. oh, how he would delight to arrive within the steinvardr to see their mangled bodies draped across the steinhaugr.
he grunts, dropping the carcass of a beaver before her. moving some feet away, ignoring the sweetening of her smell that only grows more sultry by the days. he would have her when she said so—and norseman must be content with that. dropping to his haunches in a huff and looking to the sky as it begins dappling with stars, that remind him of her eyes.
segðu mér af hverju þú yfirgefur sunnlendinginn. hvers vegna þú skilur eftir börn. one could provoke, to say he worried the same for him, for any children they might bring into their hearth. but he did not. he only wished to know what has been done, and what breed of wounds he must mend upon her heart.

the last few days with him had been easier than she expected.
he didn’t speak too much. and when he did, it was less to boast and more to ask—sometimes even to listen. that alone had won him a sliver of her patience. trust, though? that remained to be seen.
but there was a thin line between them—a fine thread she refused to slacken. she was wary. of him. of his intentions. as she forever would be of all norsemen.
she had watched for his gaze. to see if it lingered too long with the way her body had begun to betray her, aching in subtle, mounting ways as her season crept closer with the turning moon.
not once did his hunger slip past momentary civility.
and now, with the night drawing its shawl overhead, he asks. blunt, yes, as all norsemen are. but not cruel.
anoré is quiet for a time as she inspects the kill he'd brought. more out of habit, than purpose.
finally, she settles onto her belly, the earth cool against her warming skin, "ég fer aldrei frá börnum." she says at last. there is an aching bite to her words, but not aimed at him.
she would never leave, not hers. they would have to be torn from her, and they were.
"þrír flúðu." her gaze goes beyond pale lashes, looking into the horizon where they might roam, "langt frá roti konungsríkisins. langt frá föður sínum." her jaw tightens, "ég dvaldi nógu lengi til að... síðustu tvo. með höndum hans."
their names catch in her throat like shards of glass. not because she has forgotten—never that.

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ᚦ — he listens with intent. hearing her words, the emotions that guide them. it is like a great river flooding from her tongue, constricted by the currents of anger, grief. draugr feels himself, even, be pulled beneath to drown in it.
he feels such anger take hold. that this woman had suffered such, at the hands of a weak man. he would draw her close if she allowed, but knows it is not meant to be yet. she is a woman who suffers in silence, as draugr prefers his suffering the same. he exhales, a warm breath.
he exhales his anger.
þú brennur bjartari þrátt fyrir það. he understands why she is not so keen to trust him. to let him close. and he knows patience, despite what another may say. the norseman draws himself to lay across from her, the feet between taut, and looks into the distance as if a great fire draws there.
segðu mér frá börnunum þínum. a request. he has never met any of his own; he does not even know the names of mothers. but he knows they are out there, far, far. looking to the pale woman then. jafnvel þeir sem Frigg elskar nú.

the hush stretches, filled only by the soft rustle of trees and the distant hum of night. 
she says nothing at first, lost in thought. the silence wraps around her as she thinks of them—each one of them—and how they live in her still. how each memory tugs at a different part of her heart. some gentle. some sharp. all of them aching.
when she does speak, her voice is low. raw around the edges like a fresh wound.
"vahaellar. not mine by blood—" her jaw ticks, but there is no fire in her tone, "but the moment i held him—he was.” a shaky breath, "my eldest, by all that mattered."
"he was the first to leave. banished by his father by an incident he blames him for."
"then, kaelith," she begins, her tongue lingering on the name. soft. reverent, "too soft for this world. he cried when he caught a rabbit once. said its heart was still warm in his hands. he left after vahaellar. couldn't bear the cold without him." 
"emýr." her voice is stronger now, "born with a howl in his lungs. bold and fearless child." she swallows thickly, "i thought he’d make a fine king, one day." a smile catches the corner of her lips, "but i found him here. i rest easier, knowing he lives. and that he is strong."
"varic. smaller than the rest. but clever." a hollow laugh leaves her, as brief and fleeting as the spring, "he once made a trap so intricate, even i could not undo it."
"astrid." she murmurs, and her voice nearly breaks, "she was quiet. i used to wonder if she remembered another life before this one."
"and adorre." a breath, a heartbeat. "the youngest. she never cried. only looked at me. and smiled. like she knew something i didn’t. like she forgave me, even before i asked."
she does not weep, for there are no tears left. grief ran them dry, left only scorched banks, and salt in their wake. each child an old cut, dulled, but no lighter to bear.
she turns her gaze to the stars, voice steady as steel pulled through fire, "i love them.” she says quietly, "all of them. with everything i have and more. these days, i wish to find my sons who live on."
"our family began to rot the day his mind started to break. i held on for too long. thought i could keep us whole if i loved them hard enough. if i endured him long enough. i was a fool." a breath of resignation as though she were chastising herself.
then, after a pause, she turns to the norseman. not sharply, not accusing—only curious, and maybe a little wistful.
"do you know," she asks, "how i came to marry winterhelm's king?"

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ᚦ — and draugr listens. northman listens with the quiet stillness of stone beneath snowfall. with the reverence of a man who has known death, but not love. not this kind of love.
she speaks of sons and daughters. of grief worn thin and soft. each name a brand she carries across the soul. he does not interrupt. not once. it is his attention which she commands now, in the silence of their humble, intimate encampment.
where he does not tread upon her.
when she finishes sharing tongue of her children, he finds emotion provoked in him. a deepseated longing, a desire, not for her, but for what she speaks of. something he has never experienced—but hopes to. allt hljómar sterkt.
the name of winterhelm is provoked. he stirs, feeling discomfort and anger for her bloom in his chest. it is quelled with a deep breath, and a sweep of feeling eyes. nei, en ég skal hlusta.

she is too old to be haunted—too proud—and it shows in the hard steel of her eyes as she looks at him, "krónurnar. fjölskyldan mín." the war, she thinks, and there is flint-sharp in her voice, "þeir kölluðu á hreinleika svo að blóð megi bindast á gamla mátann. að gefa vetrarhjálmi styrk."
"hann var heillandi þá. brotinn á þann hátt sem ég taldi að væri dýpt. jafnvel þrátt fyrir óheilindi og grimmd." and then she scoffs dryly, as if meaning to spit upon his very memory. but not without a brief flash of sorrow.
"ég ól honum börnin okkar. hlúði að þeim þegar hann gat það ekki. þoldu hann þegar þeir flýðu. þótt hann týndist, fór ég ekki. ég myndi ekki yfirgefa skyldu mína sem matriarch, heldur sem eiginkona hans..."
wife. the very word feels like a curse on her tongue. her eyes narrow for a moment, before softening with the memory of her progeny, of her once doting, once affectionate husband. and the woman softens with an exhale.
"það er fínt að vera kallaður eiginkona." the words slip out like an afterthought, ghosting and transient, but sure, "en fínna þegar ástin mín mun ekki gera mig úr." she is naked truth before the wight—adorned in shame and anger and provocation. dormant grandiosity awakened by the norseman's crimson ire, whether or not he knows.
"hefir þú nokkurn tíma vitað slíkt, drøugr?"

ᚦ — he says nothing as she speaks of the crown wolves, of purity, of betrayal dressed in tradition. he watches her burn herself down to kindling, and does not look away.

when she calls him by name, asks him if he has known such a thing, his breath leaves him hard. ekki… svona. admittance. minn faðir tók móður mína á meðan hún grátið. kallaði það hjónaband.

his head does not raise to lord. instead, he leans close, until she might see the battle-wrought sorrow behind sandstone eyes. frá þeim degi, ákvað ég. ek skal aldrei eiga konu sem ek neyði til að vera. hún skal velja mig. skal elska mig—ekki þrátt fyrir, heldur vegna.

he loathed his father. thus, he had killed him. and his mother, poor mother. too brainwashed, too ruined, by the northman to live any other way. he killed her in mercy.

ef þú kemur, þú kemur frjáls. ef þú ferð, ek mun ekki bjóða hönd mína eftir. and that is truth.

there is something true and terrible mirrored back in draugr’s harrowed admission. he had known pain. not the same, but close enough to bleed.
he is not the man she thought he was. her eyes narrow—not in challenge or derision, but reassessment. as if to peel away the myth of the wight to see the man beneath. a harder truth than any she’d prepared for.
"ég tók þig í storm - aðeins þruma í brjósti þínu og ótti í höndum þínum."
somewhere, between the silence, they'd inched closer. a heavy, pulsing heat thick as smoke and twice as dangerous. no wind dared to cut through it. even the stars kept their distance.
"en þú ert heiður. dýrð. og blóðbundinn." something flickers behind her gaze when she finds him—recognition, perhaps even reverence, "ekki það sem ég bjóst við. ekki það sem ég óttaðist heldur."
and his eyes—fuck—she curses to herself. they are molten suns, liquid, and alive. not soft, never that, but deep. like the all-father's endless astral ocean. eyes that had seen too much, yet still held the line. and there is no greed or arrogance. he sees all of her.
maybe that is even worse.