Can't stop thinking about Lotte (love her I think we deserve more of her) and how the whole plot with her and Hal was basically sidelined after the first three books. Anyway I think it was because she figured out Hal was gay and gave up going after him somewhere in the interim. So anyway here's a little bit of a snippet from her about that, set during Outcasts. Enjoy!
Lotte Ilafsdotir is seventeen but she’s no fool. She knows she’s popular– knows that she could have her pick of nearly any boy in town, no questions asked. She does feel a bit bad for Nina, her lovely best friend who’s eschewed by the bulk of the male population of Hallasholm, but she knows Nina will laugh and says she has Stig Olafson after her and that’s quite enough. Lotte knows that one day, she’ll have to pick a man to settle down with. Her father won’t have it any other way. And she knows that the assortment of men – or boys, really, Lotte’s not deluding herself into thinking that a scraggly little blond moustache means anything other than a tragic lack of grooming – that she could pick between have their own, very loud, opinions. Such as –
“Hej, Lotte. Nice dress.” He’s somehow managing to simultaneously imply that the dress is God’s gift to humanity and that she would look leagues better without it. Bastard. She keeps walking. She won’t dignify him with a response. He’s loitering on the corner of the Great Hall with a man who looks remarkably like a rat if rats could stand on two legs and wear inadvisable green coats. Lotte knows she’s wearing a nice dress – it’s her best dress in fact, her lovely blue one with the white embroidery on the hem, evicted from loving storage in her bottom drawer for tonight. Right on time, Nina appears out of the crowd and falls into step with a drink for the both of them and a sympathetic glance.
“He is.” When they were about thirteen, Tursgurd seemed to have laid some sort of imaginary, one-sided claim to Lotte, and she hasn’t known a moment of peace since. She takes a swig of her drink and mutters, “I hate how he acts like I’m his girl.”
“Rightfully so!” Nina’s never been one to be indignant quietly. “He never even asked you if you wanted to go out. How are you his girl if he didn’t even ask you? If you’re going to be someone’s girl, surely you get to choose.” They forge on, Lotte ignoring a whistle from behind them and pretending not to see Nina respond with a most unladylike gesture, until they pass the band tuning their instruments and reach the party proper. Tursgurd forgotten, they exchange mischievous glances. The Herons are the winners of this year’s brotherband contest, and the two girls are at this feast tonight for a reason. Lotte giggles. “Shall we go have a look?”
Hal’s pretty good-looking. He’s shorter and slimmer than most of the other boys, but he holds himself with an attractive measure of self-possession, and his eyes are quite striking if Lotte does say so. But looks aside, Hal’s also smart, and he’s kind. He’s invented a new type of sail plan, for Gorlog’s sake! He’s a genius and nice to be around, but most importantly, he doesn’t take her for granted the way Tursgurd does. He doesn’t go around acting like she owes him anything and he’s nice to interact with because of it. All around, Lotte quite fancies him. Currently, he’s entangled somewhere in the midst of the celebratory knot of people that have been swarming around the Herons all night, while Lotte and Nina lean against a wall searching for an opening.
“You have it easy enough,” she mutters to Nina. “Stig’s head and shoulders taller than all of them. You could spot his hair from the other side of town. Hal could be anywhere at this point.” Nina tilts her head back and laughs loudly. Nina will be a good match for Stig. Not only are they both tall – Nina is the second tallest girl in Hallasholm – but they both match their physical bulk with a sort of exuberant energy that makes Lotte think they’ll work well together, if they can both get over the blushing and stuttering. Nina’s dark tresses, coffee-coloured eyes and fondness for bright clothing set off Stig’s white-blond hair, bright blue eyes and nondescript habits of dress. Two sides of a quintessential Skandian coin. And, Lotte remembers, as Nina downs her drink, grabs her arm and drags her across the green, they’re both prone to fits of impulsivity.
The girls skip together across the lawn, spin with the dancers and join in on the music at the top of their lungs for a minute or two. They pass the Wolves, no less jubilant for their disqualification from the competition, all laughing at something Pedra says, and turning to yell cheerful hellos at the girls as they pass. Lotte waves at them and grabs an outstretched tankard, downing it in one go as she passes to hear the boy laugh behind her in surprise and delight.
They swirl around together in the shouting, laughing, dancing knot of partygoers for a second before landing next to Stig, who whirls around and turns visibly red at Nina’s appearance. Good old Stig, reliably flustered by girls even as he’s celebrated for winning the highest achievement a teenager can win. Lotte deposits Nina in front of a now stammering Stig and sets out to look for Hal. Wherever Stig is, Hal won’t be far. And like a handsome, slightly flushed sixteen-year-old sent from the gods, there he is only a metre or two to her left, talking to someone she thinks is Edvin Frederiksson. Edvin, bless him, spots her over Hal’s shoulder and takes his leave, melting away back into the crowd towards the food tables. Hal spots Lotte and smiles, starting towards her, and her stomach flutters involuntarily. He really does have lovely eyes.
On an impulse, she leans up on her toes and loops her arms around Hal’s neck. He laughs, slightly flustered, “Hello”. Friha, Lotte really likes this guy. She leans forward and presses her lips softly to his. His lips are chapped and he tastes of bread and the watered-down ale all the teenagers have been drinking while the adults turn a blind eye and for just a minute, Lotte thinks she might be able to fly. Pulling back for a second, Lotte studies his face. He’s smiling, crooked and uncertain, and she smiles too despite herself. And then his eyes flicker away from careful contemplation of her face just for a millisecond, over her shoulder to where she knows Stig is standing, and Lotte knows everything she needs to know.
Lotte Ilafsdotir is seventeen, but she’s no fool, and she knows how to recognise a helpless situation when she sees one. And as much as she likes this guy, she knows she’ll get over him. She tells a joke to hear him laugh, mentally wishes him all the well in his future romantic conquests, and wonders idly if the Wolf who handed her the drink is still around. Lotte is seventeen. She’ll survive.
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