A shadow fell over Britta’s face as he spoke of the plight of the slaves. She could see written in his face how the memories troubled him and she glanced towards the ground. “I am glad, indeed, that that evil practice is at an end - especially as so many of our own people were forced into such a horrifying fate.” There had been little - short of this invasion - that could be done about it, however, and she was glad that, at last, the deed was done. “It was a brave thing you did,” she said, honestly. “And a noble one.” She rolled her eyes, smiling softly. Even without their proper lord - a Mortain lord - to lead them, men like Petyr had boldly taken up their arms and rushed into a conflict with a warrior people to defend their home. Britta only wished she could have done something to help, herself. Still, she admired those who had done what they could and Petyr certainly could not be excepted from that rank. “Though, I’m sure my dear brother - or my mother, in his name, at any rate - already gave you all the thanks of House Mortain.” No doubt, she herself was considered a measure of that gratitude.
As he spoke of Harrion, she regarded him gravely. “I know,” she said, quietly as he broke off. In truth, she’d always known what his fate must have been, but it had not prevented her from holding out some small shred of hope. “I can’t say I’m surprised, really,” she began. “Harry would never have accepted slavery. Even if they did manage to overcome him, they’d have to kill him, for he would never have submitted.” Our swords are sharp, thought Britta, exhaling softly. He had been a Mortain, just as she was, and he had not been forged with a knee that easily bent. “And he did dearly love to fight…” She liked to think she, herself, would fight to the death rather than submit, as well, but it was the kind of thing no one really could know until the moment arrived and, in truth, she hoped it never came. (It seemed an unlikely circumstance, now, in any case.)
Britta’s brown eyes found his urgently when he said he would not serve as her mother’s lackey and, softly, she smiled at him. She was glad of that, at least. “Good,” Britta tilted her head. “My mother has lackeys, enough. She has no need of your lands, as well.” Britta felt a jolt of surprise as he avowed this to be one of her mother’s better ideas and for a moment that surprise showed before she remembered herself and hastily covered it with a coquettish smile. “Why, my Lord Alainon, are you flirting with me?” she teased. Her brown eyes glittered but some uncertainty lurked there, too. Yet, she jocular tone died on her lips as he continued.
Britta looked intently at him. He had honest eyes - always had - and he’d always had what Britta thought was a puzzlingly sharp understanding of people. For herself, she had always struggled to see outside herself and comprehend what others might be experiencing, but Petyr had been quick to compassion and that made him someone very easy to cotton to - even for someone as self-involved as Britta. Sometimes, she had often thought, he seemed to have known her better than she had known herself. “Friends, yes. I quite fancied you when we were children, you know,” she stated, bemused. The irony did not escape her that as they’d grown, their paths had diverged had those feelings had faded…Not to mention she wasn’t altogether he’d like the person she was, today, anyway. Now, in truth, Britta seemed to lend her attentions to heart breakers and the sort of men who wouldn’t take romance seriously. That was a far safer route: meaningless flirtations.
Her brows knit. It was the cynic in her, but she wondered what kind of parents they’d make - neither of them knew much of how a family ought to act. Both of them had been cheated out of their fathers - Petyr before he had even the benefit of the man’s memory - and the one parent they did have between them (Margery), Britta regarded as a rather negative example. Their brothers were even worse (both making sad ironies of their respective family mottoes). Besides, Britta couldn’t imagine a world where she was ready to be a mother. Even her desire for adventure aside, Britta wasn’t so blind to her own failings as to imagine she’d excel at such an office and, when she did have children, she wanted them to have the best of everything - including the best of her.
"Good thing, too," she added, arching a brow, when he said he didn’t want a perfect life. "I don’t think those exist anywhere in Aragoth, and you’re certainly not in for one if you mean to keep me in your life, at all." Britta grinned, shrugging softly. She knew that much was true, at least. Her mother never hesitated to remind her and, regardless, she was never going to be the perfect lady or the perfect wife and she took a certain odd pride in the fact.
"I want…" Britta’s chocolate orbs fell away from his face. No one ever asked her what she wanted. Her mother didn’t wish to know, her brother was too busy counting keys, and no one else seemed to care (including Rob, who claimed to be in love with her). She felt foolish. He’d said the right things, and reasonable things, the things a girl like Britta was supposed to want, but all Britta could think was how she wanted to run along the shore and scream to the top of her lungs, if she felt like it; to climb the highest mountains the North sported; see the great wide forests of the East and the vast plains of the West. She wanted to sail the open seas and discover lands no one had ever before seen…and most of all she wanted to soar, high above all her cares, looking down on the small world below her, just as Ameria Moysaunt had once done. But there were no more dragons and she would never be a Rider. She would have no grand adventures, would never lead armies or see the world. She would die as she had lived: here and without ever leaving a mark on anything for anyone to remember her by.
But in truth, the realities of such adventures weren’t what she wanted, either, and beyond these fancies, she’d never dared to ponder what she might desire. It was a sad truth that, when it came right down to it, Britta didn’t truly know what she wanted out of her own life and, deep down, that void scared of her. When she looked into her heart all she saw were conflicting impulses and raw, senseless emotion. What did it matter what she wanted, anyway? It was never going to happen. She needed to content herself with the moment and not think outside it. That was all she had.
"I want to climb this hill," she said, abruptly, turning to look at him. Somehow, she’d never made it to the top, where the water found its source and went plummeting from far above the little cave they currently inhabited. Her smile was a half-hearted curl of the lips. "I’m going to climb this hill,” she added, with greater certainty, turning and ducking under the curtain of water and back out to where that might be possible. “Are you coming?”
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