What do you think of the 'My love is not fragile' line? That makes me dislike Kristanna more, to tell the truth. It's not like Anna left Kristoff for fun.
Fucking hate it because it implies that sticking around when someone treats you like shit somehow makes you... a hero?
Although its not a good choice, i have been rereading wandering hearts while waiting for the next update. I do not know why i thought this would be a good idea. Thank you for blessing us and cursing us with your amazing writing skills
Hi Raven. Hope all is well and you're doing ok. I wanted to reach out and ask (not to rush you!) how your writing is coming along and if you're still writing. I know sometimes life gets in the way or you don't feel like it anymore. Would you also ever consider taking a commission for chapters? Essentially being paid for what you're already writing, if that would help as a motivator? ♥️♥️
Pretty sure that is illegal because - ya know - copyright issues or whatever.
Also pretty sure that would induce so much fucking panic within my soul I would spontaneously combust.
Hey Raven! I dropped my kid off at college, in another state, in the middle of a pandemic, so i've been an emotional wreck all week. You posted your Wandering Hearts update and it legit made my day. Knowing that you're still fighting, still writing, and still with us is better than sunshine (that shit will kill you). Thanks for the angst, and the smile.
Fandom: Frozen (modern AU, no magic)
Pairings: Helsa, established Kristanna, Rapunzel/Eugene, lotsa frohana
Rating: T for now, M later almost for sure
A/N: Meh.
She goes to the bathroom where she had changed originally.
By some mercy all of her things are still there. She does not know why she thought they might not be, but this day is quickly showing her just how unexpected things can be. Her mouth still tingles from the pressure of his and if she is honest she cannot say it was entirely unwanted.
Still: this precedent cannot stand. If this event is to go forward she absolutely cannot abide this kind of behavior.
It is distracting. It is unprofessional. More than that it hints at the one thing she has not allowed herself to consider for over two years: a future.
Hans Westergaard may not want anything from her more than a fling, but she cannot know that for sure. She cannot entertain anything that may have staying power and if his reaction to her is even a fraction of what she has felt when he touches her then they are in trouble.
The first thing she does is breaths. She knows she tends to not do that and that is no good. She must breathe. Breath is crucial to brain function and clearly she needs as much of that as she can get.
She needs to breathe.
She needs to think.
She needs to move forward.
Her first step of moving forwards is to go to the miniature version of her traveling drugstore in the corner of the gold and marble bathroom, and she immediately starts setting herself right. She cannot get out of her wrap and suit fast enough. Even with the rinse down below she still feels sticky. She pulls out her face and body wipes and gets to work, then the lotion. It is not the type that drenched her skin with cloying scent, but instead offered a delicate perfume that she hopes will remove all traces of the reef and everything after. As she works the cream into her skin she feels her body relax. The familiarity, the sense of routine, slows the spinning world enough that she finally feels like she stands on solid ground.
Her body is hers. Her mind is hers. Her spirit is hers. She focuses on that.
She tells herself this routine has nothing to do with erasing his touch, covering it with additional sensation so she can forget the heat he poured into every inch of her. She tells herself that caressing her body with her own hands has nothing to do with forgetting the imprints he left on her. She reasons that gargling sharp minty mouthwash is to take the tang of ocean salt from her tongue and not the memory of his own intimate flavor. She tells herself that she hadn’t kissed him back.
She wishes she believed herself, but the last point is a lie and she knows it.
Still she comforts herself knowing that if nothing else it reminds her that there is life off of this boat, outside of his initiative. These steps, routines, exist outside of him. The vast majority of her world exists outside of him and would continue to be so for as long as she is alive. It is a victory, she tells herself, to not need him.
All she wants is to plan a great event. All she wants is to elevate her company to the next level so when she leaves she will know they are set. All she wants is to make peace with her fate and leave her family with the resources they need for success.
She dresses, glad for the shapeless way her shift floats around her body revealing nothing. She untangles the mess of her hair and combs her fingers through the white blonde mass. The salt from the ocean brings out its fullness and body. Without a blowdryer and a round brush there was no hope of taming it to lay around her shoulders and down her back without it exploding into a frizzy mess. Her fingers deftly create a braid that she curls and pins at the nape of her neck, hiding her scar.
Finally she finds her silver locket and clasps it behind her neck.
She may have been tempting fate wearing this specific piece of jewelry. Hans Westergaard had taken a special interest in it at the wedding after all, but she knows she cannot simply stop wearing it. It is her most precious belonging and she is not about to allow one over-inflated playboy keep her from exercising what little control she has over her life.
She straightens her shoulder and swipes on just enough makeup to make her feel like she isn’t a ghost: a bit of mascara, concealer, brow fill, blush, and a swipe of nude lipstick. She has never been a gloss girl. Her fair complexion already makes her look younger than she is. She does not need help in that department, especially since she will never grow old.
The thought slips in before she can stop it but it still catches her breath. It has been easy to ignore for the last two years, but she knows she is chasing the end. Time and fate do not just stop because you turn your eye. She feels them both biting her heels.
In an act she hopes is fortifying she looks herself in the eye in the mirror.
She says what she has said for many other days to remind herself of her position, her focus, whenever she felt lost:
“The end is coming.”
The words bend in a strange way in this space. She has grown used to how they unfurled in the small bath off of her studio apartment where she has often found macabre comfort in her single affirmation. What use has she for self-help mantras and manifestation when science has told her the truth?
The end is coming, and it is coming soon. She has felt it. It is not constant, but just enough that she recognizes its impending presence. This is when she must bow out and relinquish herself to fate - no matter how cruel. She did not choose this, but it seems the universe did. Who is she to argue with the universe?
Her shoulder rolls back, eyes catching in the mirror, and she cannot delay further. If she does it will result in her heaving herself off the deck into the depths of the ocean and not coming back up and that is not becoming for PR regarding an up-and-coming event planning business.
She must face this.
She considers what she has faced to this point and in many ways is able to convince herself that anything she has encountered between herself and Mister Westergaard is quite small. Perhaps, in many ways, it is. Perhaps this ephemeral chemistry has left them grasping at things that do not exist.
There is no future and she is fine with that. Yes she may have reacted and even enjoyed the attention of his kisses but that does not mean she must succumb to the succulent pleasure he offers. After all he does not know what he is asking.
She does not have a future.
She does not know how to tell him that.
So she looks at herself in the mirror and decides that after this event she is done. Of course she will do her best at finishing out what she needs to contractually, but she will not accept any more events. From here on in her purpose will be to transfer whatever authority she has to a new trainee. It is the most she can hope to do for a company that was founded on the fact that she is dying.
Her head shakes, hand gripping pure stone counters veined with what she can only assume is actual gold, and this is her purpose. This is why she is here. If she can keep this event under the guise of E&A Events without ever giving away her position as she has done with everything they have done. Then their business will catapult to the stratosphere of society.
They are ready. She knows they are. They all have the skill and capability to reach the heights she never will, but she hesitates. Hiring. The one thing they have never really done. Kristoff was acquired through dating Anna. Rapunzel and Eugene were acquired through Kristoff and Anna drinking at a bar and forcing Elsa to realize they were the perfect fit for their expanding needs. The intern Sven, Kristoff’s friend, fit in well enough to warrant a staff position if available, but he definitely could not fill her shoes.
They needed someone who was focused on delivering perfection, someone who would balance out her obsession with black and white solutions, someone who could move them forward when her own desire for being more kept them from actually accomplishing anything.
Someone like Hans. Her own mind betrays her and she takes a breath.
She had not lingered in this bathroom to have her own motivational mirror time accost her so she knows it is time to go. Turning towards the door she sucks a serrated breath and reminds herself of the truth.
All that matters is the deal, the zeros on the bottom line, the chance to upscale the business.
At least that is what she tells herself as she tries to settle an errant, romantic heart.
Romance. The very word simultaneously makes her laugh and cringe. Of course she had wanted someone to share her life with, someone who didn’t judge or query or laugh. Someone sober-minded, driven, responsible, kind… but she shoves aside that narrative.
Even at Camp for Those Who Probably Weren’t Going to Make It (not the official name but the name given by her and her best camp friend in the summers spent there) she knows how unrealistic this is.
Love can heal, it does heal, but not when it comes to cases like her.
This is no simple saga of a single broken heart that could be bandaged if the right pair of hands came along. This is her own body declaring war on itself while requiring her to be inside of it but also sit back and watch. The cruelty is not lost on her, but she is prepared. This has been her end for a long time.
She will watch until the bitter end.
So she looks in the mirror. She squares her shoulders. She tightens the muscles in her back. Though not the tallest woman in the room she is above average and feels that is very much to her advantage. She will take every advantage she can during this negotiation for more than one reason.
After all: what is negotiation other than having the best side of a deal?
Little does she know that she is about to find out.
….
The rest of the party is back and dressed in their original clothes when she emerges onto the deck where they had first started. She takes stock and if she was not wound as tightly as a child’s music box she may have found the mix of mussed and professional endearing.
Well, at least where her team was concerned.
Her sister especially struck a chord in her disheveled pigtail braids, freckles shining on her cheeks and nose from their time in the sun, and her negligence to reapply any kind of makeup. Even in her casual professional outfit Elsa could not help but see her sister as they had been as children. As they had been before -
That thought is dangerous territory in current company and she reigns it hoping no one noticed the flicker of sentiment (and by no one she means Hans Westergaard). The situation has made it clear that she cannot afford any emotional weakness, no chinks in the armor, and she whips and beats her consciousness to submit to meet what she is so sure they need.
With an effort she is chagrin to admit she meets Mister Westergaard’s eyes to find them carefully resigned, as if he had to muster a similar effort to meet her gaze. Still the moment her eyes meet his she is struck with a heat she cannot explain - especially considering the distance. She swallows nothing, throat working around the promise of relief that cannot be found in such a simple action.
“Sorry to have kept you waiting,” she says around the lump in her throat, gaze scanning everything.
The elaborate spread of food and drink menus have been removed and she feels a pang of hunger that makes this discovery a regrettable one. Simultaneously she is surprised she is even interested in food at this moment. Not just because of her racing heart but she hasn’t been hungry in weeks, not genuinely anyway. She knows what that signals, but has been ignoring it.
Perhaps this is a good sign?
She tightens her core against the burgeoning hope. She is beyond trusting herself. If her condition has gone far enough she really cannot trust her own mind. The idea sends a spiteful fever through her gut, coiling and venomous. Who was she if she could not trust herself, her judgement?
She pushes at the hunger and levels her gaze somewhere in the middle of the group: “What did I miss?”
Anna smiles in a way that betrays nothing. She is either getting better at masking her feelings or Kristoff really hasn't divulged anything.
“We all just got here,” her sister smiles. “We were waiting for you.”
Elsa does not dare look at Hans for his response to that comment.
“Well I’m here now,” Elsa squares her shoulders and shifts her attache case in her hands. “Shall we discuss the initiative?”
The words themselves rest a tang on her tongue, bright as blood, and she is just glad it does not taste like him.
“Of course,” it is he, his voice smooth and calm as she hoped she had sounded before. “But you all must be hungry. I have taken the liberty to make sure lunch was provided today so we can spend the afternoon discussing details.”
It is only then that she allows herself to realize that he has lost his sweater from the morning and only wears the crisp white button down that had been hidden beneath. The long white sleeves are rolled to the elbows. His forearms are lean, roped with purposeful strength, and sprinkled with both freckles and thick copper hair. The sight of even part of him reminds her of how much she had seen before and unease descends upon her like a guillotine.
“Certainly,” Elsa nods, aware everyone is watching for her cue. “Thank you for the consideration, but we cannot presume to take so much of your time. I am sure after a working lunch my team and I will have enough to get started on your project. After all we want to provide you with the absolute best services and we are best prepared to do that in our offices.”
“Of course,” Hans Westergaard steps nearer and even at the distance of several feet she feels her calf cramp against the impulse to step back in response. “But you see I plan on being involved through this entire process. It is crucial that I work alongside you and make sure you understand everything you need to know so you can deliver exactly what I want.”
She levels her gaze, steadies her breath, and sees exactly what he is doing. Just as he clearly saw her own tactic a few moments before and she has never met someone to challenge her like this.
“That is the beauty of hiring E&A Events,” she smiles instead of screaming. “We can accomplish things for you in less time and with less supervision things that many other event planners cannot. That is why we hope you trust us and our recommendations. Once we outline your expectations we will only have to check in periodically to make sure we are on track.”
A shadow of a smile pulls at his lips as his gaze darkens. “And if I want to have a more hands on approach?”
Her breath catches against her will. Her body heats with each memory of exactly what his hands felt like across her frame and that is not part of the deal. It never will be, but she can feel the tension in the air. She can sense her crew’s suspicion rising at this exchange, inferring indiscretion, and she raises an imperious brow in counterpoint.
“There are no contracts signed, Mister Westergaard. Let’s sort through the particulars and see if we are a good fit.”
It is the best she can do to diffuse and redirect a conversation she can only describe as wildly out of hand. Still the look in his eye at her phrasing does nothing to settle the rolling feeling in her stomach. His enigmatic gaze tells her nothing but that she is in trouble.
“Lunch sounds great,” it is Kristoff who breaks in. His voice is just a little too eager.
“Yeah,” Anna chimes in too and Elsa cannot help but wonder just what she has gotten out of Kristoff explicitly and what she has read between the lines. “After all of that swimming I am starved!”
Rapunzel and Eugene seem all too happy to acquiesce and she can see Hans Westergaard slip into his perfect host skin. His smile broadens, his eyes get less focused, and he moves his attention from lasering in on her to directing the party as a whole. At least he can read a room - but maybe that is what makes him so dangerous.
Hans introduces the impeccable brunette that had directed her to the Sunset Parlor. Janet, her name is Janet. Elsa fixes onto that, on the humanness of this woman and how she could clearly care less about Hans Westergaard and his charm and his influence and whatever else he brings to the table as she offers the most gracious of smiles and gestures to Elsa’s crew to follow her.
The group all goes ahead of them.
Elsa had thought Hans Westergaard would go first but all he does is rock on his toes like a dare as the rest push into the interior of the boat. Elsa’s mind flashes to creamy yellow leather and lush mahogany wood and how if the lunch options were anything like the brunch options she may actually have to indulge (slightly). If this is the challenge he wants to lay down she will meet it.
She turns and follows the group. In no less than three steps she stopped by a strong hand on her shoulder turning her to meet his watching eyes. They have not quite left the main deck and she has watched carefully enough to know that the reflective glass is keeping them from further chatter of indiscretion. That does not mean she is thrilled to be stopped before she is coupled with the relative safety of going into lunch with her team.
Still she turns with razor eyes: “Stop it. This is not the right time.”
“Oh? Why do I feel like it will never be the right time with you?” he pulls the easy smile she knows is not his and her stomach turns.
“Stop,” she steps back and his hand drops. “You really have to stop.”
Her spine tightens as she tries to not lean away even though he has not moved closer. The kisses between them still sing. She may not be the most experienced girl at the bar but she knows a player when she sees one and there is no way she is letting him get closer in any way.
He cocks his head to the side, “why?”
“I understand you are an influential man,” she stares at the third button down his chest, ignoring that the first two are undone, and trying her best to not remember… “But we are, well I am not in the habit of pawning off favors for the sake of business. If I gave you the wrong impression or insinuated what you might expect…”
Her blush cuts her off and swallows.
His voice is low and soft, “I don’t expect anything.”
That rips her eyes to his. She does not know him, but she knows enough to never trust that sentiment.
“Everyone expects something,” she replies before she can catch herself and her mind goes double time to make up for her misstep, for showing her authentic feelings.
Even if it is true - even if he is born to an entire line that expects something - that does not give her permission to spew all over him. Still she is not about to allow her company to become the laughing stock of higher society because this man can adapt to any circumstance. There are no stakes for him here as far as she can see.
So she straightens her shoulders and does not back down. His chin lowers, slow grin melting across his face. All he does is shift his weight and she has to keep herself from jumping. What if Anna - ?
“What is it that you think I expect that has you so on edge?”
His eyes are hooded, lips soft, and the heat of their kiss is so near to her memory it would only take the slightest effort to pull it to the front of her mind and make a terrible decision, but she reins it in.
“Honestly I don’t want to patronize you with what we were both privy to,” they hold each others gaze for an uncomfortable breath then: “Before we move forward I need you to be honest about your potential contracting of E&A Events. It must have no ulterior motive beyond your event creation and completion. Tell me that you are hiring us for our collective merit, the event we could plan for you, and not for any other reason.”
He tilts his head to the side with a smirk, “What other reason could I have?”
She flushes, but not of embarrassment. This time the flush rises from - she hates to admit - agitation. She had though they had been on the same page, that he was actually listening to her, but that seems to be untrue.
“Are you asking me to suppose that you kissed me - repeatedly - was simply out of some sort of goodwill?”
His grin blossoms in full at that and it fills the room to where her whole body tense to stop a step back though he does not move. Even with feet separating them she can feel the heat of him against her and it is not fair. He rests so easy across the space from her that she cannot help but cross her arms over her chest in resistance to him.
“No. I am fully supposing you understand I kissed you because I find you wildly attractive,” his smile stretches so wide she wonders if it hurts even as it stops her lungs.
“Then this cannot go on,” it is a hard rush of the only air left in her body. The exhalation of this truth gives her space to suck in new air and continue, “while I am flattered there is no version of this story that ends the way you want unless that story ends with my company planning you an unforgettable event and us not getting involved in any way.”
The moment the words are out of her mouth she second guesses them. Her mind goes wild with everything she said wrong or could have said better but she is glad that the truth is at least out there. When expectations are set, she has learned, most parties end up happy. Still as she watches him she cannot quite be sure that rule applies here.
His hands tuck into his pocket and he rocks onto his toes. It isn't disappointment, but there are shades of that along with other things beneath the surface that she tries to not dissect too closely. Her mind comforts herself with the black and white of the situation. These kinds of boundaries are good and what they need to be professional. She had felt unsettled before because she had allowed gray to shade them. If he couldn’t accept her terms then -
“Well,” his tongue wets his full bottom lip and she can feel the gray slipping back in. “I told you I would kiss you like I would never get another chance. If that is all we get, I’ll learn to live with it.”
He smiles, not his mega-watt-light-the-night-sky-smile, but something softer and more secret. It sends a thread of anticipation up her spine that she cannot unravel.
Fandom: Frozen AU. Set after shipwreck but before coronation day. 17th Century.
Pairing: Kristanna (Kristoff/Anna)
Rating: M (Very M)
It is dark when she opens her eyes.
Or did she open her eyes?
She cannot be certain.
Everything is swimming, everything still hurts, and there is a deja vu to this moment. She is sure she had lived it before. This aching limb, rotting core feeling that eats at her and tries to swallow her.
She chokes on air to try to convince herself she is being foolish. That the rock monsters, moss and crystal, that disfigured woman aren’t real. That Bjarg -
No. That all had to be fiction. Her mind had invented it. She has always had an extraordinary imagination. It had kept her safe in the palace. It would keep her safe now.
But then why is the world black now when she opens her eyes? Even in the blackest nights in Bjarg’s cabin there had been the faint glow of embers, the hot springs cave there had been the lamp. The palace had always made sure that no night or day was entirely dark. There has never been a time where the world has been this black. There had always been some light by candles, lantern, hearth, fire, sky, or the inexplicable. There had never been a time where light had not kept her in some sort of company but now…
The world is a void.
Is she alone? There is no confirmation. She cannot know for certain when her eyes betray her to darkness.
She struggles to sit up with a gasping breath. Nothing makes sense. She feels the same as she had before, all the pains and aches, but now sightless as well. If one of those giants - those trolls - were close then she would have no idea. What if some other wild thing was just waiting for her to stir to see if she was awake and edible? What if she is made to face any of the challenges she has met thus far but without the aid of sight?
At first the idea tightens her chest and steals her oxygen. She could be crushed or beaten or assaulted or worse. Even so she streadies herself. She settles her breathing and stays still. She cannot trust herself just yet, knows what happens when she succumbs to impulse and panic.
The world all feels too strange. Something is out of balance. Something is not right. She squeezes her sightless eyes shut and tries to get her mind to focus.
Surely this is a dream.
There is no other explanation.
But then why does she ache? Why is she so certain she cannot see? Dreaming women do not need sight so why is she asking for it? Why does she demand this right?
Because she simply knows. For years she had second guessed herself, her instincts, her senses. No more. She is not of the dreaming. She is of the waking, the living, and that does not make things more easy. It would be simpler to pretend, to lay back and give up, but she is beyond that now.
So she blinks, again, again, and again.
Again, faster, again, more quickly, again…
She blinks until the muscles in her eyelids twitch, flutter and give out.
They have nothing else to give. It is not their fault. They have done all they can, but still the hot tears well. She squeezes them back. There is no time for self pity. She must form a plan, must forge forward despite everything. If she knows anything it is the sitting, waiting, has never done a single thing for her wellbeing.
She focuses past her deficit and attempts to answer other questions.
Where is she?
She reaches out her arms and only finds fistfulls of what she assumes is damp moss. The weight of the air around her says she is in a mystical place of fog and damp green growth, but what if those senses are lying to her too? What if she has finally lost herself to her own mind? What if she had been asleep this entire time and the more diligently she attempts to awaken herself the closer she is to dismissing each instant to vapor?
She inhales a shaky breath.
What has she seen and what has she imagined? What is true? Would she even recognize the truth if it came to her now?
Everything hurts.
Everything tingles.
Her mind is muddled, but she resolves to not let it confuse her. She never knew how much she relied on sight until it was taken from her in a black and merciless blur, but that will define her. There are things she would surely know if only she could see. There were ways she could aid her escape and she knows exactly where she would run if she knew the way.
But just then she is struck with a sharp remembrance. Something that is just now pulling to the surface and wiping everything else away.
If she were able to run she would run until she found Bjarg’s home.
But it is not as simple as that. If she is not dreaming, if what she had seen before held true, then Bjarg had laid so still beneath her bleeding palm as she wept. Bjarg had died.
A strangled breath escapes her throat at the idea.
She is ready now to doubt herself, to second guess any notion that she is capable of protecting him from herself. She cannot ignore the concept that he is gone, that she has failed him, that she really has nowhere to run.
A second sound comes from her now, a kind of keening wheeze as if her body had no space for her breath. She staggers to her feet. It does not matter where she goes, but she cannot stay here. It does not matter what she can and cannot see. She may have nowhere to run, but she will not sit in this place where he died.
She stumbles forward a few paces when she hears a shift.
At first she thinks perhaps she imagined it, created it herself in her steps, and she freezes. It is that same deep grumble the trolls made. The one that shook her and she fights between the need to lay down - play dead or simultaneously to scramble and fight. Before her instinct can make a decision she feels a heavy weight on her shoulder.
She jerks, scrambling backwards until her back hits a stony wall. Her mind pulls instantly to the giants, the trolls. She lurches forward but between her skirts, blindness, and unfamiliar terrain she falls within instants. Her body braces for impact with the mossy ground but it does not come.
Instead she is caught in two arms. They are strong. They sink with her weight and momentum before they bring her up to stand and hold her tight against a firm wall of heat and strength. Her heart throbs in her chest as she wrestles to remove herself from this strange grip, but no matter how she fights they do not release her. Her arms flail, legs kicking, but nothing lands. She is held too closely, too firmly, for it to be much good.
Still she struggles and thrashes as much as her aching, injured body will allow until:
“Easy now,” the voice is raspier, lower than it should be, but still she knows it. “Easy, min lille ven.”
And her entire body goes rigid for one instant before every muscle collapses, legs failing. He falls with her to the supple ground as her hands scour him as if they were her eyes. She finds the soft leather of his kofte, the matted mess of hair, the bristled jaw, the oversized nose -
“Bjarg,” she gasps, fingers looking for lies. “It cannot - you - you’re dead!”
It feels ridiculous to say as she touches him, is held tightly against the firm line of his body, but she knows what she saw. Or at least she thinks she did. A strange sort of dizziness besets her and her hands grip the thick of his shoulders for balance.
“Breathe min navnløse. Breathe.”
He pulls her onto his lap and cradles her against his frame. A large hand cups the side of her head against his heart. It is beating strong and deliberately. That sound, the incessant tattoo of life thrumming against her ear, causes her to suck in a stuttered breath. She realizes then what he meant when he had told her to breathe. Her starved lungs ease at her deep inhalation. The spinning of her mind slows as she absorbs his heat, his smell, the unshakeable certainty of his hold through each inhalation.
“You were dead,” her voice is muffled against his chest. “I saw you. You were dead. You were dead and that - that thing - “
She feels him stiffen. She draws back and even though she cannot see she looks up to where she knows he watches her. There is a long pause and she can hear the change in his breathing. It sounds like he has just run a mile. His arms leave her only to have rough hands cup her face.
“What was shown to you?” There is wreckage in his voice she hasn’t heard before and it sends a shock down her spine.
She is not entirely sure how to respond.
She has seen so much she couldn’t explain, but still she tries: “Monsters,” her voice is thin and high. “Monsters made of rocks and moss and they spoke and they took me - oh - they took me to - someone - and we went to find you and…”
Her jaw works, but there are no words left.
She has no idea how to continue.
She has no idea what it means to tell the truth, to speak the suspicions of her heart. All she can think is that he is here, he is alive, he is holding her. She wants to sink into it, but this place is so strange. She does not trust it. She does not trust that this is the Bjarg she has grown to know and follow. How could she?
She stiffens.
Her body pulls away from the hands that cup her face.
She does not stand, but she backs away. She holds her arms out in front of her as if to warn a potential assailant. Her muddied mind has learned better than to just simply trust. Trust had rarely done her a favor. She cannot simply trust this voice, that he is what he says - means what he says.
“What do you know?” His voice is lower than she remembers, raspy, but still she can hear him. The tone of his voice reminds her of that time in the snowy wood just before he had collapsed. There is something so deep and desperate there, but she will not fall into something for the weak minded.
She clenches her fists: “Nothing. I have been fed only scraps.”
And even in her blindness, her supposed disadvantage, she feels the power of her statement. She feels the depth and width of her accusation. She feels how she leans on walls she cannot see for numerous ways. She feels the courage of someone who has nothing left rise within her as she scurries back a few more inches from the intoxicating heat of whom she hopes is Bjarg.
And oh does she want to believe that, but she knew what she saw. She knew she had seen him dead and she knows you do not simply return from that. That knowledge gives her the sense of power despite her disabilities. She struggles up to stand.
“This is not my home, my people.” She says as she juggles her jumbled skirts. “This place and its inhabitants are yours. Why should I be the one to explain it?”
She can practically hear his breath through the mist. She does not know if he stood when she had but she pulls herself up taller regardless. Her hands clench fists at her sides. She has been tricked before, taken advantage of, and she will not allow it now.
She will no longer stand for the truth to be kept from her reach.
Life, she realizes, is not waiting for her. Maybe she will stop waiting for it.
She senses his nearness before she feels him. Her body tenses, neck arching back and hands raising as he cups her elbows. She hears the low, grunting exhale as his fingers tighten to keep her close. Her nostrils flood with a mix of salt and rock and earth as she considers struggling. She will run even if she has no chance of escaping.
“Logi,” this supposed Bjarg fights against her struggles until he is holding her wrists tight in front of her. Still she pulls as much as she can, fighting herself as much as his hold. When she does not still in his grip instead of bringing her in closer he releases her as suddenly as he held her. She staggers a bit but comes to nothing. The shock of her freedom nails her in place.
Questions lodge in her throat and she is about to run.
“What was taken from you?” The question is unexpected, but offered as one might offer an olive branch.
“I do not know what you mean.” Her response is reflexive, caught off guard by this abrupt change of currency between them.
“If you were there - if you were part of - well…” he struggles and then stops for several long moments.
Then:
“Logi,” his voice comes from her side and she whirls towards it, arms coming up only to be caught by his again and he gives a low hum as he draws her close to him once more. She stays stiff even as his hold softens all the more until his arms barely touch her, his hand barely touches the side of her head to bring it to his chest.
His lips graze her hair, beard catching strands, and her body heats and chills at the same time. His head drops low as his voice, the intensity is there even as he holds her like she may break.
“They took your sight,” he says and she tries to not react, but she knows he feels her waver in the comfort of what she hopes against hope are his arms.
He does not ask. She is not certain how he knew, but she could not deny it. Every step, every motion she did or did not take betrayed her detriment. She eases back from his hold, but does not run. She makes a guess at where his face may be and she is met with a disheartened chuckle.
He takes one of her hands but does not draw her to him. Instead he wraps it in his own calloused grip and tugs. She resists, aching body sore as she leans back, and she can almost feel his hurt at her forbearance.
Then the tension changes. Instead of pulling, he gives way while still holding her hand. She feels the heat of him again, the unchangeable scent of leather and musk, and even though her mind want to doubt her heart does not. His free hand rakes into the tangled mess of her hand at her ear, thumb stroking her temple.
“It is me, min lille ven,” he says. “Surely even without your eyes you know me.”
And she did.
She had surveyed the landscape of him and found it to be definite, but so much had happened, so many rules had been broken, there were trolls. Her spine goes stiff. She knows him, which is why she knows he is dead. But what if he isn’t?
She is as much full of hope as she is dread. This place is so unknown and now she is as helpless as she has ever been. For once she weighs her options instead of acting on impulse and she finds herself agreeing with a nod.
“I know Bjarg will lead me as I need,” she attempts to keep it distant, but she hears the blatant hope in each syllable.
He is her last hope. She is struck by how long this has been his right without her acknowledging it. She is confronted with just how much she does trust him in this savage place where the very rules of her reality are bent. If it is some trap it will be no worse than what she has already endured.
She squeezes the hand he holds and she cannot be certain but she thinks she feels his grin.
“Come,” his voice enlivens. “There is much we must make right.”
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