#coldhearth

[bloodsworn-marshal]

“After paying proper visit to my father’s homelands did I begin to understand the weight of his cause. The reasoning behind his motivation and yearning over the past years. For Liberty or Death. I began to utter this as my own.

Though the past may never be undone, one can strive to uphold this long fought for peace. By honoring those whom sacrificed their very lives for this future... to fulfill their dying wishes for a revolution and victory. By the Gods, will they have it.

[autumnslance]

After Castrum Abania, in his tiny home village of Coldhearth, Raubahn shows Lyse and the Warrior of Light “Liberty or Death” written on the side of his childhood home, and the WoL sees an Echo memory of the day Curtis Hext painted those words, and spoke to him and Ilberd about revolution and what it means to fight for and build up one’s home (and gives us yet another Hamilton reference, after a slew of them in Doma).

Afterwards, Raubahn says he means to stay for a little while, sending you back to Radiata. If you wander around Coldhearth, Raubahn can be found by the gravesites behind the buildings and fields. Given the Echo memory, I always feel like he’s thinking of Ilberd and what could have, should have, been--and since losing Conrad, and then Alisaie’s injury, triggered this visit, perhaps Raubahn is also thinking about all of the other comrades lost along the way, lying in graves instead of making that final march to Ala Mhigo alongside him.

Living is harder, indeed.

[mika-sad-blog]

- tus labios son mi éxtasis-. Confirmo el con soberbia

- y como sabes eso, si ni siquiera los has probado- pregunta ella confundida

- No necesito probarlos para saber que son perfectos-. Dijo mirando los labios carnosos de aquella chica. - pero si quiero confirmar esta teoria loca ahora.

[bungaketiga]

Having my love life like .... #freezing #coldhearth

[lostnord]

Disturbing the Peace [Hrokr, Frithjofr]

For a few months now, Haafingar seemed to have reach something of a standstill. The guards issued out of Castle Dour had been returning mostly intact, tramping back in steady, sombre lines. The politics had subsided from a roar into a murmur, never quite breaking through into the pine forests. The mountains were as fixed as they always had been. The hold was quiet.

'...but he said, don't be stupid, nobody goes fishing using cheese as bait, they'd never catch anything...'

Mostly quiet.

'...so I showed him! Told him I could do it, but he wouldn't believe me, kept going on about his worms 'n his torchbugs 'n his feathers, as if they're any better...'

The story was interrupted by the crunch of an apple. Frithjofr chewed it happily, amulet thumping against his chest with each footfall. A brief rain shower had held them up between Solitude and the shack on the mountainside, but time didn't feel all that important these days, not as long he had Hrokr walking beside him, and besides, they would be within sight of their home soon now. They were already close to the turning which led to the Thalmor Embassy.

'...I mean, 's true I only caught a branch, and I sort of did it accidentally, but I still caught something so that means he was wrong and I was right,' he finished. It didn't matter whether Hrokr had been paying attention. He certainly hadn't been listening to himself, and didn't wait for any comments before jostling his arm against his companion's until he found Hrokr's hand. 'Y'see? You're teaching me well. Practically a master fisherman now.'

[lostnord]

That year, Frithjofr the Mighty Horker Slayer rode home on his father's shoulders, brandishing his spear – a branch from a pine tree – above his head. The dangerous weapon nearly took Isgeir's hand off when he reached up to steady his son.

'Almost home. Ma's going to be proud of your fish.'

'It's the biggest fish ever!'

'Sure is. You want to walk the rest of the way?'

'Aye!'

Snow sank up to Frithjofr's knees and over the top of his boots when he was placed down. A few kicks dislodged it, showering a nearby guard, and he stomped up through the paths of Dawnstar until he reached the cottage on the slope. It was one of the smaller homes in the village, worn at the edges, and the snowberry wreath on the door was looking considerably bedraggled at this end of the month, but Isgeir found himself smiling as broadly as Frithjofr when he saw lamplight softening the frost on the windows.

Ma was already home from the mines and opened the door to greet them, spilling light onto the frozen cobbles. She huffed, smiling, as Frithjofr flung himself in the general direction of her arms.

'Ma I caught a fish and it was as big as my entire hand and Pa says we can eat it for dinner!'

'We've got to cook it first,' she said, catching his little flailing mitten between her fingers. 'I've got a surprise for you while you're waiting, though.'

The surprise was a box, nudged into his hands as soon as he stood still long enough. Inside the box - Frithjofr's eyes widened as he lifted the lid - was a toy snow bear, made from real fur, lovingly stitched together by both parents throughout the nights of Evening Star and sturdy enough to last a lifetime.

Which was nice. But it came in a box. A real wooden box, with a lid, like the chest Ma kept special things in.

An hour later, with the fish ready to eat, Frithjofr was still playing with the box sat on his knees in front of the fire. The bear was tucked under his armpit.

'Ooh!'

'Do you like it?' asked Pa, mopping the smoke off his forehead.

'Aye!' Frithjofr opened and closed the box a few times, giggling at the snap of the lid. 'I like it lots! And the bear too.'

'Do you want to put it down now? It's time to eat your fish. The bear can sit at the table with you, if you want.'

'But I like it.'

'It's only a box--'

'It's not a box! It's a house and a shoe and a boat and a hat--'

'Don't put it on your head, Frith.'

'--and a mountain and a treasure chest and a cave and...'

The eventual compromise reached was that both box and bear could join Frithjofr at the table, on the condition that he promised to eat all of his vegetables. It won his parents a slightly disgruntled silence while he grimaced his way through the cabbage, and in the quietest moment Hilde scraped her chair across to her husband, nudging his elbow, and pressed her mouth against his beard.

'To Old Life and New Life.' 

--

This year, Frithjofr chews the end of a quill until the ink turns his beard black. So many people, so many letters and so very little time these days. Days which feel much shorter and colder than they used to.

Until Hrokr puts an arm around his shoulder. Then the warm weight reminds him that they have a fire lit, a hot meal cooking and the rest of the evening together, and he smiles, quietly content.

[lostnord]

I MISS YOU AND I LOVE YOU SIGNED HROKR AND MOD))

Unable to help glancing at the name ending the note, Frithjofr has already broken out into a smile before he finishes reading it. He doesn’t know who this mysterious Mod person is - although it’s a name he’s heard thrown around a lot lately - but a message from Hrokr is always one to treasure. He folds it into a pocket and wanders off in search of the Nord.

—

((afsdsgfhl

I MISSED YOU

I MISSED EVERYONE

A WEEK IS TOO LONG

I mean, yes, I was here intermittently on my phone and laptop, but still. TOO LONG.

For example, you can now reblog asks, but not put a Read More cut in them? I have much to learn.))

[lostnord]

Finally, after many weeks, a tired, dirty, and emotionally numb Hrokr walks through the door of the small shack. He looked awful. Not physically, asides from the filth. But there was something lacking in his eyes, some new lines on his face, and a scar that definitely had not been there before, peeking out of his left sleeve.

He almost gained another bruise when Frithjofr looked up and, moments later, charged across the room. The book he had been reading lay flattened on the floor.

More and more of Frithjofr’s time these days had been spent attacking fence posts with his sword, or trying to make some kind of sense out of books on combat. No success yet, and the fence post still won four battles out of five, but he had been determined that upon Hrokr’s return, he would be useful, somehow. All those concerns dropped away at the sight of the man’s face standing in their home, back where it belonged.

For a long time, sheer relief quashed all other worries. Frithjofr hugged Hrokr too tightly to notice the state he was in, and was too busy mumbling his own welcomes into his shoulder to hear anything Hrokr might have to say - or, more probably, any unusual silence. He had to surface for air before he noticed the scar, the lines, the exhaustion.

'W— what happened?'