the test of fate has been, supposedly, a success in his favor.
but even as he holds the prize, the icy shard of fear has not been dislodged from his chest. it may in fact be gradually freezing outwards and spreading, spreading, spreading like slow patterns of frost. after a long, long time, he is afraid. afraid of what he has to lose, what he has to leave behind.
standing at the center of the training grounds, sweat beads on the northman’s skin and a broken dummy lies at his feet, splintered near unrecognizably by the weight of the maul that had struck it. lars yanks the large weapon back to rest on a shoulder, panting, and does not look at whoever is approaching until very late.
but the familiar face earns a more-than-cursory look. then an eventual nod. “had a chance to rest?” he asks. “saw you take a bit of a fall during the trial.”
@hvrricaneromeo