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The one who wore the blooded horn stifles a noise when he speaks and his ears flick forward inquiringly, it is not until the winged one laughs aloud that they fall back against his skull. He can’t place their amusement and so he finds that their sounds immediately irritate him. Then a memory of tradition slides through his thoughts and when he remembers, he is suddenly grateful for the pledges of silence the mares in Mydalr vowed. Yes, Mydalr, that was his home. There the mares were silent.
Wessex’s answer pulls a hard voice from his throat, “I am always where I am intended to be,” he repeats, his tone matter-of-fact and almost inquisitorial. “Although it is not always I who chooses the place,” he says, his eyes following hers as she looks upon his burned flesh and he notes that she does not wince amid her disgust. The waking sky flushed the shadows from his skin and highlighted his screaming red wounds, the sun revealing the splinters of wood in his salted burns.
The painted mare offers him more and so he lifts his ears and listens, the Threshold she says, in the land of Helovia, she names. Ah, yes, Altar has no fucking clue where he is and he can no longer feel Thord’s tether or taste the sharpness of iron.“…if you don’t like the cold,” the mare continues and the battle song plays from his memories, strident in his ears; Clamber, with a heart of steel. Cold is the ocean's spray... and your death is on its way.* The draft laughs back, “the cold’s never bothered me.” He remembers that he has never lived any other way but snow and ice and blood ash.
The necklace rattles faintly atop his antlered head as he tips it forward inquiringly, his broad shoulders pulling back and bringing him to full height. Thirst coiled demandingly inside him and although he smells water nearby, he does not pull away. They fed a numinous, needy curiosity that has always lived in his witched bones and so instead he asks, “is there fresh water nearby?”
@Wessex Wessex’s answer pulls a hard voice from his throat, “I am always where I am intended to be,” he repeats, his tone matter-of-fact and almost inquisitorial. “Although it is not always I who chooses the place,” he says, his eyes following hers as she looks upon his burned flesh and he notes that she does not wince amid her disgust. The waking sky flushed the shadows from his skin and highlighted his screaming red wounds, the sun revealing the splinters of wood in his salted burns.
The painted mare offers him more and so he lifts his ears and listens, the Threshold she says, in the land of Helovia, she names. Ah, yes, Altar has no fucking clue where he is and he can no longer feel Thord’s tether or taste the sharpness of iron.“…if you don’t like the cold,” the mare continues and the battle song plays from his memories, strident in his ears; Clamber, with a heart of steel. Cold is the ocean's spray... and your death is on its way.* The draft laughs back, “the cold’s never bothered me.” He remembers that he has never lived any other way but snow and ice and blood ash.
The necklace rattles faintly atop his antlered head as he tips it forward inquiringly, his broad shoulders pulling back and bringing him to full height. Thirst coiled demandingly inside him and although he smells water nearby, he does not pull away. They fed a numinous, needy curiosity that has always lived in his witched bones and so instead he asks, “is there fresh water nearby?”
@weaver
*quote from the Vikings TV series
