#gerdur

It’s the first time she’s eating something solid, that isn’t porridge or mashed-up vegetables. She can’t tip it into her mouth the way she’s gotten used to, and even that was something she often struggled with – spilling it down her front more often than not. Gerdur always asked her to use the spoon, but utensils are too fiddly.

She pinches the crumpled sausage between her finger and thumb and takes a bite. Gerdur turns back to the conversation.

She’s a little more tuned in now, and she listens as Gerdur says, “I just don’t know if I’ll be able to get away. We’re so busy, and of course this is a priority, but it’s such a time commitment, too…”

“I’d do it,” Ralof declares, “but –”

“I wouldn’t let you.” Gerdur slices off the end of her own sausage. “And I don’t know who else. There’s no-one I’d trust to ask – Frodnar, don’t eat your peas with your fingers, you’ll get sauce all over your hands.”

The child, seated by the woman, scowls and jerks his head at her. “You don’t tell her off for eating with her fingers.”

“She’s a grown woman, and you know full well that that’s different, you little rascal.”

Gerdur’s husband chews and swallows. “There’s enough mercenaries come through Delphine’s inn. I’m sure one of them could carry the message.”

“But I don’t trust them to do it right,” Gerdur counters. “I can’t ask the first hired sword I find to tell the Jarl there’s dragons afoot, Hod, why would he believe them? Would they even believe me? It should be someone like Ralof, who’s seen it with his own eyes, but it just isn’t safe, and I wish I could do it myself but I can’t leave you and the mill for so long.” She places her fork down next to her plate and drops her head in her hands. “I don’t know what to do. I just don’t know.”

She wants someone to tell the Jarl there’s dragons afoot.

The woman licks her oily fingers and says, voice gruff and husky from disuse, “I can go.”

Gerdur’s head snaps up. The end of her braid is dipping in her vegetables. Somewhere to the side the woman can’t see very clearly, she hears a fork clatter onto a plate. The child next to her whispers loud enough that she can hear through the ringing in her ears, “She talked.”

Gerdur is still staring.

Everyone is staring.

The woman picks up her next sausage.

“Did you –” Gerdur cuts herself off, shakes her head. The movement of her heavy plait flings peas over the edge of the table. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, love,” she says more gently. “You’re still mending, remember? Amantina said it could take over a year for your head to settle.”

If that, the healer Amantina had said. The effects could be with her for the rest of her life. The woman remembers. She doesn’t see how that’s relevant.

“You’re not ready for travel,” Gerdur tells her. On the blurry side, Ralof is still staring.

She is ready for this travel, though. She can’t stay in this house. It’s only right that she be the one to tell the Jarl about the dragon – she was there when it attacked, after all; it looked her in the eye; she has dreamt of it since. It’s only right, because she’s restless, getting tired of bowls of porridge and patient voices. It’s only right for reasons that don’t need to be articulated. She feels the rightness of it in her bones.