if it’s cringe please say so and euthanise me while you’re at it xoxo
„Freyaaaaaa……“
Freya internally cringed a little, hearing her name for the eight millionth time today. She’d gotten to the southern islands a few days ago, and Hella and Cajetan - Caj -, two of her younger cousins (which there were way too fucking many of, by the way, and she said this as one of eleven kids), had made it their life‘s mission to ask her about every single thing that she’d ever done.
The Westergaards were… surprisingly okay, actually, at least most of them. Mikki and Tore, two boys her age, had taken to introducing her to everything, which was quite helpful even if she was pretty sure they were still confused about her choice on whom to avoid, even if they respected the decision. (Dad always said to avoid Caleb, Edvin, the twins, and Loke. That would’ve been easier had Caleb not been the king and had Loke not been Mikki, Hella, and Caj‘s dad.)
However, being from a different background entirely apparently made her the most fascinating thing to ever walk into Hella‘s line of sight, and it was a bit hard to say no when she knew the pair was well-intentioned. Also, they’d been sneaking her slices of apple pie, and that was definitely a bonus of letting them bug her. (Bjelna, yet another cousin, had told her to tell them that she needed them to help with her baby when Freya got tired of the kids. Thank you, Bjelna.)
And so, she closed her eyes for just a second before turning to Caj, who nudged Hella to ask.
„Why are your hands like that? You’re always, like, shaking all weird, and it looks kinda yucky.“
„Yucky‘s a mean word to use on someone, Hella“, someone said without stopping or looking up from their book. Freya mentally had to go through a family tree Teodor had drawn up for her to place the person, and she only managed to narrow it down to like, four people. Whatever. (Oliv? Laerke? Helle? Krista??)
„It is kinda yucky, though.“
„Those are scars, actually.“
„People still get those?!“
„…yeah?“
„Middle ages-ass explanation.“
„What does that even mean.“
„Whatever. How did you get scars? And like, on your hands? That was super stupid, you shoudlve gotten them somewhere cool instead.“
„I kinda wasn’t planning it happening, I’ll take that into consideration next time I know when I’m gonna get scarred?“ The kids were looking at her expectantly, so she decided it couldn’t harm them to know. „My dad broke a bottle on the ground when I was your age and I fell on it. …from a flight of stairs.“ (She left out the part about being pushed. It wasn’t of use to speak ill of the dead.)
She carefully trailed her fingertips over the rough surface of her palm, remembering the one between her thumb and pointer finger - „lol, see this one? I tore it up a few weeks later after getting out of the hospital and my dad insisted on stitching it up himself. Didn’t give me anything to numb it - Tonya said I was such a good, brave girl about it and I was like, fuck no I wasn’t, I was bawling the whole time! He did a pretty bad job, too. She sewed it up properly for me later, though, so it was fine. Still got the scar from his work, though.“
She looked up from her hand to see two identically blank faces. „You didn’t hear me curse, by the way. That was your imagination. Princesses don’t curse.“ Reflexively straightened up at the phrase, she was near-expecting her grandmother‘s cane to whack her for the misdemeanour.
„…you’re joking, right? About, that part?“
„the part with my dad? No, I told him to just let me run to the hospital and he was like, 'nuh-uh, you’re my kid so I’m gonna do it.' Let me tell you, the guy can’t sew a button to a shirt, much less a dominant hand if you want a working thumb afterwards,“ she added brightly. „I used to be pretty decent at sewing, actually. I don’t do it much these days, cos of the shaking and stuff.“
„Freya?“
„Yeah?“
„Your dad kind of sounds like a fucking dickhead.“
