#ofmortem

"I'll choose not to take that personally." Reaching up to touch at the steadily darkening bruise on his temple, Arvid didn't wince despite the tenderness of his skin. The blood had mostly remained inside, nothing to complain about. "But if I were to take it personally, I might ask which gods."

Praying wasn't a strange concept and the idea of actions being influenced by the gods wasn't unheard of, and Arvid may not have pried if it wasn't for what he knew of Ingrid's mother - what everyone knew of Ingrid's mother. It wasn't a particularly subtle dig or even one that he expected to bring fruition in terms of interesting come backs, but it was harmless enough, an easy quip to call a joke.

Was Odin a better companion than a childhood companion? What of Loki? Heimdall? Thor? It would be easy to excuse.

But if she did say something interesting, or react oddly, well, that was good, too. Recent events had certainly been questionable enough, could Arvid be blamed for questioning those around him?

Darkness dawning over Hedeby had been long overdue, a prophecy whispered throughout the ages, from fathers tongues unto the ears of son, from warriors to kings. Ragnar hadn’t expected it to occur over his reign is all, and the bloody trails of missing villagers and frequent nightmares that even he suffered left little to ponder. To raise spirits, he’d thrown a feast for the troubled villagers, hoping to lighten a rather dour mood. Perhaps it wasn’t the best of timing, though it seemed his denizens appreciated a reprieve. 

And yet, something else lingered in the back of his skull. An accusation that threatened to boil over, though the king could keep his composure-- for now. Unfortunate that his own ascension was not without paranoia. The Rykkels were a strong blood, he knew, and ancient-- dangerous, threatening. 

     “Ingrid,” he called, quelling his thoughts when she neared, offering an easy smile that was far from. Typical-- he often kept his spite to himself unless reason presented itself. “Come, sit. Take a break. Enjoy some food.”

Black feathers gleamed in the sun, iridescence shining deep greens and blues. The flap of wings in the open air drew blue eyes up from the deep red stone Frodi was polishing on the fallen log he’d taken a spot upon, some ways into the woods, a small torch stuck into the ground next to him for just enough light to see by. About the time he looked up, a light bright as the sun—so bright, it brought back memories Asgard—illuminated the woods around his home.

Is that you, father? Are you trying to tell me something? Frodi thought, and stood up. His hands moved to tuck the stone and the whetstone he was holding, and he yanked the torch beside him up out of the ground to follow. As he did, the bird fluttered it’s wings and took off. The rush of wings through the air was one so painfully familiar, something he had heard frequently in Asgard—and even before, as a man, guardians he hadn’t realized were there until long after.

Not so unlike the heads he saw far at sea as a boy.

An anger stirred in him at the memory, and he shook his head, pushing it back down into the depths of his deep memory. The crow never flew too far ahead that he couldn’t see, and he couldn’t quite tell if it was because his eyesight was keen enough to keep sight of it, or if it was that the bird was trying to lead him deeper still into the woods, both eventually he came upon her.

For a moment, he watched in silence, curious. He the bird landed near her, and it occurred to him he might be hers. Which lead to the question: was it a sign? Wasn’t it a sign?

Then, with purpose, he brought his back foot forward, putting his weight down on the branch. It snapped.

When gray blue eyes rose to meet brilliant blue, Frodi offered an apologetic smile, something that was almost shy. He didn’t walk further, staying back with his hand on the tree he’d been standing next to, the torch he’d carried with him in his other hand.

     a promise pressed into skin and whispered under the blanket of night, bodies stretched and pressed side by side, a quiet content settled over them. it was a HEAVY promise to whisper, an impossible promise to keep given the nature of it, the nature of THEM , but it settled something in the ‘wolf ( something that had dug claws into the primal parts of his mind, a basic FEAR that he was not completely aware of until wesley had spoken and eased that fear ). warmth coiled through him, coupled with the knowledge that the reaper was speaking the TRUTH; safety was found not in materialistic things such as a bed, a blanket, a stuffed animal, but in arms wrapped around shoulders and foreheads pressed close, in teasing laughter and quirked brows, in a steady heartbeat and in steadier breathing. safety was found in a PERSON.

          “it’s a two way street.”

     eli’s own whisper left a moment after wesley’s words settled deep in his chest and heart, knocking loose the thorns curled behind his chest. fingers dragged along bared forearm to settle palm to palm, head turning to nose absentmindedly at cool skin. it was his own whispered promise to keep the other safe. it was a murmured promise that they can keep each other safe, from the brambles ensnaring mind, from uncertainty choking hearts. it was allowing wesley to see the pain scarred into skin and soul, and it was accepting wesley as he was. it was an utterance of LOVE.

when is he not extra

!!!!! many thanks omg. i always worry about incoherency since i use a lot of commas and my sentences feel like run onsbut omg right back atcha like a+++ this some goOD SHIT