She is torn -- pain still too fresh for the loss of her sons to fully forgive the Spartan, and yet no less thankful for his part in removing Odin from their lives. Though she cannot bring herself to thank him, there is no venom to her words when she speaks: "My daughter speaks of your son well. Compliments from Thrúd are not so easily granted."

INT.  SINDRI’S HOME   -   NIGHT

head turns just enough that it’s clear she’s acknowledging that she’s no longer alone.   truthfully,  there’s something of a dilemma in the sudden shift from isolation  —  it’s true,  yes,  that to be around others is relieving...  but only to a degree.  

the relief is countered by a sense of annoyance in the interruptions that arise so often in such a small space,  making it apparent that freya had grown accustomed to the lack of variety.  more than she’d ever care to admit.

careful and practiced hands tend to the plants that have once again multiplied in number in the time since she’d last been aware of @spartanlost​‘s presence.  rather,  aware of him standing near enough that it’s clear he intends to speak with her.  it’s with a sigh that freya’s head turns just a little more,  her gaze meeting his before returning to her plants.  

“slow down.”   @spartanlost​ says.   “your haste will cost us,”   he says.   and with his words,  her frustration seems only to grow as tension mounts in her shoulders.  in her hands, clenched into fists at her sides.  in the entirety of her being,  which aches so desperately to fight.  to do something...  to do...  anything.

and in her state of heightened aggravation,  freya can only shift her jaw and scowl before offering her own response to counter.