“Is there truly any comfort in anything when there is a loss?”
There might be, she thinks. There might be if Anders says that nothing could be done—that perhaps he himself, even with the aid of his spirit, would not have been able to save the Lady of House Asgard. That it was not, as Thor had said in the immense anger of his grief, his brother’s fault for neglecting to focus his studies on healing.
Alexandrie reaches for a chair, pulls it across from Anders, and sits. Swallows thickly. She will be glad when the tea comes.
“It...” she begins, falters. Sets her hands in her lap and finds she has no skirts to grip in her fists. Leans a slight forward to hold her knees instead. “A sword thrust. The blade—“ she can see it, so clearly, shining in the blood that had followed. How dare it shine. She shakes her head slightly. That’s not what she wanted. Searches for it again, swallows, plays it back. “—an inch and a half wide. Two, maybe.”
There’s the tea. She doesn’t entirely trust herself to hold the cup.
“Horizontal. Through the center of the neck, from behind.” Clipped sentences are all she can manage, her face pale and drawn already. She plays it again. Metal sprouts from skin. The noise. “It... there... there was a crack. He turned it. Another.” It had been wet. Meaty. Like something from a feast day. That sound was for pheasants. Deer. Not mothers. And so loud. How could it have been so loud?
...Was she talking? Alexandrie looks at Anders, disoriented, as if he might be able to tell her whether or not she’d said anything else. She’ll just say it again. Her hands clench, but she doesn’t notice them.
“He pulled it back, and—” The worst part. Worse than all the blood than had come after. Frigga’s eyes wide and then “—it was... without the sword there... her head fell forward so far, it was—“
Oh. Oh no. There’s the bitterness rising in the back of her throat, the rush in her ears. She claps a hand over her mouth and stares forward. Far away, the thought: Evie will be so cross if I have stolen her shirt to vomit on it. She giggles, high and helpless, muffled behind her hand, then, strained: “Maker. I cannot. I cannot. Forgive me.”
cw: violence, description of character death
There might be, she thinks. There might be if Anders says that nothing could be done—that perhaps he himself, even with the aid of his spirit, would not have been able to save the Lady of House Asgard. That it was not, as Thor had said in the immense anger of his grief, his brother’s fault for neglecting to focus his studies on healing.
Alexandrie reaches for a chair, pulls it across from Anders, and sits. Swallows thickly. She will be glad when the tea comes.
“It...” she begins, falters. Sets her hands in her lap and finds she has no skirts to grip in her fists. Leans a slight forward to hold her knees instead. “A sword thrust. The blade—“ she can see it, so clearly, shining in the blood that had followed. How dare it shine. She shakes her head slightly. That’s not what she wanted. Searches for it again, swallows, plays it back. “—an inch and a half wide. Two, maybe.”
There’s the tea. She doesn’t entirely trust herself to hold the cup.
“Horizontal. Through the center of the neck, from behind.” Clipped sentences are all she can manage, her face pale and drawn already. She plays it again. Metal sprouts from skin. The noise. “It... there... there was a crack. He turned it. Another.” It had been wet. Meaty. Like something from a feast day. That sound was for pheasants. Deer. Not mothers. And so loud. How could it have been so loud?
...Was she talking? Alexandrie looks at Anders, disoriented, as if he might be able to tell her whether or not she’d said anything else. She’ll just say it again. Her hands clench, but she doesn’t notice them.
“He pulled it back, and—” The worst part. Worse than all the blood than had come after. Frigga’s eyes wide and then “—it was... without the sword there... her head fell forward so far, it was—“
Oh. Oh no. There’s the bitterness rising in the back of her throat, the rush in her ears. She claps a hand over her mouth and stares forward. Far away, the thought: Evie will be so cross if I have stolen her shirt to vomit on it. She giggles, high and helpless, muffled behind her hand, then, strained: “Maker. I cannot. I cannot. Forgive me.”