“Oh, right,” Astrid says, but she still sounds a little distracted: the scratching at the door is the universal sort of noise to signal distress, she’s been trained to hear it when the hounds need to be let out to piss hot in the snow. She looks over her shoulder, and almost lets go of Cedric’s hands before he manages to pull her back to attention.

The more frantic the other animal’s movements, there’s a matching plaintive whine in the back of Raskmodig’s throat.

(She’s heard it once before, hasn’t she? The wolf had only sounded so unhappy once in her life. When was that— )

What’s her question? What would her question be. The ones she can think of are too complicated to fit into the yes/no parameters of this symbolism: how do you save Fade-touched animals, how do you win the war, no, they’re no longer at war, these aren’t the things she needs to ask. Think simpler. Is Morgana going to shoot her first rabbit in the new year? Is Astrid going to get a kiss at midnight? Is Pike finally going to choose a successor?

Simpler life, easier questions, everyday concerns.

She flips the runestone into the air and then catches it in one palm. The question doesn’t make much sense (the snowstorm is getting heavier), but it slips out, impulsive: “Am I home yet?”

And when she turns over the stone, it’s the symbol that means no, no, no, no.