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calpurniawoods · 3 years

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When Love & Death Embrace

Prelude to Introduction

We live in a world where our selfishness reaches a point of wanting immortality. Something that has been forbidden to us by a God who promises a better life will wait for us in the next life. Yet there are those who deceive the word of God, and chose to live by their own means of rules, unaware that they are only human, and vulnerable to one of God’s greatest creations. Death is a taboo topic in different parts of the world. Every culture deals with their loss differently from the next. When death comes into the lives of people they always seem to forget that the life of their loved one could have not been created if it were for the opposite of death; Love. Truth be told that the opposite of death is considered birth, but even before birth something had to have created that being before it was even brought to this world. Love has to become a factor when creating new life. As society continues to view these two as bitter opposites, there are those few who understand that the beauty in life does not exist in the way a person wants to life their life, but by how it is given to them, and taken.

When Love & Death Embrace

What is the meaning in life if the essence that created it, is affiliated with the being that will end it? Why are we breathed in life, only to have it taken away from us? Can it be that we really aren’t meant to live forever, and death is doing us a favor in stopping what ever suffering we have? Can it really be true that out physical life must end, but our whole being will move on to an even greater life? One where love promises life will never end, and we thank death for this new life? Is Death our mother learning to let go of her precious child called Life? Is our father Love who created us through his seed of care?

When Love looked into the eyes of Death, he did not know what to say. For he had fallen for Deaths large, noir, orbs like a foolish romantic he was. Death was not someone people believed to be beautiful, but in fact she was more than beautiful. In a way, she was almost unreal. Unimaginably perfect, that any man would fall for her look of morbid grace to his death bed. The black hooded robe that everyone spoke about were actually her jet black tousles of wavy hair that ran past her whole body as she walked, framing her thin, pale face and physique. She was dreadfully tall that one could only imagine how long her ebony locks were. The stereotypical scythe that held the reputation of fear was actually just her long walking stick she used because…she was blind…

Love did not know exactly why he found Death so appealing. Maybe it was the way she carried herself. Unable to see the people in front of her, but still able to walk with grace towards those who have met their time. Maybe he was just infatuated with her appearance. He could't help but find her morbid, macabre state…warming. But if Love were questioned what it was he adored about Death the most, he would have said her smile, not missing a beat.

It was in her nature to not display any kind of emotions towards others, yet when he was in her presence she couldn’t help smiling with him. Her small, pouty lips were the only thing that has any color in them. Red, the color of romance and affection; the color of blood and deception. Because that was what she was. Love was okay with that…He heard her laugh once. It was random, and completely unexpected. But ever since that day he’s tried to make her laugh every time they would meet. He would even settle more a small chuckle, as long as he heard it from her. It was haunting, and hollow, but inside he knew she wasn’t empty and she wasn’t haunting. All she needed was love.

The time had come for their reunion. Although they had been together just moments ago, to Love it felt like years had been put between he and Death. He always looked forward to these encounters, yet he still dreaded them. He knew that every time he would meet Death it wouldn’t be for a friendly chat; Death was going to rip his heart out.

Love: It’s nice seeing you again…how long has it been dear? Two weeks maybe? Haha.

Death: It feels more like two hours. Then again what do we know about time…it’s not like I’m a heavenly angel, or God.

Love: …No, you’re not. But then again you aren’t the devil either.

She stayed silent, not sure of how to respond to such a dramatic and confusing comeback from him. He always did this to her. Every time she would lash at herself with the worst of comments, he’d always say the opposite…She didn’t know whether she liked it, or if she was supposed to hate him for it. She didn’t even know if she was supposed to hate anyone at all. Death was always curious about Love’s actions. Ever since they were created he was always this hopeless romantic who was too hopeful in mankind's ability to remain faithful for his own good. He spoke about everything in such a blissful state that Death found herself enchanted by his words from time to time. The optimistic he was compared to her pessimistic. She couldn’t help but wonder if opposites can really attract. Because right now as he stood before her about to die for the infinite time he smiled, and that always pained her to see.

Death: Why do you do this to yourself…why do you let this happen to you every time when you know you can always tell God you’re tired of getting broken every time this happens…why do you let yourself die Love…why do you let the love die?

He smiled at her, and she looked away. Damn him. Damn his bright smile that made everything okay. Why couldn’t he see that it literally hurt her to do this to him…She looked up, because she felt something different. Instead of a bright smile she always felt from him…she was met with broken, tired eyes, and a bittersweet smile.

Love: Nothing is meant to last forever dear, not even us. Thats why…when we have to end it, I always look forward to seeing you again. Even if it took a day, a week, a month, or even years. You and I are inseparatable. We’re made for one another darling.

He closed the distance between them, taking her in a warm embrace. If only she could see his face. His angelic, perfect face. Her white eyes could only see a dark outline of him, but even with that she knew he was beautiful.

Love: God really knew what he was doing when he made us. Opposites by fate, yet destined to be lovers. God’s a pretty good Shakespeare isn’t he? Then again he did create him too.

Death could only laugh at his witty thoughts. For once she realized he was right. They were destined to be lovers, just not always together. She guessed thats what it must be like to be a human too. Not everyone born spends their life with their first love. She sort of thought her situation was like that, but it wasn’t either…With the distance they shared coming to a close, Love couldn’t help but get lost in Deaths large pale eyes. With their faces only inches away Death brought their lips together with her cold, thin hands for life’s most bittersweet kiss.

Love: Until next time, my sweet Death.

Death: Until next time, by everlasting love.

In the event of life’s misfortunes, there will be two things that will always be a part of life. Love and Death. Life cannot be created with the absence of love, nor can death keep the balance without the existence of life. Love will forever continue to create life as long as Death continues to let it go. The two things that people can come to fearing the most are histories tragically, oldest soul mates that can never be. Love will always be understand, and Death will always have to let the love go, and Life will continue to be their children they must learn to set free for a better life.

#love #death #writeup

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ravenwritesstuff · 7 years

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Wandering Hearts (15/?)

Fandom: Frozen AU. Set after shipwreck but before coronation day. 17th Century. Pairing: Kristanna (Kristoff/Anna) Rating: M (triggering for everything. if you like happy things, stay away) A/N: I have nothing to say. This is a thing. I have been trying to update it forever. Sorry I take so long. Sorry this is not proof read, but I can either post it now or not for another two weeks and so yes. I guess I had something to say.

A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS

[ part one ] [ part two ] [ part three ] [ part four ] [ part five ] [ part six ] [ part seven ] [ part eight ] [ part nine ] [ part ten ] [ part eleven ] [ part twelve ] [ part thirteen ] [ part fourteen ]

He does not come back in for dinner which is fine enough since she does not prepare anything. Her stomach is too uneased from all that has happened to even think of food. She thinks, much too late, that she should have prepared something anyway just in case he wanted something. She should not be so preoccupied with what had passed between them, or the pain in her body. She should be more useful, more selfless, but was too lost in thought and pain to have done anything substantial.

Some wife she is turning out to be.

She sinks to the hearth stool. A nervous bubble of laughter wells up and escapes her lips. The sound of it is too bright, too loud, for the small, dark cabin but she cannot stop it. A wife.

She looks at her hands, marred and maimed.

Elsa would never believe –

The laughter dies.

She looks to the table with the instruments and supplies they had used to mend each other. She thinks to clean them, to erase what has transpired, but that will mean venturing into the light and chance meeting him. She is not prepared for that. Not yet. Not ever.

His parting words ring in her mind: his limit and the size of it.

She understands what he means, but it is not a warning – a threat. It is something worse. It is a truth and that has no place here in these woods. The truth when put out so plain in the open cast light on all the shadows that lurked on their edges, and there were so many shadows. Their entire relationship is a shadow and she is uncertain she is ready to see the light show it for what it truly is.

Or is she?

The kisses he had given her, that she returned, burn through her resolutions. She has been gone from Arendelle for so long. Even despite the recent visit and mishaps she thinks that surely – surely – her sister has forgotten her in her absence. Surely her sister has forgotten. Surely she must have. If her sister had not yet she would have found Anna by now and Bjarg would just be another pair of boots buried for treason.

The thought makes her stomach roil and she is again thankful she has not prepared food, but not only for the fear of Bjarg’s untimely end. If Elsa has not found her that means that she has not searched for her and Anna does not know if that is a blessing or a curse. If Elsa has not searched for her it means she does not care and that is an entirely different shade of pain.

Perhaps caring and other such natural sympathies are romantic notions she has used to pass lonely hours. She has never found conclusive proof that true affection existed in the castle, and as badly as wants to believe Bjarg’s actions stems from something deeper than obligation she cannot quite bring herself to believe it. It seems that survival, life, has precious little to do with things like caring and sentiment. Instead they have everything to do with effort and strength.

Anna wants to survive.

Anna wants to care.

She does not know how to reconcile the two.

Her head aches and so does her heart

She is uncertain of the time, but goes to the bed and lays down. The days are short now, light leaving early, and she could make use of the lamp - the fire - to complete tasks about the cabin but the state of her hands renders such endeavors impossible.

She does not undress. She does not move once she has herself settled atop the familiar pallet. She just breathes.

Infinite times passes. He comes in. She keeps her eyes shut, her breathing even, willing him to not realize that she is no more asleep than he.

His feet shuffle in the straw on the floor as he putters about the small space. She hears the sound of him eating food she had not prepared and she remembers the package Alva had sent with them. She hears him lay by the fire on that same pile of pelts and blankets that he had lain on for the long months they had spent sharing this space. His breathing falls even and deep after only a few moments, but it still is hours before she sleeps.

….

When she wakes, he is gone. The fire is stoked which strikes her as surprising. Her sleep had been fitful, but apparently she had been able to sleep through that. The air in the cabin warm from his efforts and makes the process of emerging from under bedclothes easier than it could be on such a chilled morning. She remembers the palace and how servants had skittered in and out like mice before dawn to stoke the fires in her room before she woke. She’d never known a cold morning before she had come here, and the recollections brings a bittersweet smile to her lips.

She looks at the pile of pelts he had slept upon by the fire. She is uncertain if she is glad he is gone or if she is troubled. Her chest aches with disappointment on one breath and then fills with relief on the next.

What if he had gone on one of his harvesting trips? What if his limit had grown so small that even the sight of her was more than he can bear?

She considers venturing outside to discover the answers to these questions. She considers checking the shed to see if his sleigh and reindeer are gone, but she does not trust her heart with the answer. She hardly trusts her heart with the question.

She looks at the table.

The instruments and implements remain just as they had left them the night before and she wants to imagine a different reason for them being present.

She can almost convince herself of just that. That she has just awoken from a strange dream and nothing is changed. She can almost believe that Bjarg had placed those things there for a purpose unknown to her, that she had never tried to run, that they had never gone to Arendelle, that the happenings of the hollow were nothing but the working of an overactive mind. She can almost, until she looks at her hands.

The bandages remain as a stark reminder of reality. They remind her of searing pain, of tender heat, and of words she cannot yet comprehend. They remind her of the warning that they will need to be changed this day and that is a task she cannot hope to overcome alone. She will have to rely on him, but the idea of yesterday repeating in any fashion seems only a tremendous way to break her own heart.

She is driving herself mad.

Her thoughts swirl out of control in her physical stillness. The rush reminds her of the endless tedium she experienced in the palace where her mind was left to run circles around itself and she will not succumb to that dismal fate.

She springs from the bed, exceedingly glad she had not undressed at all the night before (not that she would have been able to) or crawled beneath more than the topmost bedcloth. Even with the fire stoked she knows that there are plenty of other chores upon which she can endeavor. The pain of her hands is the same as the day before if not greater, but this world does not stop for pain. It does not slow its brutal pace, and she there is cleaning to do, food to make, bandages to wash -

She checks the pot above the fire before she lets her thoughts stray too far in that particular direction. The water from the night before had all but evaporated. She will need more, much more, for the washing. The buckets wait by the door, but she hesitates.

He is outside, no doubt nearby because if he had not run last night she cannot imagine that he will this morning, and to venture out on her task is to risk an encounter. Her heart throbs at the notion, but it is unavoidable. It is silly to even take into consideration. She cannot very well spend the rest of her life hiding away in this small house when it is his to begin with.

She steels herself on a breath and takes one bucket in her cut hand. The muscles in her arms, her shoulders, still ache from the she had done for Ketil but she does not want to dwell on that. She wants to give herself no space to over think her situation or the events that led up to it any more than she has already so she pushes open the door with her shoulder.

The world is blinding. Unseasonable sunshine bounces off of the snow and its brightness causes her to shield her eyes with her burned hand. She blinks and squints. Her eyes adjust incrementally, but as she surveys the yard he is nowhere to be found. Relief and disappointment war again in equal measures.

She sets a course for the stream. Her boots crunch through the snow. They are the same boots she had upon her escape, designed for summer, but he had fitted the inside with fur when the weather had first turned so the kept her feet warm and dry. The cloak around her shoulders, old and worn as it is, also had been provided to her by him and she thinks of caring as she enters the woods.

She is transported back to the last time she had taken these steps. Her intent to leave him still rings urgently in her breast, but she knows it is even more than foolish to attempt such things now. She had never imagined…

She swings the bucket hard and breaks the ice over the stream. The freezes had not been long or constant enough yet to require more effort than that and she fills her bucket with clean, frigid water. She is on her way back to the house, cut hand screaming at the weight, when she hears a familiar voice hale her.

“Ho now - what’s the hurry?”

Anna stops and looks down the stream. She sees the broad frame and long braid that has grown so familiar in the past few days.

“Alva?” She hears her own surprise. “What are you doing here?”

The other young woman’s cheeks are ruddy with cold as she approaches, heavy skirts in hand. “Ma sent me to collect the things I lent ya on the day of yer binding.”

Anna remembers the offerings made upon leaving the longhouse, remembers the sounds from last night that could have only been him enjoying that which Alva had prepared.

Still she had not expected…

“Of course.” She nods as the girl reaches her. She nods to the east. “It’s just this way.”

“I know the way, strange one.” Alva laughs, but it is not born of cruelty. “Some of us grew into ourselves among this trees.”

Anna flushes. “Yes. Of course. I’m sorry.”

“Look at ya, all apologies. If there ever were a doubt whether ya were of our lot or no that would argue against the point against as well as anything.” She says with a twinkle in her dark, watchful eyes. “Now hand me that bucket before ya tear yer worried hands to bits.”

Anna has no time to object before Alva snatches the bucket from her wounded hand. Anna cannot quite explain the feeling she has at Alva’s arrival. It is a funny mix of apprehension and joy, and she is uncertain which is wiser. Has she been so long robbed of companionship that she will accept it from anyone who shows her the slightest ounce of kindness?

She offers Alva a tentative smile. “Thank you.”

Alva clucks her tongue. “None of that. We’re simple here. We work with our hands.”

Anna is about to answer with the notion that she works with her hand just as well as anyone when they break into the clearing. Bjarg stands there in front of his cabin with a substantial portion of felled tree, halved and clear of branches, dragging behind his reindeer. Everyone freezes.

Alva is the one to break the silence.

“Hey now.” She says in a boisterous voice, stepping further into the clearing as if this is a common occurrence. “What’s all this? Forget to cut your cords for winter?”

Bjarg ignores her question.

“These aren’t your parts.” His jaw is tight. “You have no reason to be here.”

Anna does not know Alva well, but still she feels her bristle at the challenge of Bjarg’s words.

“I’m here to collect what belongs to my people.” Alva says and Bjarg spits.

“Then take it and go. No need to linger.”

Alva’s hand tightens in her skirt at his harsh reception. She lifts her chin towards his task.“Tisn’t the building season. Ya may have no mind on how to save yer own hide, but surely ye’ve no gone daft.”

Bjarg sets to loosen his reindeer from the lead that attached him to the lumber. “Leave it be, woman.”

“Yer work will spoil before ya even begin.”

“I told you - let it be.”

“Ye’ve always been hard headed but ye’ve never been stone cold foolish!”

“Take what you are needing woman and be gone!”

His voice echoes across the snow to where the stand and Anna has never heard this tone from him. She has never heard the thunder of his shout and it braids an inexplicable chill down her spine. Had he not just yesterday spoken to Alva with favor? Hadn’t Alva just stoked their hearth and provided for their table? Hadn’t Alva just been the only gentleness Anna had experienced outside of Bjarg in this strange, bitter world? Her history with them both individually makes the hostility seem out of place, but she is unable to speak, unwilling to draw attention to her ignorance.

Alva tromps forward through the snow and Anna follows dumbly.

“The gods may have dealt ya a cruel hand.” Alva says as she stomps towards the looming man. “But ya set the path ya are walking on now. No one else.”

Bjarg leaves his place alongside his reindeer and the timber dragged from the woods opposite to meet them in the middle. He cuts a broad figure, worn and young at the same time, but Alva does not flinch at his approach. She does not slow. She does not even bat an eye.

“You know just what ill will come of you if word spreads you have been to my door.” Bjarg’s voice is low, determined, but Alva meets him with equal resolve.

“I can stand twice as much as what any man can give me.” There is a vicious glint in her eye as she meets Bjarg head on.

Bjarg grunts, whether in appreciation or disdain Anna does not know, and crosses his arms over his chest. “Which is why I cannot allow you to linger.”

The hardness that hangs around Alva’s edges falls away at that. Her expression becomes softer, sadder, and Anna’s mind cannot help but question why. She knows better than to voice her inquisition, but still her eyes search his face. She sees there a strange, hidden part of Bjarg. He is younger in this moment than she has ever seen him.

Alva reaches across the distance between them and rests a mittened hand on his wrist in alarming familiarity. In an instant, Anna mind races to all the thoughts of how much better Bjarg’s life could be if she were not in it, if someone accustomed to his world had stumbled into his sphere. She looks at where Alva’s hand touches Bjarg and she is reminded of the idea that Bjarg could have had a simple love if she had not gotten in the way.

She wants that for him.

Doesn’t she?

She stares at Bjarg and Alva and feels invisible.

“My troubles are my choosing. Ye have enough on ye own.”

Bjarg’s expression does not relax at her reassurance.

“I will no stay longer than necessary. I am to fetch what I gave ya yesterday, but no one will know if I tarry a bit.”

Bjarg’s eyes lift and sweep the parameter. “The woods have eyes. You don’t know who is watching.”

Anna’s skin prickles at the idea. Who could be watching - why? And if they were, why had they never bothered them before?

“There’s nary a soul in these parts asides us.” Alva’s hand squeezes Bjarg’s arm in a way that is everything but reassuring to Anna. “I promise ya. A herd was spotted a ways off and their all on the last hunt of the season.”

Bjarg watches Alva with the same scrutiny Anna is so used to receiving, like he is reading her, but Alva does not flinch. Anna envies that. It is not something she can ever hope to duplicate as she had too much to hide and she shrinks in that knowledge.

“No good can come of this.” Bjarg says after a time and Alva scoffs

“And no ill will come of it either.” Alva withdraws her hand and sets it on her hip, the full bucket still hanging at her side. “Ya worry entirely too much.”

For the first time Bjarg’s gaze flickers to Anna and she feels the weight of it all the way to her toes.

“I worry the amount I have been taught.”

….

Alva stays for the hour. In that time she aids Anna in boiling water and changing the dressings on her wounds. For once Anna is thankful she had not cleaned up the mess from the previous afternoon.

“It always looks worse afore it improves.”Alva says as she smears new honey over the old and wraps over Anna’s abused flesh, but it is of little comfort.

Both injuries have taken a more sinister appearance than they had the day before, the colors deeper, insidious discharge oozes out from the center of the burn, and Anna can only believe Alva’s reassurances so much. A cold sweat has become a permanent resident along her spine. The throbbing of her head has only intensified throughout the day no matter how much water she drinks, but she says nothing. Surely Alva is correct. If not - there is a fire that waits for her. The chill that has set upon her makes her shiver.

After Alva finishes ministering to Anna’s wounds, she places the worn bandages into the pot. Boiling water and lye separate the balm and filth from the fabric as Alva gives vigorous strokes through the water with the stirring stick. The honey and clay purges from the cloth and Alva fishes them out of the steaming water.

Anna sits and watches.

She has done this before. Bjarg had shown her how in a brief, terse, lesson that led to many days of water towing, washing, and hanging. The state of her hands, however, has rendered a typical task all but impossible. She is glad for Alva as she sits on her typical chair, but it is little comfort to have someone to do the work when you know you must be able to do the work by week’s end or face the consequences. When she is done, Alva slops the steaming cloth onto the table to cool before she hangs them from the rafters.

“Mind yer hands rest as much as ye can.” She advises as she sets about her tasks. “The hollow has taken more than its fair share.”

Bjarg never joins them. They can hear him hack at the sections of timber he’d brought in. Anna thinks of the deep score on Bjarg’s palm tearing with each swing of his ax and her own palm aches. Or maybe it was aching before. She does not know for certain, but she stays silent about it regardless. She will be as strong and ruthless as the rest of the world around her.

Alva hangs the bandages from the hooks where the herbs of autumn had hung the season before and Anna watches in attempts to focus past the strange ideals that torment her now.

“I canna stay any longer.” Alva says as she wipes large hands on her functional apron. Anna wonders what it would be like to have such an apron, if this world would not seem so strange without it. “Ma will wonder after me if I tarry beyond this.”

Anna nods. Of course Alva must go, but the idea sends a shoot of fearful longing through Anna’s chest. If she takes the time to trace the root of her anxiety she will find it to be as much because she is dreading the inevitable confrontation with Bjarg as she is apprehensive that this new acquaintance us already lost to her for unknown reasons.

“I understand.” She says though she does not, but she stands. “Thank you for all of your assistance.”

Alva laughs her deep, throaty laugh. “Ya kept me from havin’ to go to a birthin’ with Ma. The woman’s been striving to have this child an entire week and I dunno if I could stand another hour at her bedside without going mad myself. It is I who should be thankin’ ya!”

The words strike Anna. She has been so lost in the strangeness of her situation the days before that she has never considered that Alva had not been there at the house that day she had been there helping Ketil. She has grown so used to not asking questions that the very idea is shocking. She cannot ask questions when she cannot answer them.

“Still you have my gratitude.” Anna says instead and thinks of friendship and what that could mean, what that could cost both herself and her companion.

Alva blusters past the praise. “We all must do our parts, mustn't we?”

Anna smiles. Alva’s approach is so refreshingly brisk and unhindered that Anna feels her own hopes rising on the tide of forgotten exuberance. Though it is unlikely that Alva will become the friend her heart has longed for - even the potential is enough to bolster her spirits. Someday, somewhere, she will have a friend. The idea is enough to make her smile through her growing headache.

Anna watches Alva fetch and don her cloak and gloves. She hates to consider Alva’s departure knowing that this may be the only afternoon she ever spends with her contemporary. She tries to stall the goodbye.

“I am sorry he never came inside.” Anna stands by the door, but props her shoulder against the door. Her head is strangely dizzy. “He can be so stubborn.”

Alva chuckles, but it lacks her usual merriment. “Ah well. He is no without his reasons.”

Anna wants those reasons. She thinks of Alva’s hand on his arm. She thinks of Large Leader’s parting charge. She thinks - but her head is even more clouded than normal.

“Will you come again?” Anna asks as Alva gathers her hearth pail and the cloth from the day before and Anna is proud that her voice stays straight and true.

“As soon as I am able.” Alva says as she puts her hand on the door and smiles at Anna. “But don’t hold yer breath, strange one. I wouldn’t if I were ye.”

She makes moves to push back out into the cold world, as Anna’s mind struggles to assign meaning to Alva’s words. She leans forward as the door cracks open. The frigid outside air bursts against her face and it should refresh her, but it only causes the strangest sweat to break out across her body. It confuses her, or had she already been confused?

“What would you do?” Anna asks, squinting against the brightness. “What would you do if you were me?”

Alva sighs, strangely somber, and pierces Anna with her steady gaze.

“If I were ya,” she starts, then stops herself as if she thinks better of finishing. She pushes the door open further and takes a step. Her gaze leaves Anna’s to scan their surroundings. “If I were ya -” Her voice is quiet. “I’d ask him about his mother.”

And with that Alva is gone and Anna is alone again.

….

Anna attempts to prepare some sort of meal for dinner, but between the state of her hands and the strange swimming sensation that pulses throughout her body keep her from doing so. Alva had done the great service of draining and refilling the kettle as that task, even when at her fullest, is insurmountable, but she cooks nothing in it. Instead she nibbles on a few roots from the larder, but even those turn her stomach. Every time she rises from her chair to make something more substantial she loses energy with each motion until she is forced to sit again.

She should have had Alva help her prepare a meal. She should not have focused so much on re-bandaging her wounds without Bjarg’s help. She should be able to still work and be as able as Bjarg to contribute to their home, but she cannot. She cannot add the way he is, not even fresh bread or warm fare. She is left to wonder at the sounds erupting in spurts outside and to swallow against the strangeness rising inside of her.

Alva had tried to clarify his actions while she had been present.

“He’s building, he is. Looks to be adding to ye home, but the wood will have no time to cure afore the winter sets in for good and will spoil. The time to build is the thaws, not the frosts.”

While Anna does not understand the nuance of or even the grosser concepts of building structures, she supposes she understands.

What she does not suppose, however, is that the tension that stands in the air is anything less than real. She knows it is. She can feel it thrum in her bones as much as she can feel the throb of her heartbeat behind her eyes. She had seen that same tension, the weight of things unsaid, wrap Alva and Bjarg earlier. She knows that shroud, but still it is so different to see other wrapped in it while she stands outside.

She thinks of Alva’s parting words but she can make no sense of them.

She will not ask Bjarg about his mother. She cannot.

Can she?

He comes in after the last light of the day is gone. She slumps in a chair over the repairs of her torn dress but she will not finish tonight. She can barely focus well enough to make a single stitch, much less figure the best way to repair the complicated garment torn awkwardly during their struggle in the woods. Still her eyes come up to the door when he presses inside half frozen.

His shoulders are slumped. His face is red and windburned. When he pulls his mittens from his hands she sees the fresh blood that has crusted his bandage and she looks at the paste that Alva had rehydrated for their purposes to see if it has retained its usability, but she cannot see it from her vantage point and standing seems impossible under the weight of his gaze. His eyes are dark and hollow though she imagines a spark at the sight of her.

These same eyes take in the bandages hanging to dry from the rafters. He grunts.

“This is what you did with your time together?”

It is not accusatory, but it stings still. Her previous train of thought steams back on track. She should have been more judicious with her time with Alva. She should have done something more to help him. She should have -

“Yes. She tended my wounds.”

He jerks his head. “Probably best that way.”

There is no malice in his tone, but the implication stings through her crowded mind.

Is he already regretting what passed between them the night before, what was said? Her eyes go again to his bandaged palm and she sees his blood. The same blood he shared with her. She wonders at the notion of a promise becoming a scar.

She is eager to change the subject, but her mind is moving too slowly to make it effortless.

“Alva also said your intent behind the timber is that you endeavor to build.”

He doffs his hat and hangs it on its peg. His hair is tinged with frost around his shoulders.

“Yes. I endeavor to build.” He replies, but does not elaborate and her mind runs wild.

Why is he building? What is he building? What if his timing is all wrong as Alva alluded? It would be no great surprise. Their timing has never been superb.

He takes in the meager, cold fare she had set out on the table without complaint, but she cannot imagine he is excited to consume hard roots and dried meat.

She should have made something else.

Her sewing remains on her lap, but she cannot bring her mind to attend it. She swallows around a dry throat as he sinks into his customary chair and begins to eat. He keeps his focus on his food and she turns her eyes to look anywhere but him. Her eyes land on the fire. It is burning low. She should stoke it.

“Leave it.” He says as she stands and heads for the kindling by the door.

She frowns. “What now?”

“I said to leave it.”

He repeats and she remembers how he had said the same words to Alva earlier in the day. Had there been other words he had said to Alva the same as he spoke to her in another time, another life? The idea takes root in her troubled mind, but she cannot pursue it. Her thoughts are clouded with a fog of heat and confusion. She returns her thoughts to the fire.

“It needs mending.” She reasons.

“And I will mend it.”

“But -”

“Are you trying to go to your death?” He pounds his palm to his thigh and the clap of it is loud enough to startle her. “Mending the fire may very well send you to stoke your own in the hollow so leave it and rest.”

She looks at him in the dim glow of the fire. His mood is darker than she can ever remember seeing, and she thinks she must have bothered him with her constant insufficiency. After all, she has bothered herself with it for certain.

“I must do my share.” She treads lightly. “I cannot be expected to sit as a drudge, doing nothing.”

“I managed my own affairs quite well before your arrival.” He takes a bite of root, the crack of it like he is punctuating his own points. “I am certain I can manage again until you are whole once more.”

There is something dismissive in his tone that stings deeper than any physical wound. She has seen this irritation before when they left the longhouse and again her mind is drawn to Alva, to the world in which he had clearly belonged at one point though he did no longer. She thinks of the castle and realizes that closed doors could be present in much more than just a physical sense.

She looks at her feet to avoid his indifferent gaze.

“I only want to be helpful.” She says and he sighs.

He is quiet and still then and it only makes her want to move, but even the idea of moving is exhausting. Her body, her mind is so overwrought with the events of the previous days that she is stuck between the need to run and the need to fall where she stands. She wishes they could go back to when things were easier, when the silence between them did not hang with things unsaid, but it is impossible. Time is unchangeable, immutable.

She does not want to look at him, but she can feel his gaze pulling her eyes to his as inexplicably as the waves to the shore. His eyes are deep and dark. He stands, keeping her gaze locked with his, and he takes up more space than just his body. The gravity of his presence takes up the entire room and she can feel him press against her body as surely as when he had held her in his arms.

The idea sends her heart to her throat and she is already burning without the heat of the fire to warm her.

“You give me no help in breaking yourself further.” She can hear the wild thing scratching in his voice, can see the tendons strain on the sides of his neck.

She does not shrink however. He will cause her no harm, but he will harm himself and the hypocrisy of it drives her wild.

“And what of you?” She points at his bloodied bandage. “You tear yourself apart and for what? To build when it is not the season for building?”

His eyes grow a shade darker.

“They will not burn me for my wounds as they will you for yours.”

“And that gives you permission to destroy yourself?” She remembers all the times he came home ragged, cut, and bruised. She wonders how much of it was as unnecessary as his hand.

She can hear the strain in his voice to keep it low and even.

“There are things at work here Logi that you do not understand.”

Her head throbs. “Then make them plain to me! I am your wife.”

He comes up short then, chest rising and falling on a staggered breath, and he meets her eyes in a way that she can feel throughout her entire body. She had not meant to speak that word into their small haven, to invoke its power and acknowledge its reality when she can never honor it completely. A heated chill fills her body as sweat reemerges on her back, her neck, even as her face flushes, but she does not look away. She does not give ground.

He takes one step towards her, arms flexed stiff at his sides, and his face moves into shadow.

“Tell me your name.”

Her entire world tilts. He has not leaned this hard in so long and she can feel her walls give way. Anything - she had said. Anything but this. She panics.

“You know my name.” She cannot quite bring herself to wrap her tongue around any title he had given her anymore than she could speak the truth.

“No.” He shakes his head, something sad and deep shifting beneath his words. “And I fear I never will, will I?”

He holds her gaze for one breath, two, but she has no response. She cannot tell him the truth. To do so would be to damn him, to damn herself. She sees the wave of disappointment wash over his face. He steps towards her and she steps back, a reflex, but he presses past her - pointedly avoiding even the slightest brush of their clothing. He goes to where the dry logs are kept by the door and takes what he needs. Wordlessly, he stokes the fire but she cannot bring herself to look at him. She cannot bring herself to move.

She hears him finish and go to the door. She feels the winter night blow in, but she does not dare look back to him.

“I am harvesting tomorrow. I will return the next day.” The first crunch of his boots hit the snow, but then stops. “For the love of Odin - don’t do anything foolish.”

He does not come back the rest of the night, not even to sleep.

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#wandering hearts #kristanna #kristoff #anna #frozen #raven writes stuff

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