30 Days - Wind (part 5/5)

[felicitygs]

 “Is it true?” Svala asks you one afternoon.

 

You wonder idly what truth it is she seeks this time; you have had hundreds of truths taken from you, idle questions that make you wonder what the Aesir even know of the Vanir, if anything.

 

(Is it true there is tar in your wine, is it true some women go bare-chested, is it true there are sea serpents large enough to make Jormungandr seem small, is it true is it true is it true and you smile the curve of a smile that here means nothing.)

 

“Is what true?” you ask politely, quietly, so as not to draw attention from the queen’s conversation.

 

(You have learned it is often best to hold your silences at these afternoon gatherings; it lessens how many A lady in Asgard’s you collect.)

 

“That your uncle bedded your mother?”

 

You should ask her to repeat the question, you should say Pardon, but the thought of saying pardon when you have been asked if your uncle Njord slept with your mother is nearly as offensive as the question itself.

 

“Is it true,” you say snidely, unkind and loud enough that all may hear, “that your husband brings his hounds to bed? No? Oh, beg pardon, Svala, it is only what I have heard at court.”

 

Svala flushes bright, and you see anger her eyes, but you smile sweetly at her as you stand.

 

“Pardon, Majesty,” you say to the queen, “but I have an appointment I forgot about elsewhere.”

 

(It is a thin lie, but you do not care. To suggest such–they forget, again and again and again, your uncle and mother are not Olympians, are not of that twisted branch, and you will not coddle their forgetfulness. Let them say you are not lady-like. If a lady of Asgard dares ask such, then it is even less the type of woman you would be.)

 

“Of course,” the queen says, graceful as always, and she gives your curtsy a nod before you leave.

 

(Svala will not be at these gatherings in the future, and no one dares ask such Is it true questions again, but you know it is in their minds. It is a comfort, at least, that the queen has put an end to it.)

 

In truth, you do not have anywhere to go except back to your rooms, and you cannot stomach the thought of being trapped there; you wander away from the gardens until you end up at the pastures by the stables. They remind you a little of home, with tall grasses and wildflowers.

 

There is no one here, no one to see you pull the shawl tight to your shoulders for warmth, no one to see you when you sit beneath a twisted old tree. The land here is flat and you can see all the way back to the palace. You stare at it for a while, your thoughts idle, and suddenly all you can think is how you miss home, miss the feel and smell of the sea, miss the sight of wave-beaten rocks. There are no gulls here despite their not-ocean, no salt in the air to sting your eyes and lay flavour on your tongue. The landscape has trees–pine and oak and hundreds you have no name for–not the scraggly and twisted olive trees that dot the craggy peaks of home, and here, where no one can see, for the first time since you arrived weeks ago, you pull your knees close and weep for what you needed to leave behind.

 

(Peace is hard-won, you think, and you should not mourn for what you have given. It is better than blood and death, and at least you yet live.)

 

(It does not ease how your heart aches.)

 

Something snuffles your hair and you start, looking up through tears. The something prances back, a horse, and you rub your eyes, sure your vision too blurred, and instead see that your eyes do not deceive you. He does have eight legs.

 

You laugh, weak and knowing it sounds near hysterical.

 

The horse eyes you warily, but when you do not do anything else, he shoves his nose back in your lap.

 

“I do not have anything,” you tell the stallion as he snuffs, reaching to scratch behind his ears. He seems near disappointed, or as disappointed as a horse may be, rolling his eyes at you. 

 

“Do not look at me that way, I did not know I would be meeting a horse today, let alone one with eight legs. Is there nothing normal about this place?”

 

(Perhaps it is ridiculous to talk as if he understands you, but a horse, at least, will have no way to demand a thousand truths from you, nor remind you that it is impolite to show your temper.)

 

The horse huffs, stirring you hair, before losing interest. He does not go far though.

 

(Perhaps he is as puzzled by you as you by him; you certainly do not resemble any Aesir here.)

 

The next day, instead of an afternoon with the queen, you go to the pastures and their faint echo of home, and when the strange horse begins to follow behind you, you offer him sugar and apples snuck away from your morning meal, stroke his soft nose, and talk to him as you wish you could talk to anyone here.

 

(Sometimes, you think he must understand you; it is in his reactions, snuffs and whinnies and nudges, eye rolls and headbutts, but surely not. He is only a horse, though one of many extra limbs and of a size that you’ve never seen in a horse, and you only want for someone who might understand and sympathize. Wishful thinking, you think, and nothing more.)