Her chest heaves, tight and drawn, burning around her heart that is entirely different than when they’re on the run. Then, she can make her legs work though they feel like lead. Now, she cannot seem to make the sobbing stop. It is the most un-Lagertha like thing she could ever do, and the former Khaleesi in her would have dug a hole in the ground in embarrassment. She feels Wessex nestle up close to her ribs, tucking her half-grown frame in where she once did when she was still a tufted little thing. They are too lean, and if she could focus her eyes through the tears, she knows she would be able to count the bumps of Wessex’s ribs. The girl’s resting place could not have been comfortable.
Her daughter’s black coat merely criss-crossed with scars, where hers is riddled with so many she seems to have changed color, though it might be the least surprising part about her. Is she recognizable? Yes. Lagertha’s eyes are steady, still edged in steel and drawn in flint. Her ears may swivel this way and that, and her nostrils dissect every passing scent, but there is no mistaking her calm gaze. The tattoos are gone, of course, though the onyx crown of thorns remains. Once, she marked it as ironic that is circled her injured leg (there is no pain, but her muscles healed poorly - too tight and it pulls her leg up in a funny way), and then it ceased to be amusing.
Wessex’s wings come and go, much like her immortality and armor; one day she’d wake up feeling rejuvenated, the next, her joints ache and she could swear she’d been drinking pure moonshine the night before. And so they do not notice that her silver-edged wings are gone again, and this moment does not call for invisibility. Wessex cradles her battle-axe of a mother as best she can, because it is the only thing she can do, and Lagertha is the only companion she’s ever known. The black girl’s eyes dart around the unfamiliar land, noting how brilliantly the frost on the ground sparkles, and the orchestra of sounds that almost hurt her ears. She’s known silence, and the roar of predators, and the clang of iron on wood. There, the birds do not sing. There, the snow was not this white and beautiful.
Eventually, when it seems that she has lost every ounce of spare liquid from her body, Lagertha draws a deep, shuddering breath. Wessex silently raises her head to look at her mother, and sees a look that passes from confusion to wonderment, to joy, and then back to confusion again. The silver woman brusquely noses Wessex away and stands up, frozen like a statue. Her daughter knows better than to ask question, and so she waits, wild blue eyes darting all about. “Mom?” she finally whispers, curiousity growing much too thick for a girl who was used to running.
”This is Beqanna,” Lagertha says, with a dry mouth. “But it feels… different. I’m worried it’s another, upside down world, like before.”
@[Kreios]
Her daughter’s black coat merely criss-crossed with scars, where hers is riddled with so many she seems to have changed color, though it might be the least surprising part about her. Is she recognizable? Yes. Lagertha’s eyes are steady, still edged in steel and drawn in flint. Her ears may swivel this way and that, and her nostrils dissect every passing scent, but there is no mistaking her calm gaze. The tattoos are gone, of course, though the onyx crown of thorns remains. Once, she marked it as ironic that is circled her injured leg (there is no pain, but her muscles healed poorly - too tight and it pulls her leg up in a funny way), and then it ceased to be amusing.
Wessex’s wings come and go, much like her immortality and armor; one day she’d wake up feeling rejuvenated, the next, her joints ache and she could swear she’d been drinking pure moonshine the night before. And so they do not notice that her silver-edged wings are gone again, and this moment does not call for invisibility. Wessex cradles her battle-axe of a mother as best she can, because it is the only thing she can do, and Lagertha is the only companion she’s ever known. The black girl’s eyes dart around the unfamiliar land, noting how brilliantly the frost on the ground sparkles, and the orchestra of sounds that almost hurt her ears. She’s known silence, and the roar of predators, and the clang of iron on wood. There, the birds do not sing. There, the snow was not this white and beautiful.
Eventually, when it seems that she has lost every ounce of spare liquid from her body, Lagertha draws a deep, shuddering breath. Wessex silently raises her head to look at her mother, and sees a look that passes from confusion to wonderment, to joy, and then back to confusion again. The silver woman brusquely noses Wessex away and stands up, frozen like a statue. Her daughter knows better than to ask question, and so she waits, wild blue eyes darting all about. “Mom?” she finally whispers, curiousity growing much too thick for a girl who was used to running.
”This is Beqanna,” Lagertha says, with a dry mouth. “But it feels… different. I’m worried it’s another, upside down world, like before.”
@[Kreios]