Bread, Thorns, and Stormcloaks

A sleepless dream

My father was a good man.

A stern man, too easily led to anger, with an awkwardness around his daughters that he did not have with his sons. But he was good.

He would take us out swimming in the stream - I cannot remember a time in my life when I could not swim, because it had not existed. As babes he carried us into the freezing water and held us in his arms as he waded along; as soon as we were crawling, we had to fight the currents alone, spluttering and gasping in the ice, our pudgey legs working furiously against the swirling currents. But if we went under, he was there - hauling us up by our arms out of the water until we were brave enough to swim again. And we would always be brave for him.

I couldn't sleep. Heat radiated from Freya's peaceful form beside me, and in the bed beside us, Solveigg's small body was curled into Ingrid back, her sides rising and falling with her steady and shallow breaths. From the room beside ours, I could hear Raoul and Alfgeir's coarse snoring, my younger brother easily the loudest of the two, and though I couldn't hear him, I knew Jofthor would be sleeping soundly in the bed between them. My youngest sibling slept like the dead.

I don't know why I was thinking of my father that night.
I rarely allowed myself to think of him; In the six years he had been gone, it was more a case of doing my best to fill the void he had left, whilst never acknowledging the void's existence. Jofthor, born into the world as my father exited it, had never even known him - and we did our best to make sure he never thought about that.

I slipped out from under the sheets and grabbed my cloak from the end of the bed. A walk in the cool night air would fix this. I could not be tired for tomorrow.

I stepped out into the night, a cavernous roof of stars replacing the suffocating darkness of the house. It was cold - but when was it not - and I clutched my cloak to me as my breath crystallised into clouds around my cheeks. It was so quiet out - it was only the gurgle of the stream that told me I was not alone.
Father had said in one of his more poetic moments (of which there were few), that the river gushing through Ivarstead chattered more than all of us combined - and yet no one would understand its words if they did not understand its ways. I'd spent the entire summer, from Second Seed to Last Seed, trying desperately to understand. It wasn't until father died that I began to, taking solace in it's gargled tales. And after tomorrow, I may never get the chance to hear them again.

No. I know I am being dramatic. Bjørn knows of my desire to stay in Ivarstead to assist my mother at the farm and help raise my younger siblings. And from what I can tell, he's always fancied himself a farmer, despite growing up in a Riften townhouse. I could convince him to stay here, I am sure of it. He's a good man, Bjorn. I know I am lucky that he turned his affections to me, and that he has always appeared oblivious to Ingrid's flirtations.
I know this.
I know there are men out there who are more like monsters, or who won't work for their bread, or be there for their families.
Bjorn was not like that.
He was hard working - in fact, work was all he spoke about. And he and his family had always been a great help to ours, sending us gifts at birthdays, and offering a hand during visits.

And he loved me, he said.

I felt a sudden rush of ice over my feet, then a wave of intense heat; without realising, my feet had carried me to the water's edge, and all of a sudden there I was, shin deep.
I shrugged off my cloak and my nightdress and waded in.

Father used to call me a little Argonian. I'd never responded to it, but the proud tone of his voice, like the deep string of a lute, had always given me a rush of pleasure. And so I'd swam, everyday, after feeding the Oxen and collecting the root vegetables that looked ripe enough to eat. I'd swim till my legs felt weightless, till my skin was wrinkled as an old Juniper Berry.

But what is what children do, I suppose. Not someone who is to be engaged tomorrow.
I stopped, the ripples curling gently around my knees.

Time to go back.

In bed, I curled myself into Freya's arms. She is married, and happy, and satisfied with her life. I could make myself be the same.
I will.