Frey needed, perhaps desperately, to clear his head. There was too much noise between his ears. Far, far too much. Not only that, the space between his ribs managed to ache with an intensity unlike any he’d felt before. Parvati had stormed into the Lagoon with some sort of business, his father got involved, things were… messy. Frey would still maintain that he could fight his own battles and fjord his own seas, and still Tyr had the audacity– he felt the need. He felt the need to but into his now-adult son’s business, and Frey was indignant over it. Indignant over the whole damn thing.
Would things have been different if Frey was anyone’s son other than the general, would things have been different? How was he to forge his own destiny if Tyr’s shadow was always going to be cast over him? The sooty stallion would live only to disappoint his father… maybe, especially over the course of the last year, the disappointment was intentional. Acting out in the name of self definition. Maybe it was something else entirely. How was he to know? How… how could he have known?
The weight of his mistakes was a heavy one around his shoulders. Now it wasn’t only his father that hated him, it was the marauder as well. A man who knew near-nothing about him… Frey rolled his eyes at the thought. A man who thought he could leverage a favorable opinion of his own father… what a laugh. If only he knew. If only he knew. The son of a king, what would he ever know of their struggle? The depth of his bloodline in the islands made Frey’s stomach pitch and roll. It’s only now occurring to him that his impending child, too, will feed that legacy.
And he’ll do everything to let the child forge his own destiny in turn. Frey decides it, here and now, as he drifts from the Lagoon to the Meadow. Winter was the most dangerous time for the strays, fresh from the sea. He thinks of how he found Zevulun and his sons out here, bringing them to the safety of the Lagoon. It’s for those like his pale adopted uncle that Frey looks for, peering out over the expanse of Meadow, head tilting as he looks to the treeline.
A pale stallion, still wet from the sea, sticking close to the trees. Frey calls out to him softly from the safety of the treeline, moving to greet the stranger. At least his thoughts would be swayed from his own problems for a little while. Ears pitching forward, dark gaze settling on the painted man as he closed the gap. “The Meadow is brutal this time of year,” he noted, staying tucked well within the copse of trees. “Too open… do you have somewhere safe to go?” Right, well, maybe his social skills are a bit rusty. Still, despite his height, the sooty stallion does his best to look unassuming and friendly. Sometimes it’s hard.
three. friesian x. sooty red roan. 17.3Hh.
Tyr x Kvothe
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