Freya is lingering near the coast when movement on the beach catches her attention. She lifts her head from where she grazes while Fríða and Jǫrmungandr play nearby, squinting her eyes against the waxing light to get a better look. The figure on the horizon is silver-white like a ghost, their dark hair falling in glistening cascades. At first she believes it to be just another visitor for Zevulun, sparing only a passing glance. But quickly she does a double-take, and then a triple, shocked. "Bjorn...?" she asks, as if the figure might be able to hear her over the great distance that separates them.
Instantly Freya is in motion, calling Fríða and Jǫrmungandr to her side. After some brief bickering they fall into step on either side of her. Despite the aching of her joints and the slight sway of her back, she pushes herself into a hurried canter, closing the distance between herself and the stranger in mere minutes.
Freya is in disbelief at first, sure that her aging eyes are playing tricks on her. Yet the closer she gets, the more she is sure: this is Bjorn. It's been so long since she's seen him - her firstborn, her precious prince who had once been the light of her life. But she would recognize him anywhere and after any length of time apart. Finally he's here, by some miracle, and she teeters between joy and disbelief, the line between the two feeling as thin as a razor's edge.
She takes a hard look at him when she gets close. He looks older, as expected, no longer a youthful boy with an unmarred coat and an optimistic view of the world. He bears a multitude of scars across his body, and she can't help but fix her eyes on the three that slash across the bridge of his nose. And though he walks with purpose, his eyes look tired and there is a weariness about him, like he carries a great burden.
"Bjorn..." his name falls as a whisper from her lips as the trio comes to a halt before him. "You're here..." there's a hitch in her breath, her voice catching on the syllables. With no hesitation she steps forward and throws her head over his neck in a hug-like gesture. Pale nostrils flare to breathe in the pine-and-musk scent that had once been so familiar to her. Whiskered lips murmur words of joy as they brush across the curve of his spine and play at the salt-laden tips of his ebony mane, like she used to do when he were a young child and she were trying to get a rise from him. She is so grateful that she has been blessed with the opportunity to see him again, to know that he is alive and safe and, she hopes, happy.
After several long moments, Freya reluctantly pulls away enough to catch his gaze. "You're here... I'm so happy to see you." Her voice is stronger this time, but still thick with emotion. She offers him a watery smile and presses her nose briefly to his cheek. "Have you been on the Islands this whole time?"
There's so many more questions she wants to ask. 'Why are you on Luthien? Where did the scar on your face come from? Do you have any family here?' But there is one she yearns to know the answer to most: 'Where is your father?'
But she stays her tongue and waits for her son's reply, eager to learn about his life since their parting so many years ago. |