DREAM OF ME, sihtric & finan

8. years pass by

CHAPTER EIGHT; years pass by

           The reins were passed on to her good Saxon friend as Tova dismounts her horse, eyes glancing around the seemingly abandoned small collection of huts, the grass outside dead and overgrown, but it would make do for the bad weather to come. 

"Come, my love," Her arms stretched out as the young curly dark-haired boy all but jumps off where he sat — in front of her as they rode on horseback — and into her arms, his cheek harshly bumping against hers but she smiles regardless, hand smoothing out the wildness of his hair. "Let's get you some food and fur, hmm?"

The child nods against her shoulder, not moving his head upward.  His mismatched eyes remain closed, only added evidence to his exhaustion and for all good reason.  He had barely slept the past day, crying about the discomfort the riding brought upon him, but they — Tova and Peter — hadn't stopped until they found somewhere more suitable.

The Gods were with them today, it seemed.

"Shall I carry him for you?" That was Peter, his eyes glancing around but his body angled in their direction.  He had come a long way since their first meeting, dressed in clothing more fitting for a warrior and a cross necklace around his necklace, though unseen and tucked underneath.

Tova proceeded to shake her head. "It is alright, thank you, Peter." And he nods, going to check inside the shelter as she holds her son closer to her body, shifting slightly so the hilt of her sword was beneath her arm.

When Peter gives the clear, the message being the place was as thought — abandoned — the female Dane nods back, accepting it with relief as she bends down, ripping out some grass with her free hand.

It had been a long time since anybody had been here.

Placing the boy on his own two feet, Tova swept back his heavy dark curls, smiling when their eyes connected, ever the image of his Father when the man had been a young boy. It brought back happy, loyal memories of the pair running through the woods together.

Rorik didn't know Sihtric. A fact that pained Tova to think about, especially because he was so like his Father, both in his appearance and in his shyness, already following his Mother and Peter around with his hands trying to grab at their weapons. Not yet, she'd tell her impatient son much too young in her eyes.

"You must not run off, Rorik, do you understand?" Tova kept her hand on his pale cheek, thumb rubbing just beneath his eye as he grins — his dimples on display — and looks behind her, where she knows Peter is now standing.

Peter.

A man that had become such a good and loyal friend to her when he did not have to be, when he did not owe her anything after burning his own home so any evidence of visitors — to save any enemies after her — was gone in face of his own brother discovering. Since, he had remained with them, did what he needed to do and played his part that wasn't his to commit to do.

Because of that, Rorik was attached to him in a way she knew Sihtric would envy.

Rorik was told Peter was not his Father, but his Saxon Uncle, an Uncle brought to him by their Gods — his God, Peter would add in — and though her son understood to the best he could, calling him by 'Uncle', he very much never let loose on how much he glued himself to the man's hip when not beside his Mother.