As soon as he was certain no one was watching, [Jorgen] broke into a run and quickly left the trees behind. He was breathing hard when he reached the water's edge. Kneeling, he cupped his hands and brought up the cold, clear water, splashing his face. Jorgen let the water drip off his chin and stared out at the sea. A part of him always yearned to be a-sea, breathing salt air, feeling the motion of wind and water, and the rhythm of rowing when the wind failed him; another part yearned for home, for his children and his keep, his horses and his dogs. And he wished to see his people. Morgyt himself could be in Islak or Berunia, but he might have split his raiders into two parties, the better to terrorize more lands.
Disgusted to have let that black-hearted rogue into his thoughts, Jorgen closed his eyes and pictured his little ones. Brita was the oldest, nearly a maiden, she had her mother’s lovely golden hair and her father’s brown eyes, and a gentle firmness that had her people listening to her in spite of her youth. Next was Thorkatla, as bold and noisesome as her name implied, all of eight summers old but she ordered other children around as if born to it—Katla was a shieldmaiden in the making, and took after her father with brown hair and eyes.
Jorgen needed some quiet after all the hubbub and a short meeting with Harald Frodarsson. Below is the rest of his musing about his girls.
Quick announcement that the draft is finished! It's massive and will have to be two books. I also accidentally won NaNo again. And I'm planning to add a new gallery for this story in the Image Galleries section of the site in the coming week.
Thank you for reading, and please stop by again.
Last was Amma, the quietest of his children. In Amma was all of her mother’s beauty and eyes the same sky blue as Viga’s had been, but a temper that was all her own—she was an enchanting waif of a child, prone to chills, fond of music, and always seeming a bit lost in the world. Amma had been born three winters ago and reminded Jorgen of snowflakes, delicate and fragile, indeed she had nearly been named Drifa because at birth the soft wisps of hair she sported had been white as snow.
His heart squeezed and he caught his breath. How he missed those sprites and their quarrels. If all went well, he would have them in his arms again in a fortnight. After months away, that much seemed a short enough time to see their smiles and hear their giggles once more.