Solveig woke. She shot a hand to her face as she rolled over to sit on the edge of her bed. She’d had strange dreams of seas of blood while the moons bled, and she looked outside her window to see them doing just that. Under it all, she had Vurwe’s neck in her hands as her eyes rolled back and her tongue lolled out, so not all was dark and cryptic. She rubbed at her face and let go a sigh, trying to rid herself of sleep and put enough vigor in her bones to start the day. It worked well enough to put however vigor in her bones needed to shuffle about the room, grasping up her clothes and putting them on. She buckled her belt with her two knives, one short, one long, dangling in their sheaths and looked at the spear and shield in the corner. Thirteen duels she’d won with those and countless hours of sparring those things had survived. Her shield bore the scars as well as her. She took a few slow steps towards them and ran her fingers over the face of her shield, remembering the time spent with her old mentor and nights spent under the stars both alone or in the arms of another when she felt she wanted company. She remembered hearing the news coming back from the front that her mentor had died. Then she thought about the other old bastard she knew and thought how terrible it’d be to hear the same news about him.

She put her hands on her knees and stood. She left her room after donning the old bear fur and she stopped in her room’s doorway when she saw her father sitting at the table alone with a cup. At that moment, as she stood and watched without him noticing, she remembered Sevine’s words about her father. She made him sound every bit the hero her mother and the grey-heads in the taverns talked about, taking old songs and throwing away the names of the old heroes and putting in the new. She thought of that and found it too truthful how short the memories of man were. The heroes of old, held dear for a thousand years so easily pushed aside for the new, and then the cycle would come round again sooner or later. The old man sitting at the table looked tired, not terrifying. He looked beaten, almost, not brave. She felt no shame for him, no pity, war was for the young to fight. All the more reason for him to stop and finally realize that. She continued her walk into the kitchen and sat opposite her father. He didn’t greet her, just looked at his cup with distant eyes. “Have you given any more thought to it?” She said after a time.

He seemed to have woken from sleep, the way he jumped to look at her and then about the room, looking as if he wasn’t expecting to be here. He cleared his throat and looked back at his cup, “Thought about what?”

“Hanging up your sword, putting your shield on the wall.” She said, “Picking up the needle and thread again, going back to the old trade.”

He looked at his hands and she looked too. To be honest, they weren’t tailor’s hands. Not anymore, at least. They were scuffed and scarred, some of his knuckles were scabbed and the nail of his forefinger was blackened and that of his thumb, cracked. She’d seen hands like that a lot, but they belonged to warriors. Killers, not tailors. He set his hands back on his cup and gave Solveig one sorry-eyed glance. “You ever hear the saying, an old horse can’t jump new fences?”

“Don’t give me that, you old fool.” Solveig said, and she felt her heart jumped and muscles tense. She worked to calm herself down while her father hadn’t so much as looked at her. Excuses, lies, he wants to leave. “Just don’t. You’ve a wife. We bought us a home here. I signed on hoping to take your place, you damned fool!”

“You’ll wake your mother and our guest.” Her father muttered while he stared her down. “Sit.”

“I’m your daughter, not your fucking dog, old man.” She hissed. She let a few moments drag on before she sat to let the old man know she sat because she wanted to. “Old horses…” She rolled her eyes and frowned.

“You think me a fool now but you spend enough time doing black work and you’ll see.” Jorwen said, he looked at his hands, “These hands used to be smooth. War makes everything it touches ugly. It changes everything, Solveig.”

“And what? It makes you forget how to be a father? A husband?” She spat, “You can sit here and make like your entire life was shit, but what’ll it get you? I don’t understand.”

“Should feel lucky you don’t. Why do you carry those? Why’d you take up the spear? Pottery not enough for you?” He asked.

She felt her lip curl and stifled a growl as she sat back and looked away. Her fingers fussed with each other as she spoke, “Because, you don’t earn a name in this world without at least some blood on you.”

“You live longer not looking for any.” Her father said, “Why do you even want a name? You fret so much about me being gone yet you carry those around on your hips like they’re something to be proud of.” He pointed to her knives and she slowly shifted herself behind more of the table.

“And you fret so much about war and here we are, me trying to get you away from it and you clinging to the thing like a baby to a tit.” She said and tried her best to calm herself.

“I’ve been fighting long before Ulfric asked me and every Nord foolish enough to follow him. Held a blade longer than I’ve held a needle and thread. I did my best to go back to it, mark me on that, but no one would let me.” He shook his head and drew out a long sigh. She still remembered having to move away from their shop. How sad he looked then, a lot like how he looked now. “Always thought I’d go back to it, but… no one would let me.”

“Maybe you’re not letting yourself.” Solveig said as she crossed her arms. Her father kept quiet for a bit and they sat at the table studying its grain and thinking. Solveig thought about what her father might be thinking, she thought about her old mentor, how different he was to her father. She remembered Sevine saying her father was troubled by war. She couldn’t understand why, then, he didn’t turn away from it. “Why can’t you stay, you old fool-”

Jorwen sent his cup sailing through the air to smash against the far wall, all while he stood fast enough to send his chair clattering to the ground in the same instant. Solveig found herself holding her breath and overcome with more than a little fear. “You do not understand, and I never want you to.”

Liar, she wanted to say, another part of her wanted to hug him. The way he looked, everything, she felt her chest seize up as she looked at him and her eyes began to water. She stood up slowly, holding her father’s eyes with her own, sharp and fierce, trying to make herself feel more angry than scared and sad. It pained her to feel that way about her father but, well, she felt fear. She felt like he was looking at her not like a daughter, not like his own blood, not even that he was looking at her like another person. Or at her at all. She swallowed, “You’re a fucking liar, old man.” She turned away and slammed the door behind her as she went to the Candlehearth for a room.

* * *

Jorwen sat alone at the table, his mind choking with guilt and disgust for acting like that in front of his daughter. He ran his hand over his face and growled because he didn’t know what else to do. It was no lie that it’d be hard to be her father, but he didn’t know the first thing about being a father in the first place. He’d never had one, he’d only had shield-brothers and it made him into a man he never wanted to be again. Perhaps he’d failed Solveig from the start. Perhaps she’d just have to wait until age slowed her down like it did him, but it was only ever luck to blame for him making it this far, and he dreaded to think of the possibility of luck failing Solveig. “You’re going to have to open up to her one day.”

His wife’s hand gently placed itself on his shoulder while her other arm snaked around him to hold him in a loose embrace. She still smelled like flowers after all these years. He’d never tired of that smell, missed it on every campaign and odd job he’d been on. “I can’t. She’s not ready.”

“Maybe you’re not ready. But you have to talk to her once you are. You know her more than you think, because she damn well may be you.” She said, “It’s not my place to tell you to stay here, with me. Whether you’re home or not, I know I’m still your wife and you still love me. I’ve come to terms with the man I married but she hasn’t. She’ll need help to.”

“I wanted more for her. Something better.” Jorwen said as he placed a hand on Halla’s.

“It’s not your place anymore. She chose her path and she’s a woman now, you can guide her but you can’t change her. Be there for her, that’s all she needs.” Halla said. She drew her arms back from around him and he found himself missing them already. “Just stand beside her, you’ll both know what to do. Go.”

Jorwen rose from his seat and went over to the door. Before he opened it, he took one last look at his wife. “I’m sorry.”

“I’ve always loved you, even when you were gone and it was hard, but I’ve always loved you. So, don't be.” She said, before disappearing back into their bedroom. Jorwen closed the door behind him as he made his way back to the warehouse.