ran my wandering mind away, Lagertha

[Crito]

He tries to only leave the Tundra in the winter, when everywhere else might as well be the Tundra. As he looks around the meadow, he feels like he hasn’t even left home. It’s a blustery, bitter-cold day. Most of the horses huddle for warmth, unaccustomed to the freeze that seems to become one’s marrow. Their manes and tails whip around them with a life of their own. They look fairly miserable, these temporary meadow-livers, and he smiles faintly at their misfortune. Of all days to visit, why on earth would they choose today? His own coat is remarkably shaggy; his roan freckling is nearly concealed by the layer of fur that covers him. Crito has no reservations about continuing further into the communal ground, and as he walks, his body warms even more. Ever since his brother had returned, the stallion has felt his own reawakening. He feels younger; his joints protest less and less as if the clock was turning backwards on his life, rather than the other way around. Whereas before, Crito had been resigned to his further retreat into the mountains – a deeper progression of his hermit life and his eventual lonely death (no one would miss the ancient recluse) – now, he looks forward to a brighter future. There is still life to be had in his weather-worn body. More than ever, he feels it. His steps are light and practiced as he moves through the meadow. The Brother is used to terrain much rockier than here. He casts his grey eyes out for a familiar face, and just when he’s about to intersect a stranger instead, he sees her. Lagertha. He’s not sure it’s her at first. He thinks his old eyes are surely done, because the mare he spots cannot be the grey warrior. She’d been so adamant, so repulsed by the idea of having children the last time they met. But yes, it’s her, rounder belly and all as he draws near. “So what changed you mind?” He says, his broad head indicating her stomach. Secretly, the bay roan is glad she hasn’t brought it along. She hasn’t fully left her sanity behind, at least. “I doubt he had my rugged good looks.” Crito smiles at her carelessly, not realizing that she could take it as something more. Coming from him, it’s as harmless as winter on his skin. He is as clueless as ever, but happy to see the slightly-less tough-woman. ( c r i t o )

reference picture //character info