Morwen gratefully follows Frey down a winding path that leads towards the forest’s edge. The trees grow denser here, their branches low, the breath of pine so thick it gives the illusion of leaving the village behind.

Frey’s home is small, the low, thatched roof near the snowy ground, simple runes carved into the doorframe. She brushes them with her fingers and ducks her antlers as she steps inside. The place is warm, live-in. A fur-covered bed, a tiny hearth,herbs drying overhead.. A shelf of oddities, interesting stones, a crystal, a painted animal skull…Quiet, unassuming, but a little wild…just like her. Morwen thinks. 

“It’s just me,” Frey touches her ear in the same gesture as the child and says  “be home here.”

Morwen thanks her and sits. Even after three days of unconsciousness, or however long before that..her legs are already tired and the bed is soft.  

“So you live alone?” Morwen asks. The vision of the young man flickers through her thoughts.

“I… had a brother.” Frey’s voice falls. “The Pale took him. Ten winters ago.. And our parents before that, though I barely remember them.” She settles cross -legged by the hearth, stirring the ashes. 

“His name was Freyr.” The word catches. Morwen doesn’t interrupt, only leans closer, gently present.

“He was a singer,” Frey continues. “The best in the village at that and the tangleharp… but he fought well too. No one could ever throw him. After our parents died he raised me. Taught me how to fight, tried to teach me music too, but I always ran off into the woods instead.” A soft breath of laughter ghosts through. “To talk to the animals, you know.” 

“Can you.. I mean.. Have you ever?” Morwen begins. 

“Talk to animals?” Frey smiles. “No. Not really. No one’s done that since magic died hundreds of years ago, or so the elders say. But they trust me. Last summer I helped a wolf birth her pups. She didn’t bite me once.”

Morwen laughs. “That sounds like magic to me.” 

She slips from the bed and mirrors Frey’s poster across the hearth.

I should tell her about my vision. She thinks, but some instinct holds her back. She realizes Frey is watching her, closely, something unreadable in her eyes. 

“You did magic,” Frey whispers. “When you touched my antler. You spoke our tongue. And I smelled something… something I’ve never smelled before.”

Morwen stiffens… she hadn’t smelled anything this morning but smoke and herbs.

“I.. I don’t know what I did” she murmurs. ”I just… felt a shock and….” 

She looks up and really sees the eyes on Frey.. Young face… ancient gaze. Griefed, weathered, burning still with curiosity.

A shaman’s eyes. Morwen realizes. Or they could be, one day. She could never lie to those eyes.

“I had a vision… of you.” she says.

Frey flinches… but says nothing.

So Morwen tells her everything.  Frey as a child, the fear on her face, the courage of her brother, the way he stood his ground to protect what was most precious to him.

She holds nothing back. All the emotions and thoughts that the vision relayed to her in the span of a heartbeat or less. The terror of that moment. The deep love of a brother for his sister. The certainty that they were going to die. The certainty that Freyr was glad to die…if only to know his sister would be safe. She stares into the ashes as she tells it. 

She doesn’t look up until she hears the sob.