Frey weeps softly, shoulders shaking, tears falling off her chin, then flings herself across the hearth, dust and ash be damned, and throws her arms around Morwen’s neck. 

“Thank you” she chokes.Tears soak into Morwen's skin. Words tumble out unguarded.
“All these years I thought…I thought he must have hated me. That I was weak. That..”

Morwen pulls her close, shushing her softly, and that strange feeling rises in her again. Like the first time, a sort of shock, but this time gentler, deeper. It pours through her slowly like warm light. 

Frey smells it instantly, the sharp, impossible scent; like the air itself cracking, splintering like glass. Magic! Her pulse leaps. 

Morwen’s hands steady on her shoulders, but her eyes aren’t the same. In the dim light of the house they shift and shimmer, violet, greens, blues that steal Frey’s breath.

Morwen speaks, but it is not Morwen’s voice.

“Fear not, Frey Sigrunsdottr. Your brother’s spirit may wander the wastes still, but I will gather my children from the corners of the world and give them rest. The Seed has awoken. The River flows weakly now, but it will grow. The Wanderers will come home, and be at peace at last.”

Silence settles over them and Morwen’s head falls forward as if she’s about to faint, but Frey holds her steady. She looks up, blinking at Frey.

“I’m sorry I…” Morwen notices the wide-eyed look of awe and shock on her friend’s face. “Did something happen?”

Frey’s thoughts are racing. The Seed, the River, The Wanderer. The songs of her people, all the Kuunafolk knew them from childhood, but how could Morwen know them? And how could she know…

“You spoke my mother’s name.” Frey realizes it even as she speaks. “I never told you that.” 

Frey’s eyes, only an hour ago filled with mirth and laughter, are now tinged with fear or… awe, Morwen can’t place it, but it feels like something small breaks inside her. 

What am I? 

Frey stands and offers a hand.
“I think we should go back to the Volya’s lodge.” 

Morwen takes her hand with a silent nod.