ge mig frid

The old scarred woman weaves her way through the huge trees, duel-toned eyes scanning the area as her mind wanders away. Gods how she hates the North, hates the memories it brings up every time she comes here… hates the family that she lost up here. Tove bitterly remembers the attack that left her damaged, voice broken, body scarred, and her brother dead next to her. It was bloody, the grizzlies attack had been relentless and the world had faded away. She had awoken back in the band’s camp, stitched together and packed with pain numbing herbs. But her wounds where deeper than just her flesh and they didn’t know what to do with her or how to help her. So the broken woman had traveled as soon as she could move.

She had left them, or perhaps they left her. Either way, the stitches had torn, the wounds had healed in jagged pink lines and Tove had lived. Yet, her life was as broken as her. There was no purpose, no direction for her. She wandered, the days blending together, grizzlies falling to her teeth and yet it was unfulfilling. But then she had met Kotori. The earthen male had given her a purpose, invited her to help him establish his pack and the scarred woman had agreed. A thin black cord hangs around her neck, a single polar bear claw bumping against her chest with each step she takes. It is a symbol of the allegiance forged, the promise to come when Ko calls his pack together.

Movement catches her eye, pulling Tove from her memories as a huge black form wanders through the trees. Paws stop as she watches the shadow move and she finds another ghost from her past come back to haunt her. The man she had been so keen to follow, who she had trusted her life to… who had abandoned when she needed him most. He now walks through the land and emotions raise within the scarred woman’s chest. They pound into her like a relentless force, stealing her breath and her will to move. She swallows, fighting the tears that prick the back of her eyes as the feelings continue to roll through her. Anger, hate, sadness, loathing. They slam into her, over and over again until all that is left is a hallow shell.

Paws move, pulling her toward the huge shadow, rough, gravel voice calling out, “Víðarr?” A question, a statement hidden within its depths. A silent accusation. She nears him, the feelings crossing her features as she looks at him, unable or maybe unwilling to say more until he speaks.


"Tove Baade"