ge mig frid

The sadness is one that he wants to share in. A sadness that makes him want to reach out, to touch her, to hold her, but in the same moment... Viðarr knows it would be inappropriate. He knows that it wouldn't be okay. He knows that, and yet? One step towards her, and then another, his head still set low. If Tove wanted to rebuke him, if she wanted to strike him, it would be well within her right. Still, the shadow can't help the way that he closes the gap between them with his long strides. He cannot help but reach out, offer the side of his muzzle to hers. The shadow can only open the door for her, and can only hope.

"I know... I know, I left, I should not have," the words are murmured. They're soft, a curse. A curse that's directed at the shadow and no one else. He detests himself near as much for running off on that fateful day, but he has his reasons. "There is no excuse, I'm sorry." Murmured words, a soft reverence, as Viðarr reaches out for her. It's not with force, no. Only longing. Only a gentle longing as he reaces out, softness in his gaze.

"My sister took off, I had to go after her." It's a quiet admission. Not an excuse, and he hopes in every way it doesn't sound like one. An explanation for his leaving, for his too-long absence. It wasn't the whole explanation, no. There was the question of Katla as well, the child that he'd stumbled upon while he was away, but that could wait. It was Tove that had his full, undivided attention for however long she'd have him, today. All the shadow could do was wait for her reaction and weather the storm that came next.

"Viðarr"