Owned by: Catherine Fisher
Warning: moderate J/K, character death
Dauntless Pluck
5: Fate
Summary: "Fate is cruelest to the most deserving."
Cold.
Numb and unfeeling.
Perpetually reserved and holding an air of something reminiscent of dominance.
The snow-walker's lips pulled into a scowl as he scrutinized, concealing all other emotions, as per usual. His focus was on a young woman who donned a mane of chestnut tresses, and although his features were impassive, his eyes portrayed the ache and puzzlement that festered inside of him.
Her form was still, her skin more pallid than his own, her eyes wide and glassy. Calloused yet somehow elegant fingers were woven together and lay on the bodice of her jade dress, contrasting in a wonderful way.
"How?" The young man asked, uncaring that his voice had now betrayed the façade he'd sported up until that point. "How did she - ?"
The other occupant of the room was sullen, for once not bearing the smile that had everlastingly graced his lips. The man shifted uncomfortably, but spun his tale despite his unease.
"Drowned, actually. She was on a mission for Wulfgar and . . . she was pushed onto thin ice. From what I've been told, Thorkil and Hakon dove in after her, and she was already deathly cold by the time they pulled her out. Hypothermia set in, and then …" Kari nodded. Of course the cold would get to her; she always did like the snow.
Skapti continued, "They said it was a mere girl, traveling with Jessa to a village some miles away . . . she was angry that she spoke so highly of a snow-walker … she snapped." Skapti's stopped abruptly when he realized that Kari was not actually listening, just nodding torpidly every sentence or two.
"I'm sorry," the skald muttered, deciding to take his leave. Only when the scrape of wood on stone met his ears did Kari look up. Immediately his eyes returned to the frail form before him, willing his magic to help him the one time he truly needed it. He stood stock-still, anxiously awaiting her to sit up and grin at him, make her anger known as she always did, anything but lie on that table for all to see.
"No," he whispered, and once again he became as cold and indifferent as he'd ever been. The person who'd taken time to understand him and ask his opinion was gone, disappeared into the unknown just like his iniquitous mother. Jessa did not deserve that fate.
He sighed, glancing once more at the girl before choosing his words, unsure if they were to himself or the corpse, "Fate is cruelest to the most deserving."