#every time i replay astridr's lines about the bjorg taking her people for sacrifices if they couldn't pay the demanded tributes hits harder

[brynnmclean]

WIP Wednesday

It's Wednesday!!!!!!! Tagging @butcharondir @dwarveslikeshinythings @rain-sleet-snow and @allatariel if y'all feel like participating :)

I made a post about this late last night (also one bemoaning the fact that my chapter count might grow again, seriously cannot emphasize enough that I have up until now been IMMUNE to that fic writer stereotype, I'm a chronic underwriter usually, I swear), but here's a section of the Hellblade fic:

“I want to know,” Ástríðr seethes, “I want to know you regret it—all of it, the sacrifices, the tributes, your father’s tyranny over everyone he deemed weaker than you.” Gods. Shame burns like bile in the back of Thórgestr's throat. “I do regret it,” he says, looking her dead in the eye, willing her to see the truth. “I never wanted any of it. I took no joy in it, I’m not—I’m not that kind of monster, not a draugr.” When nothing in her expression changes, not even a flicker of belief, something wrenches inside him, beyond anger. “I am not my father, Ástríðr, I will never be him.” He has to stop, has to swallow hard to keep from choking—I was wrong about him, I was wrong... Ástríðr releases him and he sucks in a sharp breath like a flinch. “All right,” she says, her voice the flat of a blade rather than the edge now. She sits back down on the edge of the bed, but Thórgestr feels no relief. There is no yielding in her. This is only her allowing him to catch his breath and adjust his splintered shield before her next swing. “You did fight him in the end, I’ll give you that.” “He nearly killed me,” he spits, gingerly pressing one of his hands over the bandages. “I was his last sacrifice to the giant. To himself.” Quiet falls in the room at that, and Thórgestr feels it like a weight on his shoulder—the place where Áleifr held him still for the sword. A shudder runs down his spine. He leans back into the chair, pressing that shoulder hard against the wood, trying to focus on that feeling and not the memory. He turns his face away from Ástríðr’s gaze, but his sight falls on Áleifr’s sword still there, leaning against the wall with his armor. Suddenly, viscerally, he wants it gone—broken, shattered, cast into the depths of the sea. “I want to rebuild Bárðarvik.” Thórgestr turns back to Ástríðr, but she isn’t looking at him anymore, she looks out to the hall and the world beyond it. “I want the tools to fix our bridges and our buildings. I want payment back for what your Björg took from my people. I want food for the winter, sailcloth for our ships—and I want to take the Vestmenn away from this place of cruelty. Your father is gone. So is mine. But I’ll have what I’m owed. Tell me, Thórgestr,” Ástríðr says, “what is your regret worth? What of your word?”