Quiet Sobs

Her skinny fingers shook as she pressed her palms against her face. She tried to keep her tears in secret, for the others needed not bear her burdens. They were hers, her fault alone, and already she had caused with them great pain to her loved ones. The walls were thin and would betray her wails if she let them out as anything louder than quiet sobs, hasty breaths, desperate sighs for comfort.

They reached out to Freyr, who had blessed them and whose domain was the family. But why did they feel his touch? Why had he reached out to them after they had caused such pain to their own offspring, their partner, everyone who relied on them for food and shelter? Instead she had given her own flesh and blood shattered glass to walk on, silent treatment to listen to, tantrums and shaky hands unable to cradle or cook. Late nights ending with Gisli's bitter tears and Sigrid's oblivious snoring. A cloud of the stench of old alcohol enveloping every corner of the house.

Disgraceful.

Perhaps Freyr had thought that Sigrid needed to make up for all the damage she had done. Perhaps it was a cruel joke of the gods to entertain the Golden God with a mead-drenched wretch like Sigrid.

Helga's letters stayed stacked in her backpack. Its opening was a dark void in the dim candlelight, eating the heartfelt words and hiding them from Freydis' view.