Baby it’s cold outside (Nephele Journal)

Week 1
The cold has returned, creeping into everything. The wind bites. The stone walls seem to whisper, hollow with the sound of nothing. Winter in Runeheim feels less like a season and more like a judgment. The silence outside is the same as the one inside me.

I keep thinking about Santiago.
He hasn’t said it, not directly, but I see it in the way his hands linger on the edges of things—his pack, his coat, the ship manifest he pretends not to study. He’s leaving. Back to the sea. Back to wherever he calls home.

And I—I’m staying.

I could’ve asked him to stay. Gods, I could’ve told him the truth. That I needed him. That the thought of him leaving made it hard to breathe. But I didn’t. I smiled. I laughed. I acted. I’m good at pretending. I’ve always been. Hestralia taught me that—how to use charm like armor, how to turn pain into performance.

He never saw the desperation. Not once.
But I think about it now, in the stillness. How easy it would’ve been to lie, just a little. To say I needed help with the wards, that the bar couldn’t run without him. I could have invented any excuse. Why didn’t I?

Why wasn’t I selfish?

Week 2
The fire barely keeps the chill out. Santiago moves like a man already halfway gone. And I still say nothing.

Every moment feels fragile. Every word we speak is wrapped in pretend ease, but the goodbye is there, always humming beneath it. I clean obsessively, organize the same bottles and linens again and again just to stay moving. Just to stay sane.

I want to scream.

Instead, I smile and pour him his favorite drink. I tell him stories like I’m not breaking. And he thanks me, like I’m doing him a kindness, not carving out my own heart and handing it to him wrapped in honey and lies.

He still doesn’t know. And maybe that’s my fault.

Week 3
I caught myself reaching for his hand today. He didn’t notice. Or maybe he did and let it slide. We’re living in a soft denial—one we both know will end with the tide.

I hate him for leaving.

No. That’s not fair. I hate myself for letting him.

Tomasso mentioned the forum again—just once, in passing, like he knew better than to press. He said Runeheim changes with the thaw, that things bloom here when the snow pulls back.

Maybe. But right now, everything inside me is frozen.

Week 4
Santiago’s departure is close now. I watch him sleep and wonder if this is the last time I’ll see him like this. I memorize the slope of his nose, the rhythm of his breath, the way he murmurs my name in dreams. I want to wake him. I want to beg him to stay.

But I won’t.

When he wakes, I’ll smile and hand him tea. I’ll joke about the weather. I’ll watch him go like it’s just another errand. And then I’ll break, alone.

Week 5
He’s gone.

I stood on the dock, hands clenched inside my sleeves, head high. I watched him walk away and never once let him see me cry.

I should’ve stopped him. I could’ve.
I could’ve told him the truth. That he made this place bearable. That I didn’t care about the sea, or his home, or his promises. I only cared that he was here. With me.

But I didn’t. I acted.

I waited until he was gone before I let myself fall apart. Now the rooms are too quiet. The bed too cold. The silence in Runeheim no longer just surrounds me—it lives in me.

Week 6
I tried to lose myself in routine, but the wards won’t let me.

Three grown men—once Hestralia’s finest charms-for-hire—now under my roof and somehow more exhausting than they ever were in their prime. I took them in out of pity. Or guilt. Or loneliness. I honestly don’t remember anymore.

Dong Quixote still walks around half-clothed and dramatically quoting his old client poems like someone’s paying to hear them. He insists it’s “for morale,” but the only morale it affects is mine, and not in the direction he thinks. Damascus Steele, who used to have noblewomen eating out of his hand, now insists he’s become a master chef. He isn’t. If I hear the words “secret aphrodisiac blend” again while he’s dumping cinnamon into stew, I may bury him in the snow. And Cassius A’Nuevo—gods help me—he just broods in the corner like a sulking cat, chiming in only to criticize the others, or recite dramatic soliloquies from his stage days when he’s had too much mulled wine.

They are loud, stubborn, petty, infuriating… and I care for them.

I feed them. I keep them warm. I referee their absurd arguments about whose pillow is softer or who snored during whose shift. But they don’t know what it costs me. They don’t see how much I’m carrying, how every little act of care is done with trembling hands behind a practiced smile.

And still, they remind me that I’m not alone. That I’m needed. That I’m still here.

And they remind me I need coin. The forum is coming. I need to put food on the table, refill the stores, earn enough to keep us through what’s left of winter. I need to be seen again—not for Santiago, not even for the wards—but for me.

Week 7
I’ve begun preparing for the forum. Slowly. Carefully. The bar won’t run itself, and the wards certainly won’t do anything useful. Packing the bottles, checking the mixes, cleaning the linens—it helps. It gives my hands purpose when my heart still feels heavy.

I’m not ready.

But I can’t let the memory of Santiago be the only warmth I carry. I need something new. Someone new, maybe. Not to replace him—he was never mine to keep—but to remind me I can still feel.

Maybe there’s room for someone else in this space he left behind.

Maybe.

Week 8
The snow is thinner now. Meltwater runs in quiet little rivers through the stone alleys. People are talking about the thaw like it’s a miracle. I don’t feel it yet.

But I’m trying.

I have to believe that things can change. That I can.

I’m not expecting love. I’m not even expecting kindness. But maybe there’s someone out there who will make me feel a little less like I’m pretending all the time. Someone who won’t need a performance.

I’ve lived too long in silence. It’s time to speak, to laugh, to feel again.

Even if just a little.

Week 9
We’re nearly ready.

The booth is packed, the bar supplies arranged, and the wards are… marginally less useless than usual. I may actually survive this trip without throttling one of them.

I’m afraid. Not of the travel, not even of the forum, but of being seen again. What if I don’t know how to be charming anymore? What if my smile cracks too easily now?

I’ll wear it anyway. I always do.

But maybe this time, I’ll let the mask slip—just a little.

Maybe I’ll let someone see the woman behind it.

Maybe it’s time.

A letter to my son

Dear son,

Eighteen years ago, I left you asleep in your cradle next to the bed I shared with your father. Never had I imagined you’d be at my doorstep now. I envisioned a safe life for you, far away from me and the insanity of your grandfather. A life where you were raised to be a strong man, a sane man, well taken care of with a full belly to warm you each night.

As a mother, it’s in most of us to have a nature to seek out what is best for our children. You, young Trygve, will do better without me to poison your life. Leaving you is what was best, staying far from you is what is best, your father was meant to be what is best for you. He wa kind, he was caring, he was loyal, and he was so much more than I could ever be for you.

I left you with the name of my father in hopes that you’d clear it, make it whole, and leave a proper and proud legacy behind for him. A legacy not of a broken man who has lost himself, his wife, and his only son also named Trygve.. all because of me, you see? I’m a curse. I brought all this I’ll fortune upon our family.

When my mother gave up her life to keep our bellies full, I failed my brother and he fell to sickness because I didn’t know the first thing about caring for a young child. I still don’t, it’s why I left you to begin with. I hoped and I prayed each night that you could thrive and stay far away, alas.. maybe this curse is in my blood and you have now inherited it, despite all of my attempts to prevent it from grabbing hold of your soul.

Here you are, at my doorstep, having tracked me down because the one good person you had has been taken away from you. I’ve promised to teach you all that I can, but I cannot fathom that anything you learn from me will be what you’ll need to survive in this cold world as a man.

I cannot shield you from the terrors of the night, I cannot promise to keep your belly full, all I can teach you is how to be hungry and how to expect that life is a cruel and unforgiving monster. I can teach you about heartache, about lust, about how one day you may fall in love so deeply with someone who may not love you the same way back. I can show you what it feels like to hurt, to watch your people die around you, to pick up the scraps of the careless left behind and try to forge your own life. But is this really something a young man needs?

Will my tragedies be passed down to you? If they are, run. Run and don’t look back, because running away will be the only thing that can keep you alive. You can tell everyone that you are chasing something down, something important, in a hopes that maybe it’ll make you look far less a coward than I. But, I’ll be honest, some days I wonder if I’m even more sane than your grandfather.

I wonder if this life of following Knut for me has only been a distraction from the failings and shortcomings I’ve had all these years. I wonder if anyone else notices and if they do, why haven’t they told me? Is it because they feel sorry for me? If it is, what a pathetic life I’ve lived thus far. This is not the legacy I wish upon you, this is not the inheritance I wanted to bestow.

Find someone strong to be at your side, to keep you safe, and learn from them as much as you can. If your love interest tells you that you need to make 500 gold to marry him, find someone who will love you and respect you instead without stipulations and strings attached. Despite the smile on my face and eagerness to fulfill Knut’s request, despite the begging for his love, deep down I’ve always known he doesn’t actually love me. Let yourself be happy and don’t waste time on those who may not provide you with that happiness.

As a mother’s wish, if you want to do anything for me after I’ve done nothing for you, find happiness and hold it close to you. Don’t let it go, ever. I’m sorry that your father was too weak to stay alive longer for you. And I’m sorry you ever found me.

Also, don’t ever pay the price for goods that you would sell them at, ask to buy it for less. Always sell for more than the price you’d pay.

Good luck, Trygve. I can feel my time here will be ending soon and I hope that you do not join me
It is in your best interest. Stay with Tora and she will teach you all the things I would have.

Winter comes

Tove: Father, you will not believe what I’ve done. Ser Knut has promised to wed me if I earn 500 gold. I would be married to a noble man, we would be so well cared for and not scraping by anymore as we have been. Finally there is an end in site, a goal I can achieve, are you proud?

Trygve: Gods needn’t waste their time with mortal concerns such as gold or marriage, daughter. You were born to inherit so much more than being a simple noble could ever offer you. What would your grandmother think of this mortal behavior, Tove. You need to be living your life in her footsteps, spreading her wrath, embracing the cold that is to befall all these men.

Tove sighs: Here we go again. For the last time, da, you are not the son of Sveas nor am I her granddaughter. How I wish for a moment of clarity from you just this once.

Trygve stares at the woman, eyes wide: I have never seen more clearly in my entire life, Tove. Death is coming, the nights are growing longer, the earth is frozen, our time to thrive nears.

Tove kicks her bag across the floor: old man, you’ll be the death of us both if you don’t button your lips for 20 minutes. There is a reason I don’t bring you into town with me, can’t you see? You’re absolutely mad. Disgraceful. Besides, have you even eaten today?

Trygve: Gods needn’t nourishment in the form of food to stay strong…

Tove: For fucks sake, eat your soup while I run you a bath. Just because you’re the son of Sveas doesn’t mean you need to have the stench of death wafting around you.

Tove rolled her eyes, warming water to bathe the senile old man. He was right, the cold is coming, the food will become scarce, winters are terrifying for us mortals.