"Gods," he says, and starts building the fire, which she takes as a yes. She gathers more wood as he constructs a neat pile of kindling, and by the time she returns the moon is rising and the cave's roof is lit from below with a flicker of orange. Eitri is crouched in front of it, warming his hands; he's discarded the ill-fitting elven armor. Freyja tosses him the bear pelt that she uses on top of her bedroll and he settles back on his haunches as she feeds the fire. Much of the wood is pine, throwing showers of sparks and resinous smoke. Soon they're both scooting backward as it blazes up. Eitri's breath comes in sharp white puffs, but the bearskin hangs loosely around his shoulders, exposing the solid planes of his chest. I really am in Skyrim, Freyja thinks, with a smile. Indros had possessed an arsenal of snide remarks about her tendency to stand outside bare-armed on cool nights.
She has a handful of bruised apples and the meat that she managed to carve off the deer before being interrupted. It cooks quickly over the fire, which is just as well; the first rich smells of venison make Eitri shift in his seat, and he tears into the first strip of meat so ravenously that the juices run over his chin. Freyja nearly follows his example. She's traveled far today, and the slightly charred meat leaves her wanting to lick her fingers. They fall into an easy rhythm, without the need for words - Eitri munches apples and roasts a new batch of venison while she eats, and then she takes over as he tries, with limited success, not to chew like a man who hasn't been fed in three days. By the end they're both nursing burned fingers. Freyja pulls out a bottle of mead and Eitri falls backward, head pillowed on his arms, shaking with deep, incredulous chuckles.
"You," he says, "are a vision of Sovngarde."
"That's all I have," she warns him.
"Sovngarde," he repeats. He's still lying on the floor of the cave, boneless and satisfied, smiling broadly. It's the first real smile she's seen from him. They pass the bottle back and forth like old comrades, fingers brushing, savoring their sips in companionable silence. It goes quickly, with two. Afterward Freyja sets water to boil and pulls out her spare tunic, starts tearing it into strips. Gestures at Eitri's hand.
"Let's see it."
His smile fades immediately, but he holds out his left arm, elbow resting on his knee. The potions have done their work. The wound is partially closed, no longer gaping like a crooked mouth, but it's still terrible to look at: a wicked slice along the outside of his hand, curving from bony wrist up into the meat of his palm, deep and ragged and red. Eitri's last two fingers are still unnaturally limp. Freyja pulls the water off the coals and tosses a handful of the blue mountain flowers in to steep, finishes ripping up her tunic. In a moment the cave is full of a sharp green smell. She dips one of the rags into the hot water. The wool is rough, but clean, and she tries to bathe his hand with as much gentleness as possible, though Eitri still closes his eyes and bites down hard on his lip. Freyja does not realize that she is humming as she works until his sad, ragged singing joins her.
"We drink to our youth, to days come and gone..."
The man is certainly no skald. His song is closer to a whisper than a tune, but it is so hoarse with loss and longing that it stirs her as few bards ever have. "What village are you from?" she asks, softly.
"Ivarstead." His voice takes on the warm, rough tones of southeastern Skyrim when he says it, grainy as honey-colored planks. Freyja looks at his rough-hewn face, his autumn-bright hair, and decides that the Rift would suit him.
"You grew up there?"
"I've lived there my whole life."
She can't imagine that. It must show on her face, because Eitri smiles. "Aye, it's a sleepy little place. Pretty, though. Most of the young folk leave for Riften or someplace when they come of age. I guess I never got around to it."
"You're a farmer, then?"
For a long moment he doesn't say anything. Then he looks down at his hands. "A smith."
Songs For Nomads 1.4
She has a handful of bruised apples and the meat that she managed to carve off the deer before being interrupted. It cooks quickly over the fire, which is just as well; the first rich smells of venison make Eitri shift in his seat, and he tears into the first strip of meat so ravenously that the juices run over his chin. Freyja nearly follows his example. She's traveled far today, and the slightly charred meat leaves her wanting to lick her fingers. They fall into an easy rhythm, without the need for words - Eitri munches apples and roasts a new batch of venison while she eats, and then she takes over as he tries, with limited success, not to chew like a man who hasn't been fed in three days. By the end they're both nursing burned fingers. Freyja pulls out a bottle of mead and Eitri falls backward, head pillowed on his arms, shaking with deep, incredulous chuckles.
"You," he says, "are a vision of Sovngarde."
"That's all I have," she warns him.
"Sovngarde," he repeats. He's still lying on the floor of the cave, boneless and satisfied, smiling broadly. It's the first real smile she's seen from him. They pass the bottle back and forth like old comrades, fingers brushing, savoring their sips in companionable silence. It goes quickly, with two. Afterward Freyja sets water to boil and pulls out her spare tunic, starts tearing it into strips. Gestures at Eitri's hand.
"Let's see it."
His smile fades immediately, but he holds out his left arm, elbow resting on his knee. The potions have done their work. The wound is partially closed, no longer gaping like a crooked mouth, but it's still terrible to look at: a wicked slice along the outside of his hand, curving from bony wrist up into the meat of his palm, deep and ragged and red. Eitri's last two fingers are still unnaturally limp. Freyja pulls the water off the coals and tosses a handful of the blue mountain flowers in to steep, finishes ripping up her tunic. In a moment the cave is full of a sharp green smell. She dips one of the rags into the hot water. The wool is rough, but clean, and she tries to bathe his hand with as much gentleness as possible, though Eitri still closes his eyes and bites down hard on his lip. Freyja does not realize that she is humming as she works until his sad, ragged singing joins her.
"We drink to our youth, to days come and gone..."
The man is certainly no skald. His song is closer to a whisper than a tune, but it is so hoarse with loss and longing that it stirs her as few bards ever have. "What village are you from?" she asks, softly.
"Ivarstead." His voice takes on the warm, rough tones of southeastern Skyrim when he says it, grainy as honey-colored planks. Freyja looks at his rough-hewn face, his autumn-bright hair, and decides that the Rift would suit him.
"You grew up there?"
"I've lived there my whole life."
She can't imagine that. It must show on her face, because Eitri smiles. "Aye, it's a sleepy little place. Pretty, though. Most of the young folk leave for Riften or someplace when they come of age. I guess I never got around to it."
"You're a farmer, then?"
For a long moment he doesn't say anything. Then he looks down at his hands. "A smith."