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ANNOUNCEMENTS: UPDATED 12/16/2017

Happy Holidays, fellow Kinkmemers! I have returned and have no reasonable excuse for my absence except LIFE. I will be working on updating the archives. If anyone sees anything amiss, please let me know.

I am also hoping to find another Mod and an Archivist.

The more dedicated people we have in this Meme the less chance of it dying. I admit that being the sole keeper of the Meme is not great for the fandom. If something were to happen to me, for good, this place would go the way of the Fallout Kink Meme. Let's not let that happen! If anyone would be interested in Modding/Archiving, please drop me a line. Thanks! <3

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Songs for Nomads 6.4

[(Anonymous)]

She settles for saying nothing. It’s probably better that way; if they spoke she might say something she’d regret, still quietly furious over his refusal to see reason in her decisions. Instead Freyja fills the silence with a mouthful of horker meat. It’s incredibly rich after weeks of trail rations, swimming in a thick broth of roast tomatoes and garlic and its own grease, and the steady way she spoons it down is due as much to real hunger as to the desire to avoid conversation. By the time Eitri goes to take his turn in the bath she’s mopping up the stew with a heel of bread.

“Hungry, were you?”

Thorald slides onto the bench beside her. When Freyja turns to greet him she raises an eyebrow. “You look…better.”

He looks like a different man, in truth. Still too thin, with greying yellow bruises splashed in a lurid circle round his left eye and cheek, like Reachman war paint. But his hair is clean and unbraided, his skin free of filth and sweat. The stark angles of his cheeks and the fading black eye make him look a bit disreputable, but no longer pitiable.

“You should have seen yourself,” Thorald says, teasing.

“No doubt.” She takes another bite of bread.

“It isn’t you he’s angry with, you know.”

With her mouth full of the dense, crusty loaf, Freyja has to chew deliberately before answering. When she does her voice is flat. “Really.”

“He told me about how you freed him. Took on three justiciars, he said.”

Freyja shrugs. “He got the third himself.”

“Still.”

“And I’m supposed to be glad – what? That he knows I saved his life? He’d be an idiot if he didn’t.”

“Gods, woman,” says Thorald, suddenly terse. “His only family is dead back in that—”

“He’s not the only one who’s ever lost someone,” Freyja snaps. “And he wants me to be something I’m not. He’s alive because I’ve spent the better part of ten years selling my sword arm all over Tamriel, and I’m alive because I don’t hesitate when something needs doing. He can’t have it both ways. I’m not some sort of noble wandering heroine out of a ballad.”

“No one’s asking you to be.”

Freyja looks up at the bar, where the patrons are still arguing about dragons, and snorts.

“Look, just give him a chance,” Thorald says. “It’ll be a long, silent walk back to Ivarstead if you don’t.”

“He can find his own way back, according to him,” says Freyja, mulishly, but her heart isn’t in it. She’s got to go to Ivarstead anyway, if she’s to finally heed the Greybeards’ call. A stubborn fool Eitri may be, but he was right about one thing: no one else would have looked for his cousin if he had not, and wishing her fate on someone else will not make it so. She should have gone to the Greybeards a long time ago. And she’ll be damned if she’ll let the man be recaptured by the Thalmor, or even fall to a bandit ambush, after the effort she’s put into keeping him alive. So to Ivarstead it is. Freyja shakes her head, sick of talking about it.

“Or you could come to Windhelm with me,” Thorald says.