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[skyrimkinkmeme]

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 6.8

[(Anonymous)]

“You should be,” Eitri says, lightly. “You’re carrying the mead.”

And just like that, Thorald’s blank, cornered expression melts into a tentative smile. “Oh, I see how it is,” he murmurs, with a light shove of the other man’s shoulder. When Eitri jostles him back he raises his palms. “Easy now – I’m carrying the mead.”

“Just wait.”

“Promises.” He flaps a mocking hand in Eitri’s direction. Freyja actually stops to watch under the pretext of fiddling with her shoulder straps, eyebrows climbing as the men stroll past trading comradely insults. She marvels at Eitri’s ease. With a joke and an open hand he’s banished the nightmare like so much morning mist. She thinks of the way he gathered Thorald in his arms back at the inn, not a hint of awkwardness or hesitation. He made it look as natural as breathing.

It’s odd to her, such gentleness in a man. But then for many years her experience of men has been mostly other mercenaries: aging rogues and one-eyed veterans, the lean, tough gristle of humanity. Not everyone keeps such company. And not everyone was fashioned to be a warrior. Eitri is gentle, but he isn’t soft. He can shrug off a grueling day’s march that leaves both Freyja and Thorald strung out like scraped hides; he fights with an earthy, dogged fierceness that makes up for a good deal of his inexperience. And he would have walked to his death with a clear-eyed courage that still astounds her, rather than leave his cousin to his inevitable fate. That’s more than she can say. When faced with a hopeless quest and an unwanted responsibility, Freyja dropped everything and ran.

She watches Thorald pelt a snowball at his head, and smiles faintly. A stubborn fool, maybe. But a kind one. At the moment she can barely find it in her to be angry with him.

By evening they’ve reached the deep forest cloaking the foothills of the mountains, and found shelter. It's not really a cave, just a grudging overhang of rock with a great drift of snow on the windward side and icicles clinging to the lip. But the ground is dry. And it blocks the wind, as the snowdrifts prove. They pitch the tent and build the fire, then eat what feels like a feast: chewy dried venison, slightly soft apples from the inn’s root cellar, and buttered potatoes baked directly in the coals, tasting slightly of ashes. Then they wash it down with the much-joked-about bottle of mead. It’s flavored with snowberries.

It’s Freyja’s turn to take the first watch; she feeds the fire as night draws its cloak around them. Gazes into the darkness. The wind has been picking up all day, and now the huge black conifers creak with it. We Nords were born of the wind, she remembers her father telling her on a childhood hunting trip, round a campfire very like this one, while an autumn blast hissed through Whiterun’s tundra grasses. Kyne breathed upon the land to form the first men – thus we name the mountain Throat Of The World, and thus you have a measure of safety that the most hardened Imperial general does not, little one, even from the bitterest winter chill. She remembers his wry smile, just visible in the dark. Though it’s good to have a fire, no?

The cold itself is a bright raw smell as she inhales, braided with spruce and woodsmoke and the promise of snow. Through a gap in the forest canopy Freyja watches clouds drift across the faint light of the stars. Skyrim, she thinks, for the thousandth time since crossing the border, is beautiful. She wishes she’d paid more attention to it as a girl. She wishes she could have shown it to Indros.

“Freyja.”