Larksong Grotto Ankärr

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she was very pretty when she smiled, he decided. more than pretty. her diminutive paws were notchings of silver porcelain next to his own, but she wielded them with a wounding precision. or mending, perhaps.

"jeg måtte give ham en lærestreg, kan du se det?" skorpa mumbled, feeling the snowy earth crunching under the back of his head, sending ripples of overwhelming sound through his harsh-healing skull. "men jeg ville ikke have gjort dig fortræd," the exile went on in that same distant voice, using the last of his strength to peer pointedly at her. "eller havde du."

into darkness he began to sink. "du ville ikke have os." above him, the sky danced in odd whirling colors. "det er bedre at bytte sig til en kvindes seng end at tvinge sig selv ind i den." a quick smile flashed toward nothing. "hun bliver varmere, når hun har din byttehandel."

inside the warrior of middle age was a hurting boy, and it was this boy whose visions blackened skorpa's consciousness for a time. he dreamed of home, of brunhilde and sigurd receiving him in shouting welcome, in feast, in a shower of many gifts. and in this time, he was the only son! the only son; the only favored.

***

he did not know how long he slept, how many hours or days. he knew only that the bite in his flesh was reduced and the fever had at last broken. burntbranch eyes searched now for his savior, a worker of seiðr if he had ever known one. and to her now, skorpa owed a great debt.

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