Truly, he was in awe of her.
How long had they lived together now? Two weeks? Three?
It did not matter. The only thing he was certain of was that he had never been more comfortable. His days were filled with a purpose he had never felt before. He took joy in chores he would have previously avoided or ignored. Repairing the longhouse and making the animal pens had been far more rewarding than he could have imagined. He had even started making a pair of chairs, realising that sitting on the chests for too long was uncomfortable, and he liked to speak with Embla late into the evenings, or teach her a new note to play on the lyre.
Which made him wonder why he had gone to bed so early or slept for so long when he had lived alone.
The time he had wasted!
It seemed so frustrating to him now, especially as most of his tasks had been made far worse by his earlier laziness.
Still, the hard work was worth it. Especially when Embla came out with some milk and oat cakes to admire his carpentry, or when she praised the quality of the meat he’d provided or his repairs during the evening meal.
Each morning they ate together and talked about their chores for the day. Embla cleaned furiously every morning, and then spent the rest of her time sewing, or caring for the animals. Embla had even got enough milk out of the goat to make cheese, which amazed him, as he had always struggled to get more than a few drops from that grumpy beast without being kicked in the face. How many times had he threatened to cook the animal since receiving it from his mother? Countless!
However, after taking his first bite of the creamy delight smothered over crisp fresh bread, he had forgiven his goat completely, and nearly begged Embla to marry him then and there.
Thankfully he had stopped before shaming himself, or potentially ruining the friendship he now cherished.
How would he manage without her in the spring? He had no idea, but one thing was certain: she would leave.
Embla was wedded to her community; that much was clear. Most evenings were spent reminding him of that fact. Not that he minded—he liked listening to her talk, liked watching her sew. He liked watching her do anything if he were honest. She entertained him with the amusing rivalries between the Gudvangen families, and spoke often of the boys she cared for—Gertrud’s children. Surprisingly it did not bother him to hear of them. He wished Gertrud well, and he understood more clearly now how ill matched they were for one another.
Was it his fate to admire women he could never have?
He was too much like that lone wolf, unable to live within a pack, and yet driven mad by loneliness. He would not wish that life for Embla.
Sweet, warm Embla.
Her name had become a prayer.
Returning home to her after a hunt was never a chore, and he looked forward to seeing her welcoming face or hearing her reprimand him for walking with his dirty boots on her clean floor. She had made them both fur-lined slippers for inside the house, with one of his stored pelts, but occasionally he forgot to change into them. Sometimes he deliberately forgot, just so that she would scold him, getting down on her knees to slip them gently onto his feet.
It was a wicked thing to do, but sometimes the temptation was too great for him to resist. Maybe tonight he would pretend to forget again...
Smiling to himself he walked towards his home, he pushed thoughts of lonely wolves to the back of his mind. Tapping the perimeter rope with his boot, he set off his warning system, which was the clatter of old metal spoons strung up nearby, and he looked over the tidier clearing surrounding his home with a great deal of satisfaction as he passed through.
The repairs to the house were complete, or as complete as he could manage on his own during the dark season. The barn needed more work, but that would be impossible without help. Maybe he should finally accept his mother’s offer, and allow some of the tribe to help him repair it. But that would mean having a swarm of people around his home for days, and his skin itched at the prospect.
Maybe, in the spring, he would ask...
Spring.It loomed in the distance like the shadow of death.
Embla would be gone by then...
He wanted to make his home better for her now; the idea of improving it in her absence did not fill him with the same excitement.
Perhaps he could paint the house instead. He had found an old barrel of pine tar in the barn, and had used it to reseal some of the drafts. The tar wasn’t enough to make paint. He would also need pigment. But he could trade with his mother’ssiidafor that, or if they had none, he could use charcoal and paint the cabin black.
Although, he was reluctant to take that easier option, as he suspected Embla would prefer ochre, or the rusty red you could get from iron rock. She had chosen the bright red cloth for her new dress, and it looked striking against her golden hair, so he suspected she would also prefer a more vibrant colour for the house.
He banged the worst of the crust of snow off his boots and then mounted the stairs. If he were going to see his mother’ssiida, then he should restock for the rest of the winter too. Not his usual basics, but some luxuries as well. Embla had once bemoaned his lack of herbs and spices, although she had blushed profusely when he had suggested going to the tribe for them.
‘Oh, I only meant that I miss my own blends. Ignore me—I do not wish to be any more trouble to you then I already am.’
She had quickly changed the conversation then, asking him about his own work. But he should probably reassure her that she was not a burden to him... Far from it.
Even the miserable prospect of having to deal with the crowded tents of the tribe was not enough to put him off the idea of trading with them. He could easily manage it for one night, and it would be good to see his mother again.
