You are perfect.
He holds up the black box, and she gingerly takes it as if it might grow fangs. As she flops back into the rocker and the lid tears off, he questions whether anyone has ever given her anything thoughtful.
“Sigvid…” She is speechless, her fingertips tracing the polished steel of one of the axe heads.
It had taken a fair bit of time and work with the local blacksmith, but he finally finished the matching axes for Avina. He crafted them smaller than a standard hand axe to provide a lighter fit for her hands.
“I-I don’t know what to say.” Her deep blues are glassy as she stares transfixed on the cedar wood handles. She sets the box on the table, standing on her tiptoes, and throws her arms around his neck. “Thank you, Sigvid.”
You are welcome, Avina.
He squeezes her tightly, inhaling her fresh floral scent. “The axes remain on you at all times. I want you to have the means to defend yourself.”
She kisses his bearded cheek before lowering to her feet.
He holds up one of her axe heads. “There is an etching there,” he taps, “‘Q.A.’”
“Did you make these for me?” She asks in a whisper.
“Handcrafted by me.”
Sigvid brushes her curls over her shoulder. A crooked grin grows at the smile that paints along her lips at his touch. “There has been something I have been wanting to tell you. My little Queen, I l-”
Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock.
Sigvid's eye twitches. “Why am I constantly interrupted when I try to tell you this?” He growls, her eyes widening in surprise at his outburst. “I will be right back.”
His calloused hand caresses her soft cheek, wanting to throw out the words locked inside his soul. If he shares these words with anyone, it will be her. And it will be perfect.
The floor reverberates under his heavy steps as he stomps out of his room and down to the entryway.
Who the fuck is here?
He swings open one of the double doors to the porch, not caring to check the visitor's identity when he demands, “What?”
Slode stands in the doorway holding an unopened bottle of mead with a poorly wrapped bow tied around the neck. His beard resting near his belly button is shiny, clearly washed, brushed, and woven with rune beads. Unlike his usual braided rat nest, his hair lays straight along his back. Instead of a dirty tunic, he wears a fine shirt Sigvid has never seen before, sewn into the sleeves are twisting Salt knots.
His oldest friend cleaned himself up into a respectable gentleman.
“Slode? You are… presentable.”
“Yes, uh,” a light crimson blush sweeps over Slode’s cheeks. “It’s the Solstice. I thought I’d look decent for a change.”
For the first time in thirty-three winters? “Who did you do this for?”
Sigvid watched Slode stumble off the battlefield painted with blood and sweat and then take a whore to his bed. Never has Slode looked this nice for any Salt celebration. Dirt caked his clothes at his mother’s funeral.
“I said shut up, ass!” Slode shoves his way inside. “How about you tell me why a second rocker is on your deck? When did you have time to build that?”
“I do not know what you are talking-”
“Slode,” Slode mocks Sigvid’s voice. “We need to get rid of all these fucking seats. More than one ass is too many in my house.” Slode raises an eyebrow after his annoyingly spot-on imitation of Sigvid after he purchased Blackwood and went on a seating purge.
Sigvid scoffs. “I wanted another option to sit in.”
“No,” Slode chuckles, “you wanted to share moments with a certain golden-haired lady. Who, I might add, you’ve effectively moved in after swearing to live alone until the Briny God takes you.”
Damn, his memory.
