Divided Chapter 50

He was so close, Fen could hear the even rhythm of his breathing, see in his peripheral vision, his arms, bent at the elbows, loose, relaxed.
“Fen...,” Gunnar called to him, “Keep your......pace even.”
Fen nodded though he said nothing, just kept running along the marked trail, leaping over the exposed root of a tree, fixing its location in his mind.
Gunnar was now even with him, “Save...your strength for....the sprint into.....the arena...”
Fen nodded again, grimacing at the stitch that was forming in his side. A bit further and the pain was unbearable.
“Side....hurts,” Fen gasped, slowing his stride.
“Breathe deep......slow in.....force the air.....out.”
Fen shook his head, “Cannot....,”
He slowed to a stop, bent double, his hand to his right side, panting as Gunnar circled about, stopping beside him.
“You must run through....the pain,” Gunnar clapped him on the shoulder,  “The rest of your competitors will not stop to wait for you to catch up.”
“.....know....Ah!” Fen straightened up, both hands now pressed to his side.
“ Also, you must eat well the day before. Do not gorge....porridge with honey, roast chicken, potatoes.....,”
“Gunnar, I know!” Fen put his hands atop his head, “My father has told me all of this.”
Gunnar immediately looked to the ground, “Forgive me. I forget my place.”
“If you start this again, I shall cast my chit against you in the wrestling competition,” Fen glared at him, “I am no more your better now than I was before you started training to be a guardsman.”
Gunnar chewed his lip, recalling the standard admonition he'd received as he'd bid his father and mother farewell that morning. His father had given him the same advice, drummed into his head every time he left to visit with Fen.
“He is a Prince, the son of a Prince, the nephew of the King of Asgard. Never forget this. You are his friend, his closest companion, but also are you his protector, your responsibility the same as if you were standing at attention in the Throne room, pike at the ready to defend the King.”
“Gunnar,” Fen poked him in the forearm, “Come now, we will start back to the manor. Gretten will have sweets for us to beg from him. There are surely left overs from last evening...dried apple cake...”
Gunnar, pulling the widest smile he could manage, gestured down the trail the way they'd come, “Lead the way my..,” he paused. He'd nearly called Fen “my liege”. Fen would have likely stomped off, incensed or forced him to retract his words, he'd done it before, “ my friend.”
Fen returned the grin as they started off down the path, “It has been threatening snow again. I hope it will hold off until after the games.”
“At least until Winternights......have you asked her to the celebration yet?”
Fen shook his head with a laugh, “I told you, she does not know I exist, or has been told she must believe I do not...”
Gunnar sighed. He had to point it out, Fen was missing his biggest asset, “You are the son of a Prince....now I care not how angry you be with me. She notices, this I swear to you. How can you doubt my words after the night of the Council elections?”
Fen's cheeks reddened. The newest member of the High Council,a youngish man named Urtek, voted into the seat vacated by the retiring Council member, Murran, had been welcomed to the table in the Throne room barely a month prior. With him, attending the ceremony had been his pregnant wife and their eldest daughter, Lisle, a petite girl with auburn hair and golden brown eyes. Fen had stared at her throughout the entire ceremony, even earning a jab from Brenna as she chided him, “You little worm, mind your manners. You shall certainly frighten her ere she notices you.”
After the ceremony, at the feast in the Great Hall, Fen had screwed up every ounce of courage he could muster, drew himself up tall and approached her where she stood behind her mother, gazing about at the crowd as her parents spoke with other council members.
He cleared his throat a bit early, startling her, nearly causing her to back into her mother's elbow.
“Forgive me,” Fen bowed, stood straight again, relieved to see they were roughly the same height, “I am...”
He had struggled with telling her his title. Being a Prince had its advantages. You were respected, genuflected, curtsied to, fawned over (at least here in court. At home, the only people who catered to him were the servants, and of all of them, only Hal and Vesta addressed him as “Your Highness”) But also did it have its disadvantages. One could never tell whether the treatment, the kind words he received were born of genuine care and concern or the requisite kowtowing to his status as a prince of the realm. In the end he decided merely to give her his name.
“I am Fen.”
As she clasped her hands at her waist and curtsied, Fen silently cursed himself. How could she not know who he was when he had been standing with his father and sister throughout the entire affair in the Throne room.
“I know. I am Lisle, daughter of Urtek.”
Fen smiled, “I congratulate your father upon his appointment to the High Council.”
“Thank you,” she curtsied again, “It is a great honor for our family.”
Fen sighed. Indeed the conversation was turning out like every other proper exchange and as it lagged, he looked away at the surrounding crowd.
“Parties like this tend to be terribly dull, do they not?”
Fen turned to gaze at her, delighted. At last, honesty.
“I would rather be at home learning figures.”
Lisle giggled, “Oh my, I did not believe they were as dull as that....then again, you are a boy and boys care nothing for this sort of thing.”
Fen put his hands on his hips, “I am a man. I have completed my rite of passage.”
“I know,” Lisle nodded, “My grandfather was present at the ritual.”
Grandfather, of course. Fen wracked his brains. Who was Urtek's father? He should have paid attention but that day was entirely a blur. Olav?
Fen gestured to Lisle, “And how old be you, Milady?”
“I am thirteen seasons.”
Through a part in the throng, Fen spied the servants currently spreading the desserts out onto the long table and he had a wonderful thought. Who could resist sweets like apple cake, tortes, shortbread, glazed fruit, certainly not himself.
“Would you care to accompany me to the desserts,” he lay a finger to his lips when she started to turn to her mother, “If we set off alone, we might have what we want without our parents chiding us for our excess.”
He held out his hand as a slow grin spread across her rose hued lips and she took a step forward. When she failed to take his hand, however, he looked up to see her frozen in mid stride, staring behind him, eyes wide. It was then that he felt two hands settle on his shoulders.
“And well we would chide you,” came his father's silken voice, “For you know the rules. Sweets come at the end of the meal, lest we spoil our appetite. Come on. You may visit with your friend after we eat. They are seating people now.”
He had bowed to Lisle who had shrunk back to her mother's side and dutifully followed his father to his position with the royal family. Through the evening, he would steal glances at Lisle though she was well down the table with her mother. Upon a couple instances, their eyes did meet and he was pleased to know she too was looking at him but soon after the main courses, she disappeared along with her mother. Later that evening, he heard someone remark Urtek's wife had begged leave to retire. She was close to her time and so she'd taken Lisle home with her, leaving Urtek at the palace. He had seen Lisle only once since then and she did not acknowledge him though to her credit, she was with her father and may well have been advised to follow decorum.
“I suppose I will send a letter to her father and ask his permission. First I must ask my own father whether I might invite her.”
Gunnar raced up the hill to the ridge, Fen following him and they stood side by side looking across the fields to the rear of the manor house.
“She would be a good match for you. She has a fine pedigree.”
Fen elbowed Gunnar, “Odin's beard! You sound like my father! I am not asking for her hand, I wish her to accompany me to the bonfires and the start of the Wild Hunt...”
“...which you will be joining this season. I cannot wait to have you riding at my side.”
“I cannot wait to bring in the largest stag..,” Fen gave Gunnar a shove as he raced down the hill, “Come, oh great hunter,” he called over his shoulder, “See if you too are as fleet of foot as you need be for the games.”
“Unfair!” Gunnar cried. Fen's laughter drifted back to him as he stumbled after Fen down the hill toward the manor, “You have a head start!”


From the road they watched the man in the wide straw brimmed hat walk toward the small cottage, milk pail in hand. If he saw them, he didn't acknowledge their presence, only kept on until he disappeared behind the whitewashed structure.
“Let me do the talking this time will you?” Simon started walking again.
“I will if yer sure ye can keep our story straight in yer head,” Lelia grumbled, following close behind him.
Simon smiled to himself. On the road a couple days past, soon after they'd passed from Asgard's borders into Alfheim, they'd met up with a man on a horse who'd come about, bowed to them both and asked where they were headed. Simon could scarce believe his ears. He waited for Lelia to respond but she'd stood there staring blankly at the man. Simon, however, returned the bow and replied to the man's question though he dared not tell the stranger the truth. Their requisite answer, they had both agreed, was to be that they were traveling to King Freyr's castle. The man bowed again, wished them good journey and was off again down the road, missing Lelia's swipe at Simon's arm.
“What in the name of Odin was that? Is it lying ye've been to me?” She cried, “How is it ye know Alfari? Tell me plain!”
Simon shook his head, “You might call that Alfari here but where I come from, it's called another language entirely.”
“Ye speak Alfari on Midgard? Impossible! How?”
He motioned her to keep quiet, watching as a woman poked her head out the front door of a nearby cottage, “I swear I will bind and gag you and toss you over my shoulder if you do not keep your voice down. Listen, I learned a rudimentary grasp of the language, enough to hold a fair conversation at least, during summers spent in Blackpool and you'll never believe who taught it to me. Here I think it's a bit more archaic but it's basically the same only on Midgard we call it Gaelic or Celtic depending on where you come from.”
Lelia had stood there in the road a good long while, so long, in fact, that Simon became concerned, waving his hand in front of her face until she grabbed at his fingers though she missed.
“Good lord, I thought I'd broken you.”
Her face crimson, she'd tromped up the road away from him until he caught up with her, apologizing for not telling her he knew the language before hand, explaining that he'd no idea they were going to speak it here In Alfheim. Now, when they encountered someone, she was more inclined to let Simon speak first.
Now, as they reached the cottage door, Simon paused, looked to Lelia, “What are we calling ourselves this time?”
“Ye are Davin, I am Ilsa. Will that suit ye?” she whispered, moving in close for a quick peck.
“Mmm, if I can keep things straight, it will.”
He knocked on the door and stepped back.
After a minute, there were rapid footsteps from inside and the door opened. In the doorway stood a blond woman, her hair pulled back beneath a headband. In one hand, she held a plate, wrapped up in the edge of her apron.
“Can I help you?”
If Simon was caught off guard by her Midgardian dress, he was rendered speechless when she repeated the question, a bit slower and louder,  “Excuse me, can I help you!”
“Anna, who the devil are you shouting at?” Came a voice from inside the cottage.
A tall, balding, gray haired man appeared out of the shadowy interior to stand behind the woman. He was dressed in breeches, a jersey and a cardigan. Gold spectacles were perched nearly to the tip of his nose and he pushed them back to their rightful place as he peered out at them.
“Oh, indeed, yes. May we help you?”
Simon opened his mouth, closed it, felt Lelia's hand slip into his, giving it a squeeze. Did he answer in Alfari? Did the man know Alfari?
“Directions?” Simon croaked and the man behind Anna stood upright, a hand on his chest.
“Goodness, a Midgardian.”
What could he say? No? He looked to Lelia as the man pulled Anna aside to wave them into the cottage.
“Truth be told, it's good to hear the language again. I'll have Anna put the kettle on the boil,” he held out his hand to Simon as they crossed over the threshold, “My name is Martin Rutledge, welcome to my home.”
Minutes later, they were seated on an old but comfortable sofa before a large fireplace. Martin sat across the way in an overstuffed recliner, Anna in a rocking chair beside him.
“I heard of the portal project through the village gossip,” Martin took a sip of his tea, “I am indeed surprised you've wandered so far from the safety of your little encampment.”
“Encampment...?” Simon rubbed his hands together, feeling the sweat slick his palms.
“Where else could you possibly hail from with that backpack and those boots? They were most certainly not made in Asgard,” Martin gestured to him, “Are you on the lam?”
“What....,” Simon cleared his throat, “What is being said about the project?”
Martin tapped his chin, “Ah, the Alfari people worry we'll be overrun with Midgardians before long. I assured them there were few Midgardians who'd take to this primitive life,” Martin chuckled, “They'd be loathe to leave their electronic devices behind.”
At a vigorous nod from Anna, Martin reached over and gave her hand a pat, “Ah yes. Anna does miss her telly.....and her washer....and her wireless but we make do, don't we?”
Anna cast a look of pure devotion at him, “We do. I'm always singing to make up for the lack of music.”
Martin's grin morphed into a grimace though Anna seemed not to notice, “That you are, my dear.”
“Excuse me...,” Simon put a hand up, “Um, you're both from Mid....from Earth then? However did you find yourselves here?”
Martin sat forward in his chair, “ 'Tis a sad tale, one I cannot bear relating,” he nodded toward Anna, “In present company. Suffice it to say I am a native of Alfheim. I was born here, traveled to Earth ages ago where I spent some considerable time as a professor. I then retired here with my companion, Anna, to live out my days. So tell me...Mister....ah...”
Simon glanced at Lelia. He'd worn so many different names in the past few weeks, he'd nearly lost track of his own moniker. He looked away from Lelia, “Simon Foster,” felt her stiffen against his side.
“Mister Foster is it? Whereabouts in Midgard are you from?”
Oh hell, in for a penny, in for a pound, “New York city.”
“Originally?” Martin raised a bushy eyebrow, “I'd say not.”
A nervous smile played around Simon's lips, “Leeds, until I was about nineteen, then I traveled to the states to go to university...ahh!”
Lelia had reached around his arm, pinching the skin above his elbow hard but before he could chide her, she looked at Martin, “We've taken up more of yer time than we intended. We were after asking ye if ye could direct us to the territory of the clan Melos. We've business with Harmand, the clan leader.”
Martin tilted his head, staring up at the ceiling, “You've a good three days walk north from here, Just keep on the road until you see the red hills rising from the horizon before you and you shall find them. His lands lie near the border with Muspelheim...” when Lelia cast an uneasy look at Simon, Martin laughed, “Don't trouble yourselves about the fire giants. We've had an easy peace with them. You can thank Prince Loki for that. I must ask, when you were in the encampment, did you encounter him?”
“Once or twice,” Simon nodded as Lelia rose from the couch.
“How is he? Still deadly serious?”
“Begging yer pardon, sir. We must be off. We thank ye for yer hospitality..” Lelia held out her hand to Simon, “Come now. It will be dark soon.”
Martin stood from his chair, “You're quite welcome to bed down here for the evening,”
“No, we've been traveling for some time. We need to keep moving,” Lelia tugged Simon to his feet, “Good evening to ye.”
Martin walked them to the door, “Let Anna fetch you a bit of dinner to tide you over in the very least.”
Before Lelia could protest, Anna had rushed into the next room, “Yes, we had a lovely roast. It's more than we can manage just the two of us.”
Lelia pulled at his hand but the thought of roast beef had his stomach groaning, “If it's not too much trouble.”
“Not at all....ah here we are.”
“Bread and beef, enough for sandwiches, and a section of coffee cake,” Anna handed Simon a large linen wrapped parcel. He set it in the top of his backpack.
“Thank you again,” Simon held out his hand to Martin who squeezed it tightly as he leaned in close.
“You should bury that pack,” Martin glanced down at Simon's feet, “What size shoes do you wear?”
“God, uh size nines?”
“Pity. My feet are rather larger than that. I would change out your boots too if I were you. It marks you.”
Simon eyed him, “I can't simply drop my sack by the side of the road and carry my load in my arms and really, who's going to notice two travelers walking along the road?”
“I noticed you right off because I've lived on Midgard. Imagine how different you seem to someone who's never set foot in the other realms,” Martin's gaze slipped down Simon's tunic to his breeches, “You're road weary, your clothes are worn. You'd do well with a change, for ragged attire makes as strong an impression as elaborate finery. Nevertheless, I only offer advice. There is nothing to do save take it or ignore it. Safe travels to you.”
He let Martin's hand go, trotted down the path from the cottage to the road where Lelia was waiting for him and they started off again, up the road, side by side.
Martin watched them out of sight, turned to Anna who was peering down the road over his shoulder and guided her inside as he shut the door behind them.
“If anyone should come looking for them, my dear, they were never here.”

“Why did ye not write a letter, hand it to the braggart and ask him to send it to the palace?!”
Simon arranged the kindling over the pile of dried leaves and grass in the little fire pit he'd dug. It was always best to let her blow off steam before he tried to rationalize his actions. Truth be told, she was quite amusing when she got a good rant going.
“He knows yer from the encampment now. Ye told him yer name even. Why? I ask ye why?”
Simon stuck out his hand, “Flint.”
“What?”
“Flint,” he sighed, “To light the fire.”
The flints were slapped hard into his palm. He resisted the urge to close his fingers about hers, yank her into his lap and give her a right smack on her behind.
“Yer stubborn, hard headed....!”
Simon gave a smirk as the leaves began to smolder, “I'm a quick study. I daresay I've learned from the best.”
Lelia flopped to the ground beside him, “Indeed ye have. I'm after wondering how to break ye of it.”
They sat watching the fire lick the smaller branches, race along the bark to catch the larger pieces until the blaze was well underway.
“In any case, we've something to eat,” Simon flipped open his pack, smiling at the scent of roast beef wafting up to perfume the air. He lifted the linen parcel and set it on the ground between them. As she divided the bread and meat between them, he watched her, brought a hand up to brush a strand of hair behind her ear. The ghost of a grin played about her face.
“For all yer foolishness, I still love ye, me hard headed husband.”
He cupped her face with his hand, “And I you, my fearless, steadfast wife.”
She closed her eyes as he withdrew his hand, rummaging into the pack for the two banged up pewter cups they'd procured during their journey, “I'm going back to that little waterfall we passed. I'll be back.”
“Take care.” Lelia looked up at him.
Simon hurried along the overgrown path they'd followed into the woods that afternoon, rushing against the waning light until he came into the small grove. The rocks surrounding the pool at the bottom of the waterfall were slippery and more than once he was nearly pitched into the clear water but he managed at last to fill both cups. As he headed back down the return path, so concerned with holding the cups steady was he that he failed to notice the rustle of underbrush a short distance away and a deep whispered burr, “Bhì Harmand ceart.”

The roast beef was excellent, well flavored, the bread a mix of yeasty sweetness. Lelia was skeptical about the coffee cake at first but after an initial taste, she devoured her half, licking her finger to gather the cinnamon crumbs from the linen cloth.
“I've never heard of coffee cake. 'Twould seem a pity. If ever we're to pass Master Rutledge's way again, I'll beg the recipe from him.”
Simon lifted the linen carefully, carrying it a distance from them into the darkened woods and shook it out, “We'll find a recipe for it. It's a Midgardian dessert.”
Simon banked the fire before they bedded down, back to back, wrapped in their blankets. Thankfully the snow that had threatened earlier in the week had given way to an unseasonably warm patch but the nights were still close to freezing. Lelia started to sing, softly as she always did when settled for the evening. She claimed it helped to comfort her and it quickly became a cherished bedtime ritual. Simon snuggled closer to her, listening to the Asgardian lullaby, the words now familiar to him as his grasp of the native language grew. After a time, her words grew softer as she began to fall asleep.
“Lelia?”
She grew quiet, moved about and he was sure she was looking over her shoulder at him.
“We've been lying our way across Asgard, across Alfheim for the last few weeks and though I know it was out of necessity, it forced me into a practice I abhor. I hate to lie. Loathe it with a passion. When I was at last able to tell you how I felt about you, I felt uplifted because I knew I need not hide my love any longer. I would not need to lie to myself, to you. This is why I told Martin my name, my agenda. I think Thor did indeed grant me asylum as I requested or we would have been found long before now. If there's anything to fear in the near future, I don't think it's coming from Asgard.”
He turned to face her, trying to gauge her expression in the shadows cast by the dying firelight as she spread her hands across his chest, stretching up to brush her lips along the line of his jaw, planting kisses upon his chin, his mouth, forehead until he clutched her to him with a groan.
“'Tis enough. I feel the same as ye. We are safe...,” she purred, nuzzled at his throat, “Perhaps we should have stayed at Martin's for the evening. A clean pallet is far preferable to the cold ground..,” She rose above him, throwing one leg across to straddle his waist, “And a sight more comfortable when passion o’er takes a body.”
How could he tell her he was terrified? How could he explain a lifetime of fear, the thought of talking to another woman making him break out in a cold sweat, the mucked up dates he'd been on, the rejection he'd suffered, the rejection he'd delivered in turn. The lonely life he'd led on Earth before he came to Asgard, before she had saved him from himself.
She was lifting the hem of his tunic, raising it over his head to tuck it under the blankets beside them, her hands exploring, tracing, learning him.
“Le...Lelia...,” he reached for her hands, looking up at her, a silhouette as she turned to the fire.
“I should've tossed another log on the fire,” she murmured, “but no matter, we'll be warm enough.”
She was incredible, every inch of her a study in beauty, her red hair a braid across her shoulder, her green eyes staring into his own, her lips parted, porcelain skin aglow even in the twilight. The rush of desire had long ago reached a fever pitch, there was no denying it, not with the threadbare breeches he was wearing. She tugged at the laces, leaning to whisper in his ear.
“Me precious husband, I yearn for this union....I love ye so.”
He felt the laces loosen, her hand begin to steal beneath the waistband and he grabbed her wrist felt her stiffen as she sat up.
“Simon?” she paused, first confusion then horror clouding her face as she scrambled from atop him, “What did I do wrong? Oh me father always said I was a bold child,” she covered her face with her hands, “ 'Tis powerful sorry I am, powerful sorry. I thought ye...”
Simon rose to his knees before her, pulling her hands away, “Now you listen to me. You've done nothing wrong. Nothing at all. This is my fault. I told you I led a lonely life on Midgard didn't I? Well once again, the truth is...,” God it sounded so corny but he couldn't think of any other way to say it, “Truth is I've never....,”
She tilted her head to stare at him, “Never what?”
He closed his eyes, “slept with....with a woman before......aaand I'm.....,” he sat back onto the blankets, “afraid....,”
He wasn't sure what reaction he expected but her laughter took him by surprise, “What is there to fear, might I ask? 'Tis a natural thing. I've lived a lifetime on the farm watching the beauty of creation play out each spring with our lambs, the foals. I've delivered countless calves. Me Ma told me long ago about such things. She said when I finally found the one I wanted to give meself to, I'd know it and she was right though I'd not tell her, she'd wield my admission like a weapon at every argument.”
“Wait a minute,” Simon gaped at her, “Good lord, you....you're....never....”
She put a hand to her chest, regarding him disdainfully, “Not ever. Do ye take me for an easy woman, Simon Foster?”
“No...no, no!” Simon reached for her hand, covering it with his own, “No...you're anything but easy, trust me. It's just that..I....well where I come from, it's rare to...abstain from sex for any amount of time. They seem to start exploring at an earlier age each year, in fact. My mother had me at eighteen but there were, in our town, girls, children really, who were having babies far younger than that. I'm simply shocked that someone as beautiful as yourself wasn't courted regularly.”
Her face relaxed as she brought his hands to her lips, kissed them, “Ah ye've gone by what ye only know and therein I'll forgive ye but the answer is the same, I've never known another man. I won't tell ye how many suitors I've turned away, lest I sound prideful but of all the men to visit me door, yer the only one I've e're been drawn to. The only man I would lay down with,” she sighed, glanced about the campsite, “Still, to coin a phrase, truth be told, yer reticence is well met. This isn't the proper place for a happening of such import,” she pressed his knuckles to her cheek with a sigh, “...and so when yer ready, so will I be.”
She lay back down the blanket, and he eased himself down beside her, marveling at her strength, her patience and resolve as she nestled herself snugly against his side, her head on his shoulder and began to sing softly once again, lulling him into a dreamless sleep....

...until his eyes flew open. He'd heard the snap crackle of something beyond the circle of their campsite, at first thinking he was dreaming until he heard it again. Lelia had changed position in the night and was now facing away, her back pressed to him. There was another rustle of activity which sounded to be coming from the other side of the firepit at their feet. He looked up to the lowest branch of the tree behind them where he'd hung his backpack to keep out the occasional brave animal who might scent the roast beef he'd been carrying, relieved it was still tied out of reach, then he thought of Lelia's dagger. It was well secured in a slit in the boot on her right foot. If he was careful, he might possibly be able to draw it without attracting attention.
As he made to reach beneath the covers, there came a grunt and a thud. A flurry of sparks from the hot coals spiraled up to the treetops. He raised his head ever so slowly until he could make out the silhouette of what he hoped was a smallish person, squatting before the firepit. The figure reached to the right, took another small log, pushing at the coals with one thick end, leaned forward, and taking a deep breath, blew into the pit. Flames erupted here and there, adding more light to the scene as Simon drew the dagger from Lelia's boot as quietly as he could.
The figure clapped his hands together, rubbing them briskly over the growing flames and Simon felt Lelia stiffen, turn to him. He put his hand on her shoulder and shook his head as he slipped the blanket off of them, rising to a crouch, the dagger pointed at the figure's back. Before he could close the distance between them, however, the figure turned it's head to the side and Simon froze.
“I was after figuring if I made enough of a to-do, you'd come about soon enough.”
Simon stood up, motioning for Lelia to remain on the blanket, “Who the hell are you and what are you doing in our camp?”
The figure rose from the ground to face him and Simon was taken aback. Before him stood a woman nearly a head shorter than himself. She looked to be of middling age though she was possessed of a handsome face full of good humor. Her dark brown hair was done up in two braids tied together at the nape of her thick neck. She was dressed, seemingly from head to foot in studded leather. Heavy vambraces covered her forearms, the pauldrons covering her shoulders adorned with polished silver spikes, a thick sectioned breastplate and heavy leather skirt protected her waist. Fur lined hobnail boots covered her feet. He lowered the dagger. The woman before him was a warrior who would doubtless make quick work of him with or without a weapon.
“And I might ask of you the same. What are you doing on our lands off worlder?”
Lelia had risen from the blankets, now she advanced to take Simon's hand in hers, “We're only passing through. We'll be on our way come dawn.”
The woman regarded her coolly, “An Asgardian. You, too, are far from home. Speak then, what indeed are an off worlder and an Asgardian doing so deep inside of Alfheim....on clan lands, no less.”
Martin had been painfully correct. He stuck out like white on black. Had it been obvious to everyone they'd met?
“Which clan are you part of?” Simon pulled Lelia closer. If the woman was hostile, at the ery least he could do his best to protect her.
The woman grinned proudly, “I....will ask in turn, which clan do you hail from?” She took a step closer to them, “Where's your mark?”
The birthmark.....she was talking about the birthmark. On impulse he raised his hand to his left ear and the woman's face brightened as she strode up to him, grabbing his face, turning it toward the firelight.
“The old troll's pizzle was right! You're Melos's folk!”
Simon backed away from her, “Yes, I suppose I am....ah....”
The woman had reached across her waist and was now brandishing a short broadsword at the two of them.
“There was word Harmand was on the lookout for company. I'll warrant he's waiting for the two of you.”
Simon pushed Lelia behind him though he kept the dagger at his side, “If he's expecting someone, I doubt he means us. He doesn't know we're coming.”
Lelia jabbed him in the small of the back and hissed, “Simon!”
“ 'Tis a surprise visit then?” the woman waved the tip of the sword in the air between them, “We'll have to send a courier with word of your arrival on Clan Fidoir lands. Then we might determine what your safe delivery is worth to him. Ooo, I've been waiting untold seasons to gain the upper hand on the old gelding!” She raised a hand in the air and clenched it into a fist. All at once the forest was alive with movement as a battery of similarly clad men appeared from the dark woods beyond the circle of firelight.
“Give up the pig sticker in your paw,” the woman waggled her fingers at Simon, “And we'll see you to proper lodgings.”
“Go on now,” a deep voice behind him urged, “there's only two of you and one of 'em's a woman. We won't do you no harm.”
Simon raised the dagger, earning a sharp tug from Lelia as he placed it in the woman's outstretched hand.
“Nice,” she studied it, “properly weighted. Not dwarven made though. You can have it back if you leave. It's worthless for all of us.”
“We'll not overstay our welcome,” Lelia growled, darting in front of him, “You can be sure of that. When Harmand hears ye've his kin, he'll beat a hasty path to yer door!”
The woman handed the dagger to one of the men flanking her, “Oh, I'm counting on it, lass, I'm counting on it.”