“Who gave it to you?”
“A ruler.”
“A good ruler?”
“A merciless one.”
“Are you loyal to them?”
“I was once… You’re nosier than a five-year-old.”
“Okay, fine. Be mysterious.”
“Says the Volva.”
I sit next to him, bearing a silly grin he doesn’t see. He’s leaning back with his eyes closed, resting his head against the wall. I take a private moment to observe his face, his strong jaw and eyebrows. His forehead—wide, like his shoulders are. My eyes glide downwards to his stomach as I stuff more yarrow in my mouth.
The impulse to stroke a hand over his chest rips through me. He’s just right there, ready to grab. What would he think of me? Blood pumps in my ears as I control myself. He’s built like an Aesir. Thor would look like this, or even better, Freyr.
My chewing intensifies.
Greedily, I peek down his toned stomach and the two lines that descend from his hips, disappearing beneath the linen cloth. The fabric rests on his shape. A buzz grows in my chest as I imagine slowly sliding my fingers under the cloth to feel him in my grip.
Chomping vigorously, I raise my eyes back to his face.
Horror. One of his eyes is open, observing me. Instantly my cheeks flare. If only I could burn up and disappear in smoke, never to be seen again. His smile grows.
“Is this part of the healing?” he asks.
I raise my gaze to the empty wall, mumbling with a mouth full of flowers.
“Oh… I… uh, yeah. Had to check if you had more wounds.”
His smile expands to show teeth.
“You’re very meticulous.”
“Yeah… oh yeah. Have to be.”
I spit the greenish white oral poultice into my hand. The bitter flavor stings my tongue. A deep breath and I regain control. Let’s move this conversation along.
“This might hurt,” I say.
“Might?”
“Okay, it will hurt.”
I place another load of yarrow in my mouth and chomp down on it. Starting at the edge of the gash, I fill it with flower mush. He grunts and moves his body.
“Stay still,” I mumble through chewing.
He releases a long breath through his nose as I stuff the herb into his wound. We sit in silence, giving me opportunity to focus on my craft. Having finished the first portion, I massage the flesh of his leg to make sure the poultice is secure, and to relax the muscle around the cut. He draws in a sharp breath as I stroke his inner thigh. My mind wanders again, imagining massaging him upward, and upward, until…
“Let’s see,” I say, shaking my head to clear it. “Almost there.”
I spit out the yarrow and start applying the second load.
“I can feel it tingling,” he says.
