My flower picking intensifies as I continue walking from wall to wall.
“Am I safe with a Jotnar? I should leave,” I say, moving to take my basket.
“Please don’t.”
“Why not? If you truly are a Jotnar, how do I know you won’t eat my flesh and suck the marrow out of my bones?”
He laughs, but I’m serious. Many stories tell of violent, hungry Jotnar. Others are described as friendly and beautiful, true, but?—
“I won’t eat or suck anything,” he says, seeing that I am not amused. “Thor is a Jotnar, Odin too, many more gods are?—”
“Freya isn’t.”
“No, she isn’t, but she’s married to one.”
I huff. It’s too intense to look at the man, so I focus my attention on the flower I am molesting. I feel safe around Ari. He has been soft on several occasions. He is also hard when needed. Protecting Eidunn was an honorable deed. Selfless.
I felt the magic. That is not selfless. It’s a selfish hunger. Mindless cold. A craving pit of darkness.
“Your magic felt like the hammer,” I say, keeping my eyes on the flower.
“What hammer?”
“The one from Sigurd’s hall, of course.”
“It did?”
“That’s what I fucking said.” I look at him with a frown.
He looks surprised.
“Interesting,” he mutters.
“Interesting?” I shout, throwing the flower stems at him. He dodges them easily. “It’s a cursed hammer, Ari!”
“I… it’s just… It’s so hard to find information about us Jotnar.”
“There’s more of you?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“Odin knows.”
“So who have you told about your, uh… condition?”
He laughs.
“It’s my ancestry, Kilda, not a disease.”
“Fuck what it is. Tell me who you’ve told.”
“Elof and Ylvin.”
I draw a surprised breath.
“You told Ylvin?”
