Page 20 of Heart of the Mountain King

"Maybe," Rask answered. "Maybe not. Sten wish to see?"

"…Alright," Sten replied, still holding himself taut as a bowstring. "Do whatever you have to. I trust you, Rask."

Rask frowned as he fit his hands to the man's ankle once more, humming low in his throat as he assessed the damage.

Sten had said it so easily. But Rask was bergsrå, and fae, and growing increasingly aware of how much he'd like to shove this little human onto the sauna floor and learn just what it took to make him pant and moan.

He revealed none of that, of course, no more willing to frighten Sten than cut off his own nose. Instead, Rask tried to distract himself with the task at hand; or with the man's ankles, which turned out to be surprisingly nice, as were his feet, his calves, his —

Rask dropped his eyes, and started humming louder.

But for all that Sten was so obviously not a bergsrå, he was well-formed enough for his smaller size, Rask supposed. Reaching for the melody flowing within Sten, he found the place in the man's ankle where the sour notes sluggishly pulsed. Rask's pitch changed slightly to match; urging the bruising to disperse, the swelling to calm, the pain to fade.

Sten had closed his eyes again as Rask worked, brow furrowing, his breath coming out as a slow, measured hiss.

Rask froze, holding the note. "Sten hurt?" he asked, worried.

"S'fine," Sten answered, his reply strained. "S'nice. Good, actually. Um, carry on." He gave a weak chuckle, fingers flicking slightly, teeth flashing white against his beard as he bit his lip.

Uncertain, Rask resumed, this time with greater caution, and soon it was done.

"There," Rask said, rubbing Sten's ankle. "Now Sten heal much faster."

Sten flexed his foot gingerly as Rask rose, singing to the volcanic stones that they should warm up again before taking a seat on the bench beside the man.

"Blessed Eir, that feels so much better. Thank you, Rask. And uh… thank you for everything else too," Sten said, flashing Rask a small, fervent smile. "Y'know, this place really is a wonder; the house, the bathing chamber, and — oh — the things I'd do to use this sauna every day. Did you build all this yourself?”

"Hjarta and Rask, together,” Rask rumbled as he leaned back against the smoothed stone wall, pride filling his chest at Sten’s admiration of their work.

"Hjarta?" Sten echoed, frowning in confusion at Rask. "What's that?"

"Not what," Rask corrected gently. "Who. Hjarta Rask's mate."

Sten twisted abruptly in his seat to face Rask, those eyes of his gone wide once again.

"Your…mate," Sten repeated in a low voice. "I thought you said you didn't have one?"

Rask shrugged. "Hjarta died many years ago. Still Rask's mate."

"True," Sten said as he settled back against the wall, his teeth worrying his bottom lip as if trying to work something out. "Can I ask what happened?"

He glanced over at Rask, and the bergsrå melted under the warmth and concern in his expression, somehow finding it impossible that he should deny this little human anything…

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Chapter 8

A Protector

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Once, before Rask's granddam was born, the brilliance of the old sun had entrapped bergsrår, tryllan, and nisse alike in its fury; its merest touch transforming all their kind to stone.

That sun was long gone, like so much else. The light made by the Daybringer to replace it was pitiful in comparison, and held none of its predecessor's terrible power. It was not the same; how could it be, after so much was lost? In the new sunless lands Várvörsága had forged for them from the bones of the Devourer, day was rendered utterly toothless. Bergsrår, and even their lesser cousins, need fear little more than a brief nap should they dare stray from the shadows.

But lightning? Ah, now — that was a different story. Storms still retained all their old danger, and the sparks leaping from cloud to ground held an ancient grudge for bergsrår in particular.

The night Hjarta set out to drive the thurs out of the human's valley, Thor's mewling whelps had fought viciously over their dead father's hammer; the skies above ringing and flashing with every blow. Kissing him thrice, Rask sang Hjarta the songs of protection, of strength, and of the luck of old fools.