Chapter Text
There’s something about being a mentor to somebody - it seems like when I look at them, they age days or more in mere moments. Once, when I’d first met them, they’d been inelegant, and imperfect; in the Great Hunt I’d watched them fall on their ass just defeating Issormir! They’d barely grown into their boots, and if it hadn’t made me laugh then. They were wide-eyed, clumsy, uncouth. But there was courage in their eyes, for sure, and a certainty. A fire I hadn’t seen in almost ten years. But then again, I hadn’t even tried looking in a mirror for half that time.
When I first offered to make them my squire, they were suspicious.
Newly a hero, defeating just their first jotun king, and they weren’t sure what to make of it when I suggested I could show them more than just the ropes. They seemed . . . hmm. To put it as “surprised” is perhaps an elegant way of showing their shock. It was clear they were enamoured with me, viewed me as some sort of celebrity, and I think the thought that I would be willing to show them my trade left them a little off-balance.
“Me?” they asked. They fingered the hem of their tunic. “I’m nothing- yet. Maybe in a few years.”
“I’m not sure you need the time. You’re a powerful warrior as it is now,” I told them, giving them a smile. “I have commissions and work to do at my homestead, but I’d gladly visit you at your home to show you what I know.”
“Um,” they went. Their cheeks turned red. I lifted a brow, and they answered, “I don’t have a home.”
“No? Where is it you live?”
“Usually Snow Leopard’s lodge, or out in the woods. I haven’t lived in a proper home in . . . ever.”
I huffed. What was this, a murdering hobo? “Well, then, I think that settles the matter,” I said sternly. “You’ll be staying with me as you train.”
They’d turned even redder at that, and stammered, but I was set. No amount of cajoling would convince me otherwise - I could keep an eye on them, and they could watch me work. When it finally hit them that I was serious, I could see their eyes light up. Like necromancer’s magic.
“Then I’ll do it,” they said, and the brightness of their expression, the glow of certainty, of pride . . .
It almost took me off my feet.
Perhaps I made a mistake, but I couldn’t be sure. All I knew was I wanted to watch the Slayer of Issormir.
***
They hadn’t properly sharpened their axes since they first bought them. Never knew the resources to do it properly, never had a proper grinding stone or strop. Wet behind the ears indeed; what they lacked in knowledge they made up with in pure technique, that much was clear. We spent a good two months on the knowledge portion alone, making sure they could at least take care of their tools before they went and cleaved their own hands off. They were devoted to learning, at least. They’d never make Priory (though I wondered, at times, if they didn’t have more than just a sharp wit), but they were smart enough to get by.
They did more than “get by” once I started showing them how to fight properly.
Most norn hold that the ends justify the means; a legend was worthy even if played dirty. I disagree. But they didn’t just fight dirty, they were filthy with it. Elbows flying, kneecaps jammed into soft places, battle cries both indignant and smart at the same time. Even with my guard up, there was more than once that they’d jab me in the stomach, or step on my toes, that I had to chastise them to pull back on. “Your job may be to fell an opponent,” I told them, “But there is little satisfaction in doing so if you must humiliate them in the process. That’s not what being a warrior is about.”
“I make do with what I have,” they answered with a frown. “Is there a way to fight without resorting to those methods?”
“Of course,” I said, and I showed them. First with their axes - throwing them farther, keeping their edges sharp, mending their grip, perfecting their guard. Then we moved onto swords - a greatsword, initially, followed by two smaller ones. A month on each style, sometimes more, often longer if they didn’t gather it in the first week. By the time we reached the bow, they’d learned the basics of more than a dozen rudimentary weapons.
It’s the bow that’s left us at odds, and not for the reasons I was expecting.
Their physicality is the problem, or so I think. They enjoy being close and personal with their weapons. Their axes, or swords, they excel with. A mace, less so, as it swings wildly and out of their control. A rifle, or a crossbow? We spent two months on each, and they still struggle to understand! (There were moments I swore to Wolf I was going to lose my patience.)
The bow is different.
“Pull it back, farther - yes, like that. Keep your elbow in, now. Level. That’s it,” I murmur as I help adjust them to the correct posture. I can feel how warm they are, heat from their hair and their shoulder and their back. They’re only slightly taller than I, but we’re close enough that I whisper into their ear, rather than speak aloud. Pressed this close, we’re matched tunic-to-tunic, my arms along theirs, fingers over each of their digits. I can hear the strange rasp of their breath. There’s red in their jawline I can’t erase from my mind.
“Now - release.”
The arrow thwacks into the target - a marked improvement. What isn’t is the sudden shudder of their body as their arms and bow drop. I look over to them, curious, but they’re hiding their face, and suddenly their bow is being thrust into my hands.
“Just-! Give me a moment-!”
I’m left standing there with their weapon, the arrows on their back still, as they rush back into the lodge. My body’s still warm where we had touched. In fact, despite the rather-bitter cold we’d been training in, I feel liquid warmth throughout all of my body - including my face.
They’re sharp - that was for certain, but they aren’t a tease. They don’t smile often, or too much, but always with a crispness and with a light to their eyes. And there’s no way to suggest they don’t dress modestly.
No, the problem isn’t with them.
It’s with me.
***
It’s an awkward night. I try to keep to my sculpture, but I can tell they’re pacing endlessly, uncertain, unwound. They sit and sharpen their weapons, but they’d been sharpened not even the day before. They stoke the fire, but it’s high and roaring. They stop into the kitchen, but we’d stocked food for days.
They’re restless, and though I have a commission due in less than a week with such little progress - they’re beginning to drive me to distraction.
I sigh, and lower my chisel. I can sense them going tense behind me as I put my tools down and untie my apron, leaving it on my bench. I walk to my chest of supplies and start rummaging inside, and finally gesturing them to the table.
“Sit, Slayer.”
The tension is palpable, but they obey. They sit on the edge of the chair, nearly on their hands, face down, looking ashamed. I get up and sit across from them. In the middle of the table I place down two short knives, two longer blocks of wood, and a piece of slim charcoal.
They carefully glance up at me with open eyes, potion-bottle green, that make my chest burn. I take the first block and quickly draw the shape of a spoon on it, and finally place it down in front of them.
“Come on,” I say as I pick up the other block and repeat the same steps. “You can help me make some for the next moot.”
In this, they’re a fast learner. I show them the basic cuts - the pull, push, and stop - and they seem to pick it up quickly. Bit by bit, they begin to work down the handle, around the bowl of the spoon, each inch equally crooked and perfect. They work away at it with a furrowed brow, and a bitten lower lip. I force myself not to be distracted from my own project.
They stare down at their shape, perimeter outlined, and look back to me. “Now what?”
“Hook knives,” I say as I get up and look back into the chest for where I’d left my set. I can hear them giving a nervous laugh behind me.
“I’ve never learned to do stuff like this.”
“I learned when I was much younger - a little less than your age. Perhaps I was fifteen when I first began?”
“I’m twenty-one. You’ve had much more experience, too, then.”
“I’m much more adept at chip carving. I save my whittling for the spoons - though I’m sure you’ve seen plenty of those hit the fire.”
I give them a small smile as I stand back up and sit back at the fire, holding the knife out to them again. They take it from my hand slowly, clearly lost in thought. They aren’t one to slow down and think; it’s an interesting change.
“I don’t think,” they stop, and pause. “I don’t think I’ve had a real hobby in all my life.”
“Your parents never taught you?”
“They died fighting Icebrood,” they say simply. “And I was always raising my sister. She’s gone now, though. I’ve been fighting Sons of Svanir ever since.”
“So you’ve never had the chance to simply sit down and take some time for your own sake.”
“Not really.”
I hum, and file that note away for later. Their face is screwed up in even more intense an expression of focus, hollowing the spoon, now. They curse as the knife slips and nicks their hand.
“Fuck!”
I laugh. “That happens often, Slayer. My apologies; I should’ve offered you a pair of gloves.”
“I don’t much worry about that,” they admit as they squint at their half-finished spoon, turning it around in the backlight from the fireplace. “I have more nicks and scrapes on my hands than will ever heal.”
“Let me see.”
They put down their tools and hold their hands out. It’s true - all over their fingers and palms, little cuts that had long since healed. Callouses, too, though not as many as mine; they’d be developing more, at this rate, and they had so many. The cut on their hand is minor, though, and just bleeding a little. I reach forward to barely brush at the knuckle they’d scraped, and they pull back like I’d burned them.
“Just-” their whole face is red. “S-Sorry. Nervous.”
“There’s no reason to be nervous,” I say, but I understand what they mean. There’s a tightness in my chest. I’m not sure what to make of it.
“Just, I’ve been fighting the Sons of Svanir and Icebrood for the last three years. I guess I don’t have time to make myself look pretty or elegant or any of that - except for my hair, I guess. That’s different,” they say. “My hands don’t look like the hands of anybody that’s . . .”
“There’s a warrior’s hands,” I tell them, firmly. “You should take care of them, but obviously they won’t be like some noblewoman’s. Are you wearing gauntlets?”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re using balm on them? When you have the chance?”
“I don’t even know where I’d find any.”
I get up and cross back to my chest. There’s a little cuplet of balm in there - I remember making it only a few months prior. It shouldn’t have gone rancid yet.
“You’re t-taking out a lot of effort just for me, Eir.”
“You’re my squire. I think it’s important to see after your health. You don’t seem to be, at least,” I cut back to them. They give an awkward laugh, as if they aren’t sure if it’s appropriate. I get back up and cross to the table again. Within moments, I’m cracking open the cuplet and taking a scoop of balm on my fingertips, and yanking their hands over to take care of them.
They start, and turn even redder. “Y-You don’t need to-”
“I want to,” I say, with finality. They go silent and hold still; their hands really are a mess. I take my time, rubbing balm into their fingers, their palms, all the way down their wrists. Like this, I can feel every rough patch on their hands, like the old blisters from training so regularly and with such vigor. At their wrists, I can feel their pulse.
Their hands tremble as I work over them, and I take my time. First, wide sweeps, to coat their hands evenly. Then, slow, firm strokes with my thumbs over each inch, massaging the lotion into their skin until it glows with a satin sheen. Even worse, I continue as the shine dulls, firmer circles, more focused, fingers pushing into the back of their palms, knuckles pushing into the hollow of their wrist, against the sensitive nerves branching the forearm and thumb.
I hear a strained, almost choked noise, nearly a moan.
When I glance up at them, their eyes are closed, brow drawn, cheeks a fierce red. Their blush crosses on the high points of their cheeks, along their cheekbones, and into their ears. Beneath the open collar of their tunic, I can see their flush down their neck, and most definitely circling around to the back underneath all their hair. I can hear their chair shift as they move. I had nearly forgotten -
celebrity, indeed
. They must be coming in their boots, they look so aroused. Yet, I was the one teasing them, stimulating them, drawing such warmth into their hands through mine . . .
“Is . . . is that it?” they ask, a croak, eyes closed and refusing to open. I try to remind myself,
it’s a bad idea, they’re far too young, they’re my
squire
for the Spirits’ sakes
, but I find myself standing and leaning forward, finally bracing elbows on the table so I can lean above their face.
“Hold still, Slayer.”
They lift their head at the sound of my voice. It’s impossible to ignore this close: the auburn of their lashes, the neatness of their hairline drawn into their braid, the pale pink of their nerve-bitten lower lip. Their lips only part to draw in wavering breath, and that is too much to ignore, and I’m acting against my better judgement when I lean down and tilt my head just so to kiss them.
Their lips are just as soft as they look - and as sweet as wintersberry jam. They still; it’s hard to tell if it’s from shock or something else. But as surprised as I am to be kissing them at all, I’m more shocked when they kiss back . Not with any amount of experience, but clumsily, yet still eager, clever. I can feel the tendons of their wrists go taut under my thumbs as their hands tighten uselessly, and they press their face up closer to mine. I only part my hand from theirs to cup them around the back of their head, pulling them further to kiss deeper, drawing from them an unwitting hum of delight.
When we part it’s only with a vocal gasp from them. Their green eyes flick open to mine immediately. They’re so vibrant, and now only accented by the plush red their lips have swollen into. I don’t say anything at first; I’m still yelling at myself, asking what the hell are you doing, Eir, think of your goddamn legend, think of theirs at the least , but they don’t seem at all upset. In fact, I get the sense if they were thinking anything at all, it was closer to: did my mentor really just kiss me?
More than that, I got the sense they were asking how do I make her do it again , too.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” I mutter to myself. I can see their eyes growing glossy at that, as if tearing up. Yet, still, they seem to work past something in their throat, and they close their eyes again.
“Just...one more time?”
I’m a fool. Once had been enough; I know if I kiss them again, I won’t be able to stop.
I do it anyway.
This time I feel their hands come up and grab at the collar of my tunic, to pull me in closer - their mouth is hot against mine, and slowly opening, eager. Not as inexperienced as I thought. I feel my hands coming to cup them around the back of their neck. They shiver at the touch, and their hands tighten in my collar, pulling me closer as well. They’re so hot. Norn are usually warm as fires, but this is a different sort of heat, one that burns into my hands and sinks into my bones. My hands fist in their hair, and I think I hear them whimper in pleasure. The noise makes my stomach drop.
We pull away, and only half of me thinks to retreat. Our lips connect again instead; hands clinging, closer, and I realize that the table between us is too much. I pull them up without breaking the kiss, and yank them to the side. They gasp as our bodies finally touch, and I can hear their desperate gasp, almost a cry. Our breasts are pressed together, and so are our thighs, pressing and beginning to tangle. I love it.
Given the noises they’re making, I know they’re loving it too.
“Eir-”
“Shh,” I gently coax their hair out of its braid and press my face to it, breathing in the scent. They smell like cinnamon and oak. It’s delectable.
“Is this- is it okay?”
“Don’t ask that,” I say gruffly. “You want this?”
“I- y-yes, so much-”
“Then it’s okay,” I reassure as my mouth finds their neck. I hear them stammering, feel their hands grabbing at my shirt near the waist. I grab their hands and pull them underneath my clothes, so they’re touching bare skin. With permission they’re even more eager, pulling me closer, coming around to clasp at my back. It’s no time that I’m pressing them down into the floor, harder and harder until they’re stumbling and I’m lowering them to the ground. Our lips meet again. They’re moaning into the kiss.
Moaning .
“Eir,” They part and breathe, and bury their face in my neck. “ Eir ,” and I’m gasping, too, letting my hands roam. They skim under their shirt, and over their waist and ribs. They find two supple breasts, and massage into them. I can hear them gasping, moaning, whining into my hair. Their hands are working at the wrap in my hair; I feel it come out of its ponytail and splay over my shoulders. I can hear them breathing in the scent of my hair, too, and their hands grabbing for thick locks. They roll their body into mine, and my legs quake as they’re suddenly stimulated.
“I’ve got you,” I say to them, or maybe to myself. My hands work down to their hips. Wrestling down their greaves, exposing them to the air. My fingers find their clit. They nearly shout and buck into my hands.
“I-It’s been so long-!”
“You’ve done this before?”
“N-Not like-” they gasp, and sigh, and press closer to me. I part the hair from their neck and start pressing kisses to the skin, teasing with teeth, sucking in a deep bruise. Their breaths are so heavy, and their body’s rolling, twisting beneath me. My fingers work their clit in circles, tight and heavy and quick. My thumb slides over, and my fingers slip down to their entrance, their puffy lips and clenching cunt. I let two of my finger slide into their molten core.
The squeal that comes out of them is too much to ignore, and I feel their body arching into mine. My name spills over their lips, and their hands clutch at my shoulders. I laugh. I don’t laugh often anymore, but the reactions of their body, the intensity of their fervor . . . I kiss their cheek and thrust into their warm, open core, feeling their pussy clench down. I can taste tears when I kiss them; their body’s nearly pulsing with my own, moving in waves.
“Eir- Eir, Eir, please, I want to- please ,” they cry out, and I curl my fingers into them, right where they should be most sensitive. They let out a shriek, one I muffle with my own lips. It’s so much, a mixture of hands and lips and skin, so much that I can’t think of what’s happening besides the movement of my own body against theirs. Nothing else exists; not our relationship as squire and mentor, not the expectations as Hero of Tyria or Slayer of Issormir. Just our bodies, and my fingers in their dripping opening, and the rhythm of our pleasure.
I gasp as their thigh pushes up between my legs. They’re more aware than they let on, trying to reciprocate, and I laugh again, and bury my face in their collar. Their moans are so heavy, almost whorish, and I drink them up; their body seems to reach a crescendo, and all of a sudden I’m feeling them bucking and hearing them screaming, and a burst of warmth spreads across my head as they come in a current of slick . . .
Their body sinks against the floor, hands still wrapped around my shoulders and in my hair, and thigh gently dropping from between my own. I sink atop them; I let the presence of my weight settle them as they shiver, torn between relaxing and letting the aftermath wash over them. I try to soothe them; hand drawing lazy circles over their clit, lips on their cheek and against their temple. They’re still so warm. They tilt their head into the kisses, until their lips meet mine again. The kiss is slower, still warm. Gentle.
They giggle. My voice is low as I teasingly ask, “What is it?”
“I’m here with Eir Stegalkin. My hero,” they tuck their face into my neck. “I’ve dreamed of this.”
Suddenly, the honesty of their words makes my body go cold. The room is frigid; the fire had died down. But it’s more than that; the aching arousal in the lower half of my body, and the reality - lying on the floor, lying over my squire, my hand still between their legs. What would anybody think? What . . . what was I supposed to think?
I had lost control of the situation. I’d let us get into this position.
I . . . I thought I was supposed to be more than this.
“Eir?”
I sit up. “I need to stoke the fire,” I say, but it’s still as high as it was; the cold is my own imagination, my own insecurity. I can feel them reaching for me, confused, but I rise to my feet and go to the hearth anyway. I grab the poker and jab at the logs. They spark and sputter.
“. . . oh,” is all I hear from them. I listen to them shifting behind me. Their voice is quiet, and sad. “. . . I’m sorry, Eir.”
I’m the sorry one , I think. Sorry for sullying you. For taking advantage of your . . . your naivete.
I don’t say any of it aloud. I’m not prepared to.
I listen to the Slayer of Issormir get up, and take a deep breath. And I listen still as they walk across the lodge and to the bathroom, the door closing behind them resolutely.
It’s only then that I let the tears well up and break down my cheeks.