Ravensthorpe wasn't so cold, for once.

But it wasn't due to the temperature, or the weather. No, it definitely had everything to do with the fact that you were there.

Eivor did not want to admit it so soon, really, but it was something he couldn't truly escape at this point. Feelings were complicated for someone who was looked up to as a leader, he didn't deny that — his life wasn't as constant as he wished it to be.

His skald.

With your poems and your words and the tales that were so well-written that he often wondered if he was ever truly deserving of having his life told through simple parchment that seemed to be as magical as the gods themselves when the words came from the skilled way you wrote.

He was enchanted by the way you described him, the way you followed him everywhere whenever he wasn't raiding, adventuring or risking his life for a mere favor his people asked of him.

At first, he had been annoyed by your insistence — to remember his deeds for generations to come — but then he began to warm under your presence, and the walls came crumbling down in no time.

If you did not seek him out for news about his latest travels, he would find you himself in the longhouse, regaling the young ones with the tales you had learned long before you ever met him, with a voice as soothing as a lullaby, or at other times, as fierce as the howl of a wolf.

This time it was no different, where the heart of his living quarters was lit. Furs were draped over his shoulders, though he could feel the warmth seeping into him so much that the thought of shrugging it off was tempting.

You, with your charcoal and parchments waiting for his input, wasn't too far away — not that he would ever allow you to be too far from his field of view nowadays.

"You should write that I punched a bear in the mouth," He murmured, resting his cheek against his closed fist, eyes fixed on the few words and annotations scattered.

When he saw your look, he scoffed, turning his gaze to the fire.

"It was a jest, don't overthink it."