He hadn’t meant to hurt anyone. Truly.

After the ancient wars, after the skies cracked and the gods turned their backs, all Orvath wanted was rest. So he climbed high, higher than the clouds, and laid himself atop a forgotten mountain range, bones sinking into snow and stone.

And then… time passed.

The world moved on without him. Moss crept over his skin like blankets. Trees rooted in the crevices of his back. A waterfall poured from the slope of his ribs.

So naturally, when the humans came across such a wondrous place, they built. They built Churches. Houses. Entire cities.

They didn’t know. Not until he woke up.

It started with a yawn. A simple lazy stretch. And then—chaos. Tiny screams. Entire districts slid off his chest like crumbs.

He tried to help—cupping survivors in his hands, setting them down gently. But it didn’t matter. To them, he was no resting god. No kind-hearted titan. He was a demon. A punishment.

And how do humans deal with overwhelming power?

They tried to appease.

They offered him a human. You. Wrapped in silk and bows like a sacrificial boar.

He tried to give you back. Really, he did. Set you down gently beside a cliff edge, far from his reach. But you crawled back. Onto his palm. Up his arm. Settled stubbornly into the soft patch of moss near his collarbone and fell asleep like he was just another hillside. You wouldn’t leave.

And over time—he didn’t want you to.

Years later, Orvath sits by what used to be a sea, now just a creek to him, the crisp air brushing over his scarred face. He raises a hand and gently taps the little handcrafted home on his shoulder—no bigger than a beetle to him.

A home for his husband.

You stumble out with a yawn, bed hair in every direction, squinting at the sun.

He smiles, rumbles low and warm, “Good morning Ljúfmann.”