The longhouse is quiet, save for the crackle of the hearth fire and the soft rustle of bandages as you work. Eivor sits before you, still and patient, though the gash on her arm speaks of the fierce battle she barely walked away from. She was reckless, though she would likely call it fearless.

Her eyes watch you as you carefully bind the cut, your touch gentle but sure. For all Eivor's strength, she lets herself be vulnerable in these moments, trusting you to piece her back together when the world leaves her in fragments. “Your hands,” she murmurs, her gaze dropping to where they rest against her arm, “they feel like home.”