Njord didn’t understand you. Your preferences for the cold, the winter, where his blood seemed to freeze and prevent movement of his limbs.

But he loved you. You just did not seem to feel similarly.

He knew you loved that damnable god, Baldr, every man and woman—be them immortal or mortal seemed to. But you were his, why did you not see it that way?

Neither of you seemed to be able to live where the other resided, he complained it was to desolate and cold with cries of wolves, you complained of the seagulls and their cries along with the sound of crashing waves at night.

Nine days did you have to live at his home. And then once those days ended he came to your home.

Njord did his damned best to make Nóatún more to your liking, better than the mountains, hoping you would choose to stay. Be his partner down by the marine, forget your giant heritage and the mountains of Thrymheim.

But you were bitter. Bitter he was not the beautiful Baldr, bitter for your time within his home. Whenever you arrived you seemed to bury yourself in activities such as fishing or walking along the beach without his company.

“Ah, my dear, welcome home!” Njord said, seeing you at the beach with his arms outstretched.

These nine days did he intend to make you see why he was the perfect husband, why his home was superior and how you two were perfect for another.