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Jornir was seated in the chair by the window when Queenie asked him the question.
They had been granted their new abode in Argentholme, and were now their own tribe beneath the eyes of the Princess. The nights were quiet— the party held a lot on their mind, after managing to find and acquire Daisy from the wilderness. It was almost as grim as Jornir had seen them, and the Firbolg knew it was for good reason. Still, he held hope— the Hexature Armament was practically at their fingertips, and he knew it was in their ribbons of fate to take.
He was staring out upon their new home. It was dark, the sky clouded over due to the frigid, gray winter. A few guards walked the streets, their spears clutched in white, scaled hands. The giant was combing his hands thoughtfully through his long hair, beginning to rebraid the red locks into place for the night.
It was a motion that he had grown used to over the many centuries of his life, being an action that he did everyday. Keeping the braid in his hair, with the runes intertwined in the cords, was essential to his culture— both in relations to his druidic background, and the giant blood that pulsed through his veins.
It served as a reminder, a way to ground himself to the earth itself. It served as protection— protection that was granted from the gods.
Just as he was finishing his second braid, plaiting the strands across one another and slipping another bead over the locks, Queenie approached him by the window. The rabbitfolk had placed a hand on his back, signaling her presence— perhaps to say goodnight, or check in on the quiet Firbolg.
He glanced over at her, his one eye softening briefly, when he noticed her green eyes dancing over his red hair.
"Yer so good at braidin', Jornir," she commented.
He hummed, feeling heat rise to his cheeks. "Um… Thank you."
The giant told himself that this was a normal compliment to receive— but in giantfolk culture, especially with his druidic background, it was actually quite intimate to comment on one's hair… especially in reference to the braids that lay down their backs.
And then, she asked the question.
"Yeah! Ooh, could you braid my hair?" she asked, and her two ears perked up a bit.
The druid's good eye widened, and the heat only grew across his face. "Wh— what?" he had to ask, and it came out more shocked than anything else.
"…I asked if you could braid my hair," Queenie responded, slowly, and furrowed her brow in confusion.
His ears flicked a bit. It was one thing to compliment braiding as a skill in itself, but to ask for a braid was even more intimate. It was a declaration of love, of asking one for their hand in marriage. He knew that Queenie did not know this in his culture— hell, he had seen her braid Daisy's hair a hundred times over, and even give Taishen a beautiful braid that cascaded down his golden scales. Still, to ask him to braid her hair…? His heart pounded at the thought, and he suddenly felt weak.
"I— I heard you the first time," he said, struggling to maintain his composure. "But… are you sure, Queenie?"
"'Course I am! Are you worried about messin' it up, Jornir?" she asked, sweetly, and did that cute little frown she did when concern flitted through her gaze. "It's not that big of a deal if ya do."
"No. no, I just—" he paused, and took a breath, turning to face her fully in the chair. The many runes and trinkets on his person clanked together as he did so. "—I do not mean to alarm you, but in my culture, when one asks for a braid from another, it is considered matrimony. A celebration of love, of marriage. I understand that— is not the case, where you are from. But if I were to give you a braid—"
"Oh! Oh, I'm sorry, Jornir," Queenie stammered out.
"It's alright—"
"I didn't mean—"
"I know. It is alright."
There was a breath, a pause, and Jornir gazed upon the rabbitfolk in the silence. She had averted her view for a moment, her whiskers twitching as she gazed out the window, into the streets beyond. There was a green glint in her eyes, a hazel glow as the moon shone down on her. Her curly hair, which was auburn in color, was hastily tied back into a ponytail, that extended down her back. Her long ears poked out from the ringlets, and had flopped back. Jornir was quite disappointed— what the giant wouldn't give to touch her hair and her ears.
The thought itself was indecent, he knew, and he scolded himself when he nearly wished that he did not say anything about the marriage fact to her. She had to know what him braiding her hair meant; a promise that he knew she was not ready for. He had begun to develop feelings for her, but who was to say that she felt the same?
She was a strong woman— independent, certainly, with a fire about her, a flame of passion that extended past the mere thought of settling down. His cold, icy touch would only douse that flame.
He had come to terms with that a long time ago… besides, they were not in the place for love at the moment. They were in the icy embrace of the Princess.
Jornir was about to get up, to say goodnight, to apologize for disappointing her so— when Queenie spoke again.
"Yanno, I wouldn't mind it."
He blinked, surprised, and shook his head. "…I'm sorry?"
"I wouldn't mind ya braidin' my hair, I mean. I wouldn't mind if we were married." She looked at him.
His eye widened again. He pressed his lips together in a frown. "Yes, you would," he said. "You… will meet someone who will treat you right, Queenie. And then you would regret that you married me."
"Can ya stop puttin' words in my mouth?" Queenie said, and her tone held an air of defensiveness.
"But it is true," Jornir countered, his voice a rumble like thunder rolling over the mountainside. "If I braid your hair, Queenie, we will be tethered to one another."
"There ain't anything wrong with that!" she responded. Her small hands reached out, and he looked down when they were placed on his. Her voice lowered, becoming soft again. "We're already tethered to each other, Jornir. Ya ain't gettin' rid of me that easy, yanno… why not secure it into place?"
He blushed. "What do you mean?"
"Yer always talkin' about fate," she said. "I think… it was fate that we met— 'course it was— but beyond this expedition. You mean a lot to me, and… I think, in a way, y'all saved me. You saved me. So I wouldn't be opposed if I spent the rest of my life with you, Jornir."
The love he had felt for her before soared. Ever since spending months with her on that ship, and then months with her in the Withered Lands, and then in Ogreton. Every battle fought, every decision made… when she stayed with him and refused to leave. Her warmth, her kindness, her love, her patience. He was undeserving.
And yet here she was, proposing marraige.
"You— do not know what you are asking of me, Queenie."
"Jornir. Will you braid my hair?"
"But—"
"Will you braid my hair, Jornir?"
His large hands shook in hers, his limbs feeling like trees trembling in the wind. He pulled one out to place it on hers. She would not back down, it seemed— and she knew that Jornir wanted this, too. More than anything. There was a breadth of silence and he swallowed. And then, he nodded.
"I will."
He leaned forward, and pressed their foreheads together.
They stayed like that for several seconds, before Jornir pulled away. He removed his hands from hers, and gently combed his fingers through her brown ringlets, knocking free her ponytail— as soft as the fur that covered the rest of her body. He almost wanted to shudder— he dreamt of this moment since he had first caught feelings for her. Then, she smiled, and gently moved herself so she stood between his seat and the window, facing away from him.
He melted at the motion. He knew it wasn't the traditional giantfolk ceremony of matrimony… but something about this felt more special, more intimate. Perhaps everything with Queenie felt that way.
He ran his fingers through her curls, familiarizing himself with the texture of her locks. Then, he sectioned the hair out, and began plaiting the segments. He decided to give her two braids, similar to the ones he wore now— two braids that ran from her roots all the way down to the ends, and laid neatly down her back. He had pulled a leather ribbon from his satchel, and tied the ribbon throughout the braids, weaving it through as to symbolize their intertwined fates.
He worked in silence, and she seemed to respect it, keeping silent as well. He could see her reflection in the fogged up window, and saw that her eyes were closed, and that her sweet smile was still upon her face.
The braids were thick with her curls and her already naturally thick hair. The Firbolg reached into his satchel again, and pulled out a few wooden beads with runes inscribed in them: Inguz, Ehwaz, and Algiz. He very gently slipped the beads onto the leather ribbon, tying them into the braids.
When he was done, he kept his hands upon her hair for a moment. He leaned forward, and pressed a kiss to the back of her head, and he took in her honeyed scent— sweet, and warm, and she smelled of the forest. He blushed, flustered, and almost embarrassed that he had even done this in the first place, with someone who did not understand his customs. But she did not pull away, nor take offense to any of what he had done.
Queenie turned to face him, and her green eyes were soft, and understanding. "Are you alright?" she murmured.
Jornir nodded, and he felt overwhelmed with a fondness for her, a love unmatched. "I… yes."
"We can have a traditional Yona weddin' when we're back from here," she said, and grinned. When, not if. "You'd love it— lotta food, lotta dancin'… you can dance, can'tcha, Jornir?"
The corner of his mouth twitched, ghosting a smile. "No, I do not consider myself to be good at dancing," he admitted.
"Well, I can teach ya when the time comes."
When, not if.
Jornir felt unusually giddy at the words. They would visit her home, and be wed. She would teach him how to dance. She would show him Yonan cooking, Yonan traditions and customs— he was sure he would learn a lot more about her than he had this entire quest. The Firbolg found that he was looking forward to it. When, not if. He did not like to get his hopes up, but he could get used to this fantasy. His large hand found her hip.
"I would like that."
Queenie's smile seemed to grow, and it was a smile that he had not seen in a long time— genuine, and not with the soft air of comfort, but rather her true joy, her true self. Not afraid. Not guarded. Jornir felt that he could drown in it.
He moved his hand to run his fingers along the braid he had just given her. And then, he spoke again.
"I am glad I met you, Queenie. I am glad that our fates are intertwined. I…" he paused. "I love you." He had never said these words to anyone.
Her eyes widened, before softening again. "I love ya too, Jornir."
She hopped up onto his lap, and hugged him, wrapping her arms around his neck. His own arms wrapped around her midsection, her waist, engulfing her in his form. He embraced her tightly, overwhelmed with emotion and love. He pressed his face into the fur on her cheek, as he caressed her back with a large hand, his good eye fluttering closed.
They sat like that for a long moment, until Queenie politely pulled herself from him.
"You should get some sleep," she murmured.
The Firbolg hummed. He knew that she was right. "Will you come with me?"
"'Course I can, big boy."
They rose to their feet, and headed out of the living quarters, past a snoring Barnabos. Climbing the stairs, the two headed down the hallway, into one of the bedrooms that occupied the space. It wasn't empty— Skrimm was passed out on one of the cots, sprawled out with the Brutal Blade in a hand that hung down the side of the bed, with Daisy curled up next to him. Taishen was curled up like a cat in a different cot, with his tail over his nose, and a soft, serene expression upon his face.
Jornir headed to his own bed, with Queenie right at his heels. He paused, before glancing at her— wondering if she would be keen to share the space with him. He very carefully removed his gear, while she removed hers, before climbing into the bed. He did not lay down just yet, keeping his eyes on her every move— trying and failing not to stare.
When she was out of her clothes, and in her sleepwear, he was surprised when she crawled in next to him, and laid down beneath the covers. "This is real cozy."
Jornir laid next to her. "Indeed."
She snuggled up close to him, and draped an arm over his bare chest, gazing at him with a sense of fondness and admiration. A finger traced the scars that lined from his back and down the front of his chest, zigzagging in a lightning pattern— like the braids that they now adorned.
The closeness and the intimacy was something that Jornir had never truly experienced before, for as long as the Firbolg had lived.
Her limbs had curled into him, her body pressed against his. She was warm, and that sweet, earthy scent filled his nose once more. It left him wanting more of it; a primal sense of longing and desire that he knew only this level of closeness could bring from him.
They slept, like this— tangled in each other's arms, intertwined like her plaited locks.
When morning came, and they all woke around the same time, Taishen was the first to take notice of the braid that Queenie now adorned— a braid that had somehow made it through the whole night. The dragonborn noticed the runes that were tied into the locks, and instantly did he realize that it was Jornir who had braided her hair so. It was beautiful. It was breathtaking.
"Jornir!" He said, when the giantfolk came down the stairs in his gear. "Was it you who braided Queenie's hair?"
Taishen did not notice the blush that spread across the Firbolg's cheeks, oblivious to the newfound flustered expression in his gaze. "Yes," he said. Before he could elaborate, however, the dragonborn grinned.
"It is quite beautiful! Could you braid my hair, as well?"
From her place on the sofa, Queenie snorted, and burst out into a fit of laughter. Jornir's eyes were wide, and he sputtered out incredulously, leaving the poor dragonborn confused and begging for an answer from the giantfolk himself.