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Svanhild held the blanket in her hands as she slowly walked through the stone halls of her home. It was soft as a gosling’s down, and made about as much sense to her as a yard full of angry geese. Why would the All-Mother make such a gift? And for a prisoner? And one so obviously destined for the axe? The obvious conclusion was that Queen Frigga had wished to know his fate, but why weave magic into it? Why bother?
Svanhild was no sorceress by any measure, but she had some small ability to detect magic at play, which was an entirely useful trait in a shieldmaiden and guard. And there was magic imbued in this blanket. Would it help his healing? She couldn’t imagine that it would bring him harm in any way, unless the All-Mother considered that a painless death in his sleep, commonly regarded as the worst death possible, might be something of a mercy for the poor, tortured soul who seemed to yearn for death in whatever form possible.
The head of the All-Mother’s guard made her way to the healing rooms, where she knew the prisoner would be found. When she arrived, Svanhild discovered that he was in a small, private chamber, sitting up in bed and staring at a plate of food on a tray over his lap. She paused on the lintel and watched him stare at his food.
“It’s not quite as good if you let it cool off,” she found herself saying quietly.
She watched as his eyes moved swiftly up from his meal to meet hers. No other part of him moved.
“What is it?” he asked on whisper. “What am I meant to do with this?”
Her stomach dropped yet again to be reminded of the tortures he must have been subject to.
“I shall show you,” she said instead, entering the room slowly. “But first I have come on an errand from the All-Mother. She has bestowed on you a gift of her own making.” Svanhild unfolded the large but light blanket to show him, and refolded it differently as she spoke. “I know not who you are, Winter Soldier, but it is not usual that prisoners are accorded such honors here.” Svanhild wrapped it around his bare shoulders as he sat and he shifted slightly so she could tuck it around his back. He took the edges and wrapped it around his torso tightly, as if to shield himself from the tray full of conundrums.
The maiden pulled up a stool and sat next to the bed. She reached over and took his fork, holding it properly. She explained what she was doing as she was doing it. Having no idea how much he might suddenly recall, she tried to resonate the sort of calm that the Queen might employ in such a situation. When she had personally sampled every dish before him, she handed him the fork and watched him momentarily fumble with the implement before it rested in his hand comfortably. He stared at it for a moment and she had to bite her tongue to keep from asking if he was remembering something, finally.
Svanhild watched as he cautiously took a first bite and then closed his eyes and moaned. At first she was concerned for him and nearly called for a healer, and then she realized that he was in no danger at all, rather… he was quite enjoying this first mouthful of food.
Heat flooded Svanhild’s face as she was struck with how intimate this moment truly was and how affected by it, by him she was.
Suddenly Svanhild was having entirely inappropriate imaginings about a man who was destined to soon die, and only just recently regained possession of his genitalia.
Then again, if he were destined to soon die, might he not wish to partake?
Svanhild managed to flush the thought out of her mind by the time he spoke. He’d set the fork down on his tray, finished his entire mouthful, swallowed, opened his eyes and looked at her.
“Is it always this good?”
“Sometimes.” She almost stopped there. “I think that whoever it was who did this to you… they didn’t want you to have any happy memories of any normal thing, so they took as much of that away from you as they could. Eating good food well prepared is just one of the many small joys of life that so often go overlooked by so many. But it doesn’t mean you need to overlook it.”
“What else?”
Svanhild refused to assume she knew what he meant by that. “What do you mean?”
“What else do you think they took away from me?”
She would not immediately discuss sex. She would not. “Another simple joy of life is friendship. Friends of all sorts who share your interests, who introduce you to new things, who have shared adventures and misadventures with you, people whom you trust to help you when you need it most.”
“I do not have friends.” His voice clearly carried sorrow.
“I will be your friend,” Svanhild offered, not even quite knowing the words were coming out until it had already happened.
“You are my jailor.”
Svanhild paled. “No. I am not.”
Having been previously embarrassed with the depth of emotion and the depth of need she’d felt before, she was now struck to the core by his statement. Far beyond embarrassment lay the horror of being so misconstrued and misunderstood that she simply did not have any words left with which to defend herself.
And she realized she didn’t need to defend herself. She’d accomplished her errand and subsequently overstayed her welcome. She’d done a good deed by showing him how to eat, and now it was clearly time to leave the Winter Soldier to his meal.
Wordlessly she rose from her stool, bowed to him, turned and left.
Silently she walked through the stone corridors of her home, wondering what momentary madness had come over her. She hoped she was quite through with it, now.