Ah, the warmth of the sun. For too long it has been denied me. And now, in this place, at this time, I may enjoy it, if only for too short a time.
Even with my eyes shut, I can tell that it is fall. The air is crisp and clean when I sniff it. The sun warms my frigid skin. It has been too long that they have denied me these things. Too long.
Do I dare to open my eyes? Will I find the children I hear laughing? Will I see the sun? Or is it all mere illusion in my mind born of an eternity of punishment? Do I merely dream that I am free? But what man dreams the bark of dogs? The sound of children when he has none to yet outlive him?
I dare. The dogs gambol into me, their huge slobbering heads aimed directly for my crotch. I fend them off easily. They lick my hands, shove their heads against me.
“Well hello. Who did you run away from, hm?”
They are happy to see me, these domestic dogs whose very nature is to distrust all that is unknown. And, it is a first. Few on Midgard, or anywhere else, seem happy to see me when I arrive. But these two panting beasts are no illusion. Oh no, they are all too real with their furry bodies and foul breath.
“Ódin! Thor! Where did you get off to?”
And the sound of that voice thrills them. Beautiful, that voice. No wonder they thrill to it.
“Ódin and Thor, how fitting are your names? And your owner is simply lovely, is she not?” I ask them, my gaze on the figure striding toward me.
By all that is sacred, she is beautiful, her form is as lovely as her voice. And what of me? What will she think? Dirty and unkempt, that is what. My hair is in knots around my shoulders, my clothing torn and stained. No, that will not do. In this time and place, I must be more. I must be that which I was born to be. I must blend with my surroundings and be that which is expected of me.
It is only mere thought to turn torn and tattered robes into a well-worn jacket and jeans like what I see around me. No more than a quick hand through my hair to tame it off of my face.
“Is she nice, do you think? Could she be accommodating?”
But the beasts have no answer. They too have alerted to her coming and stare at her, as do I.
I stand at her approach. Was I to kneel would she see me; look at me, notice me?
“Here you are, you bad dogs.” She sees me standing behind the beasts. She smiles. She seems embarrassed at the behavior of these dogs of hers.
“I’m sorry. Were they bothering you?”
“No bother at all. They’re quite friendly dogs. Ódin and Thor, you say?”
“Yes.”
“Fan of the, ah, movies?” It is the billboard across the street that has given me the idea. Thor. Of course. Surely there is room among all the gods for me this time?
“What? Oh no, not really. Norse mythology is a passion of mine.”
“Really? And you chose Ódin and Thor instead of another pair of gods?”
She clips the dogs onto their leads. I see her features settle into a scowl. Is she angry with me? Have I done something wrong?
“What would you suggest I should have named them?”
It is a challenge; I recognize it as such and respond in kind. “Týr and Loki or Njord and Freyr? I don’t know. You had so many to choose from. Hod and Baldr? Ullr and Vidar?”
“And you know your mythology.” She stands and wraps one hand around her elbow. Her gaze is appraising, sweeping me with more than a little interest now.
I have surprised her out of her mounting irritation with me. I cannot help but smile.
“You could say that,” I tell her.
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