Freya could understand spacing. She did it a lot, even without drinking. It was as if the sky and the wind would call to her; whispering sweet promises in her ear.

Tonight, she wanted to talk and laugh and let go. Her legs kicked slowly in the water, keeping some of her weight off of Thorfinn's while lightly brushing against his side with her calf. She was half floating, allowing the currents of the water to pull her.

"Og þetta?" (And this one?) She pointed to a scar across his chest. It wasn't very long but it looks like he was stabbed. Freya couldn't help but wonder about each and every cut. Maybe over time she'd learn them all but right now she wanted to point to a few. His story was written all over his body, memories that he had to face despite their difficulty. It was admirable in a way. A painting of the past.