Salamander

by JunoMagic
Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives-ShareAlike license

Salamander

She was a child of the sun and the sands of the southern deserts, come to the cold of the northern woods and lakes. With her thick black hair and brown skin, she should have fit in well with the colours of forest and bear – brown bark and russet fur. She should have been been welcomed by the brownies, the blessed spirits of the trees. Instead she slipped and shuddered in the snow, frozen, awkward, homesick. The gnomes and wights of these gloaming woods would not answer her call, and the runes remained quiescent in hands skilled at casting die and reading bone.

Sliding, stumbling, she was thrown into the sturdy embrace of a tree. Where was the nimbleness and elegance of her veiled dances now? Stiff and fragile she felt, like the icicles hanging from the eaves and sills. She cast a look around. Even after months here she found it difficult to read the Whitefaces and Longnoses with their sharp features. Laughter like grimaces, and smiles she had learnt not to trust. Still, she’d be glad if Hulda did not avert her gaze, but instead cackled aloud at her lady’s misfortune. To hear little Lilja’s lilting gigle. Old Olafur’s snort.

But they wouldn’t laugh at her clumsiness.

She was Evercold, and the lady of their prince. A powerful alliance she had brought to the realm, and that was good. But she was a stranger, a stranger to this tightly-knit northern clan. And that was bad.

Somehow she made it to Brynja’s abode, and presented the new mother with the blanket she had woven – thicker and warmer than anything she’d made before, but as bold in colour as any of the plaids and quilts and shawls she had been famed for in her home-country, yellow and orange, royal red and precious purple, with designs of the sun, rising, shining, setting, and the first traditional runes the witch had taught her to include, blessings for mother and child, hearth and home.

The heated mead offered to her in traditional thanks-giving was most welcome, but even as it warmed her stomach, it gave her cramps, and when she hurried back towards the palace, she pressed her lips together tightly, her head hurting; not the lady she should be, not the lady she wanted to be, but Evercold, and ever the awkward, unfriendly stranger.

That evening, she sat in her wide pelt-padded chair even quieter than usual, huddled in a long dress, a vest, a mantle, close to the fire, but still cold, so cold.

Hrafn Vermundurson, her lover and her husband, watched her intently. She regarded him from beneath her lashes. Does he know how I suffer? she wondered. She was doing her best to do him proud, as his lady, his lover and wife. And she did love him so, all contrasts of black eyes, white skin and golden hair, so much more impressive than her own brown, drab sparrow-looks.

At last dinner was over. The hot broth had settled her stomach and stopped the slight shivering she was suffering from at least for a while. Hrafn rose to his feet and went towards her.

‘Come, my love,’ he whispered. ‘I can see you are cold and unwell. Let us withdraw to our rooms and sit by the fire for a while.’

‘What you wish, is my wish,’ she answered demurely, as was fitting. But she nearly sighed with relief. Alone with her lord in their chambers she did not mind the cold as much.

In their chambers, Hrafn drew her into his arms. ‘Brynja’s in love with the wrap you made for her. Úlfur, her husband, stands higher than a fir with pride. And …’ He hesitated, as if he wasn’t sure how to continue. Then he tightened his embrace and whispered, ‘Do not feel insulted for what I will say now, dear, for she means well. Old Hulda approached me. She asks if you’re with child. Of course I did not admit to anything, but she saw you stumble and later thought the mead did not sit well with you.’

Tabiry sighed, settling her head against his shoulder and closing her eyes. So Brynja truly did like her weaving? And she was willing to accept Hulda’s penetrating glances following her every step as a crone’s curiosity. ‘I shall be all right, husband,’ she murmured. ‘My mother told me how a woman’s body shifts and changes with the growth of the child. If it’s a strong babe, it is said you will be unsure on your feet and prone to lose your balance early on.’ And she sighed again, deeper this time. ‘And alas, I believe I shall have to forego the heated mead for a while, and freeze instead.’

Laughter rumbled within her Hrafn’s wide chest. Surprisingly gentle fingers for such strong warrior’s hands caressed her cheek. ‘Nay, my Tabiry, you shall not freeze. I’ve caught you a surprise today. At least tonight you shall be warm, and very warm indeed, my love.’

‘Is that so?’ she asked and lifted her head, torn between desire for all the warmth he had to offer, and the fatigue that had been her companion ever since she began to suspect that she was with child.

‘Hmm,’ he smirked and kissed her. ‘And quite willing to warm you up like that, too! A little later, though. Come now, come, to the fire!’

~~~*~~~

Solicitously he wrapped her in two of the blankets that had been among her dowry. They were warm – nights in the desert were cold – and beautiful, dark blues and clear whites, and even with her face tight with cold and her eyes clouded with weariness, she looked regal in them. Then he dragged the pelt of a bear over, so her feet would not rest on the cold stone floor. At last he turned to the fire.

It was well-built and would easily last the night. Still he stoked it once more. For a moment he knelt in front of the fire-place, enjoying the heat of the fire on his face and that of desire in his loins. Glancing at the runes above the hearth, he gave a silent prayer of thanks to the Gods for granting him the blessings his wife had brought to his hearth: a powerful alliance, riches in trading, a fertile womb.

And happiness to his heart.

He slid his hand into his jerkin and pulled out a small, wriggling leather bag.

Quickly, he upended the bag into the flames and jumped back.

Salamanders were unpredictable beasts.

He turned in time to see Tabiry’s hand fly to her mouth to cover a delighted squeal.

‘Oh,’ she exclaimed, ‘oh! What are they? I’ve never seen the like!’

Entranced she stared at the two slender golden creatures that gambolled about in the fire, frolicking among the logs. Now and again they darted out their bright red tongues, licking the flames right off the wood, exhaling their pleasure in small puffs of steam.

Hrafn settled down next to his beloved, drawing her against him, his palm searching her still flat stomach. ‘Salamanders, they are called. They live in the woods, hiding under fallen trees, but they love fire, and they are not harmed by it. As you can see. If a salamander lives in your fire, it will never go out, and burn brighter and hotter. Its gall contains a most deadly poison, but the slick juices of his skin give heavenly powers to brandy made of autumn fruit. It is said that if you make a coat from their skin, no fire can burn you, and no cold can kill you.’`

‘Ohh,’ she repeated, this time sighing in wonderment, while her eyes brightened at the sight of the salamanders and their antics. Then she turned her head a little and smiled at him.

‘But you would very many salamanders to make a coat of their skin,’ she said, lifting an eyebrow.

He laughed. ‘I doubt anyone has ever really tried. ‘Tis said that if you do them harm, they won’t keep your fire warm, and instead burn down your hearth and home.’

‘And the brandy?’ asked Tabiry.

‘A fair exchange,’ explained Hrafn. ‘They love fermenting fruit. The master-brewer allows them to wallow in the fruit for a full moon. Then his apprentices have to catch them and put them back into the fires. A full dram of salamander juice is left in the fruit, more than enough for three barrels of most potent brandy.’

‘How clever!’ Tabiry cried and smiled.

Hrafn noted with pleasure that she’d shed the outer blanket so she could curl up against him more easily. A spark of desire stung him within, tightening and rousing his body.

‘And the brandy?’ she asked. ‘What is so special about it?’

‘It conjures up and wards off demons, heats the blood, sears the bone, unleashes lust and stokes the fire -‘ He bent his head and breathed the words against the satin skin of her throat. ‘- of your deepest desire.’

He nuzzled the sensitive spot just below her ear.

Tabiry gasped and arched her neck. Suddenly she flung off the second blanket, too, and clasped his hands, drawing them to the laces of her bodice. ‘I don’t need brandy to feel the heat! Joy of the jinn, please!’

Weighing her breasts with his hands, he imagined that they felt a little fuller, a little heavier than the last time they had made love. ‘Are you feeling warmer then, my dear Tabiry?’

‘Yes! Oh, yes!’ she replied enthusiastically, pressing her curves into his palms.

Moments later, they sank down on the thick bearskin spread out on the floor in front of the fireplace, where the salamanders still frolicked and gambolled among logs and flames.

Unpredictable creatures indeed, Hrafn thought with a last glance at the hearth. Those salamanders, but they seem to do the trick.

And with that, he sank into a fire of his own creation and the searing embrace of his wife.

Song of the day:

Link(s) of the day:

Salamander—Amphibian Folklore | Renaissance Zoography: Salamander | Salamander Brandy | Salamander Wordie!

…and my wish for you today is:

May you always find fire within yourself, in the darkest night of the heart and the coldest winter of the soul!

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