Worth more than you were given

Surprise me, her words filled his head. Erik busies himself, pouring hot water over the mixture of herbs. Black tea and cannabis, something comforting, relaxing. It would be warm, not too medicinal, and with the addition of honey, tasty too. He balances the pair of cups, made from the preserved and hollowed hooves of moose, atop a tray where they can steep. With them, he pulls out dried meats, fresh elderberries. Snacks, and good ones at that, as he tried to distract from the butterflies in his stomach.

As she comes to meet him, leans up for a kiss, he can't help but smile. It's returned with enthusiasm, though he does bump into the low table that takes up much of the space in his den. Leaning into the tender touch, his own drifting to her waist, he's distracted from the task at hand for a long moment. Oops.

Pulling himself back together to finish the snacks, he speaks. "T'show hospitality is t'show," his brow furrows for a moment, trying to find the right word in the common language. When dad talked about anything religious, the words were always stuck in the mother tongue. "Reverence, fer th'gods. Somethin' 'bout how every traveler coul'be a god 'n disguise." Erik recites the words, teachings he'd heard his father speak to the pups over and over. There was no making up for time lost with the fallen viking king, just moving forward. It does nothing to soothe the complicated, bitter feelings that hung between a man and his bastard son.

Padding across, he sets down the tea and snacks, stretching out beside her on the bed. Languid and comfortable, despite the spartan conditions. "Th'good stuff?" His eyebrows lift, wiggle for just a moment. Around Ember, he's allowed to relax, at least to a degree. For as guarded as Erik is, there's some humor here, too. It comes out when he's comfortable, and only in the best of company. "It'll be differen' when I getta help," confidence in his gaze, in his smile. The way the firelight catches in his eyes and reflects from his crystals. There's a proud lineage, one that goes far, far past Víðarr. For as much as Erik is his mother's son, he's deeply viking, as well.

Carefully pushing one of the honeyed teacups toward Ember, Erik takes a sip of his own. It's warm, soothing, washing over him with a familiar weight. "'s a little medicinal, figured'y might be sore." A playful smile tugging at the corner of his lips, reaching out to nose at her cheek. Making sure everything is as it should be, and that she's alright. Erik is no healer, but he was raised by enough of them to know the basics. Gentle, tender is his touch, as it drags across her soft coat. "D'you want me to hang your bag?" He'd get up, she could stay comfy, it's only right.

"Erik"