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The Rape of Rind
We were in Yolanda’s cozy bedroom - as cozy as a tiny berth twin bed in a ship of keratin and bone could be.
The sea swelled, and I curled up under thick blankets in my girlfriends’ arms as she drew interlacing figure eights on my slim, muscled white arms. Dressed in linen nightshifts like the lindworm bride giving her wyrm prince a bath in milk and lye, we talked of quiet nothings, watching sleet fall onto the gray, bone graveyard of the Seething Sea.
Skadhi’s Bow shined bright on the horizon, Northern Lights sparkling as the stars of our ancestors, the female Disir and male Alfar, spackled the black luxurious mane of Nott like white eggshell.
“Do ancestors look down on us from above, Yola?” I wondered, wide eyed and curious as I watched Mani the Man in the Moon glow.
“Yes. They all do, every one of them, good or bad, small or tall, woman or man, damned to Nastrond or handmaiden in Freida’s halls,” Yolanda
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