Time to feast

	Twenty days. Three walkin' t' the mine. Twelve minin' nonstop. Five walkin' 'ome. Me calluses have calluses. The skin on me fingers be closer t’ stone than flesh. E’ry bone ‘n me aches. Me tongue be dryer than the eastern deserts. Me back might as well b’slime from the ore ‘n tools. But through these doors… Me paradise be-
	“Innghrn! Keep ye pace! Dun’ let the cap’n catch ye sloggin’ five steps from home!”
	I sigh, me thoughts broken. Guthurun be correct. The cap’n would never let me hear the end o’ it if I slacked this close t’ the end. Dun’ mean she has t’break me thoughts, though.
	“Aye. Almost there…”
	With the usual thund’rous horn, the guard open the gate as the cap’n leads us ‘n. Cart ‘n cart'a ore and tools we drag along behin’ us. If the others be like me, the only thing keepin’ us goin’ now is the promise of a good meal and a stiff drink. The cap’n keeps callin’ t’us t’hurry. Door upon door, passage upon passage, we march down the halls, the smell o' meat 'n ale the only thin' keepin' most'a us goin'. It feels like ages, but we finally come t' the mead hall n' the cap'n gives us a loud shout.
	"A'ight, lasses! The smeltin' crew be on their way! Drop your packs, get yer men, get a plate, 'n get a drink!"
	If we weren't achin' from hair t' toe, we'd pro'ly cheer. But all we can manage t' do is give 'er a hurrah before draggin' our way through the doors. 'Owever, the moment those doors push open, the others spirits feel bright. The flood o' men runnin' t' their wives or lovers, meat 'n ale in hand. Each grabs 'is girl, 'olds 'er close, gives 'er a stuff drink, 'n a big kiss. Bram seems t' be late. Prolly 'elpin' cook the feast. Guess I can't be fussin', with food and drink like this, but sure wish he woulda-
	"INGRID!"
	I turn, lookin' 'n all directions. Did someone say....
	"DEAR!"
	I feel 'is hands wrap aroun' me from behind. I could tell 'is touch anywhere...
	"Bram!" I shout, but barely manage a word before he presses his lips t'mine. By the elders, I've missed 'is touch. 'Is 'ands 'oldin' me tight. 'Is li'l bit'a scrag 'e could never grow in'ta a right beard. The smell'a 'is body 'n taste of 'is lips, though some'a that may be the food 'e was cookin'. Though, from 'is big sniff and open eyes, seems like 'e's takin' in the sights and smells as well. But no sooner as me body relaxes in'ta 'im, 'e pulls 'is lips away.
	"My poor Ingrid," 'e grumbles, grabbin' me by the cheeks', "you must be starving! Or at least needing a drink!" Always the worrier. 'E grabs me a stick'a lamb 'n press the tip o' a tankard to me lips. Me body jus' gulps it down before I can even think.
	"D-damn!" I cough, some'a it goin' down a bit fast, "Guess I was'a bit thirstier than I thought, huh?" Bram 'umors me a chuckle before beckoning me t'eat. Just as the ale, the moment it comes t'me lips, it goes down me gullet. Barely get'a taste before most of it is gone.
	"I've missed you so much, dear." 'E sighs as he gets down to his knees, 'oldin' me tight as can be, "Is everything alright? Are you doing okay?" 'Bout all I can muster in 'is grip is a nod.
	"Ye, Bram," I manage to eek out through his arms, "jus'a bit tired 'n sore." 'E gives a nod t'me 'n gives me lips a quick peck.
	"Lets get you rested then!" 'E says before quickly grabbin' me beneath the knees 'n back, 'n liftin' me off my feet. Couldn't help but let out a gasp as the doofus lifted me up.
	"Oi!" I shout at 'em, "Gimme a warnin' next time!" I wrap me arms 'round 'is neck as 'e looks down at me 'n laughs. By the elders, I missed that laugh.