Where the Fire Finds Us

Posted on Mon Jun 8th, 2026 @ 7:47am by Kennedy Kelly & Skjoldr Jórundsson (Hrimstrand)

5,380 words; about a 27 minute read

Mission: Episode 8: Shadows Over Avalon
Location: Woods, X-Mansion
Timeline: March 23, 1992

Skjoldr had found the place before sunset.

It sat a little way off from the main paths, beyond the better-kept stretch of the grounds where the land began to feel less managed and more honest. The spot lay just at the edge of a stand of trees, close enough to the woods for shelter and fallen wood, but open enough that the smoke would lift clean and not choke itself under branches. The lake was visible through the trunks if a man stood in the right place, and the mansion lights could still be seen through the darkening blue of the evening if he looked back over his shoulder. Near enough for comfort. Far enough for quiet.

He had told Kennedy where to find him, and then he had come early.

The fire pit was already laid out by the time the light began to turn. He had cleared a shallow circle down to bare earth, dug it neat, and ringed it with a careful border of stones hauled one by one into place. Not scattered, not guessed at, but set with the sort of practical attention that came from a life where sloppiness with fire could cost a roof, a storehouse, or a winter’s worth of work. Beside it, he had stacked the wood into rough order: tinder and dry kindling to one side, thicker pieces cut and sorted by size, a few heavier lengths set aside for later once the fire had taken properly.

His shirt had not survived the labour.

It lay folded over a low branch nearby, forgotten for the moment, while he worked in heavy boots and dark trousers with a light sheen of sweat across his skin despite the evening chill. Without the layers and modern cloth, there was something simpler about him again, closer to the shape he made more naturally in the world: broad-shouldered, thick through the chest and arms, body marked more by use than vanity. Woodsmoke had not yet touched the air, but sweat, sap and fresh-cut timber had.

He drove the axe clean through a length of split wood and set the pieces aside. Then he crouched by a thicker section of trunk he’d dragged in from deeper amongst the trees, a stubborn piece too broad for kindling and too awkward to leave whole. He tested the grain with his hands, found the natural weakness, and set his palms against it. The muscles in his arms and shoulders tightened under the strain. For a moment nothing happened.

Then the wood gave.

It split with a loud crack, the sound sharp enough to startle birds from somewhere deeper in the trees. Skjoldr tore the two halves apart and dropped them onto the growing stack with a solid thud, breath leaving him in one slow pull through his nose. Not showmanship. Just work.

Varo lay a little way off near the ring of stones, great pale bulk half-solid in the falling light, watching with the patient air of something that had seen all this before and found it acceptable. One ear flicked at the noise, but he did not rise.

Skjoldr rolled his shoulders once, reached for the axe again, and went back to the task. He was focused enough now that the rest of the grounds had dropped away. The distant noise of the mansion, the evening birds, the cooling breeze coming off the water — all of it sat somewhere at the edge of him while his hands kept to the work in front of them.

So when Kennedy came up on the clearing, he did not notice her at first.

He only kept cutting, splitting, sorting, wholly intent on the fire he meant to build.

Kennedy lingered at a distance, watching Skjoldr for several quiet minutes. He was absorbed in his work and moved with a refined purpose and easy confidence that only came from familiarity. It was a striking contrast to the man who had been tugging and fussing with his ill-fitting clothes in the library earlier that day. Now that he had shed a few of those uncomfortable layers, he seemed the most like himself and there was no denying how beautiful he was.

The drowsy polar bear shifted in his lounging position on the other side of the clearing and the subtle movement was enough to break her adoring regard for Skjoldr and snap her back to reality.

“How big of a fire are you planning?” Kennedy called out, a light laugh escaping as she intentionally tried to not look at his body anymore. Humor felt safer and was an easy way to cut through the tension building inside of her. She nodded toward the formidable stack of firewood he had created. “Or is this more about endurance than size?”

She stepped closer, a smirk on her lips that resided somewhere between coy and smug. Kennedy was dressed for the cool weather, in a camel colored wool pea coat paired with acid-washed jeans that both traced the long, lean lines of her body. She moved towards him with a careful, easy grace that reminded him of how a doe moved through a thicket.

“I did bring food,” she added, lifting the heavy wicker basket she held in both hands. “But you might want to lower your expectations because I can’t cook.”

Skjoldr paused with the axe resting loose in one hand, finally turning at the sound of her voice. For a heartbeat, he simply looked at her.

The camel-coloured coat suited her. So did the cut of the jeans, though he would not have known what to call them without being told. What he noticed was the shape of her in the fading light, the clean line of her posture, the way she carried the basket as though even bringing food to a fire could be made graceful if she decided it should be. Earlier, in the library, she had seemed polished and bright among books and tall shelves. Out here, against the trees and the damp evening, she looked softer around the edges. Warmer.

“You look well,” he said. Then, after a moment’s thought, his mouth edged towards a smile. “Your coat is the colour of good bread. That is meant kindly.”

Varo gave a low sound from his place by the stones, somewhere between a huff and a judgement.

“He means she is pleasing.”

Skjoldr glanced over his shoulder at the bear. “I was getting there.”

He set the axe down with care and turned back to Kennedy, wiping one hand against his trousers before reaching to take the basket if she allowed it. Her earlier question had not escaped him. Neither had the shape of it. He had spent most of his life among people who spoke plainly, but that did not mean they had been strangers to suggestion.

“As for the fire,” he said, gaze flicking briefly to the woodpile, “never hurts to be prepared. A small flame dies fast if the night turns mean.”

His eyes returned to hers, steady now, with a warmth that had very little to do with the unlit pit between them.

“And endurance matters more than size,” he added, tone even enough to almost pass for innocent. “Anyone can build something impressive for a moment. Keeping it burning is the harder work.”

He let that sit there for half a breath, no more, before the faint curve of his smile gave him away.

Then he nodded towards the basket. “If you brought food, then it will do. If it is terrible, we’ll blame the basket. Or the modern world. I’m still new enough here to be convincing.” His voice softened slightly. “But food is only part of it. The company matters more. The warmth, too.”

He looked back towards the ring of stones he had laid, the carefully sorted wood, the place he had chosen where the trees sheltered without crowding. “A fire is not just for eating beside. It makes a place out of open ground. Gives people somewhere to sit, speak, be quiet if they need it.”

When he looked at her again, the fading light caught along his cheek and shoulder, and his expression was open in that careful, quiet way of his.

“That’s what I wanted tonight,” he said. “A good fire. Enough warmth to keep the cold from getting comfortable.” His gaze stayed on hers a moment longer. “And you here beside it.”

“All of that sounds perfect,” Kennedy replied, her voice slipping back into that shy softness. One moment she was confident and teasing, then she turned bashful as soon as he matched her playfulness. It was a delicate game of cat and mouse, a coy dance of pursuit and retreat, though beneath it all it was almost palpable how much they wanted the same thing.

After he took the basket from her, Kennedy reached inside and pulled out a large flannel blanket. Its edges were frayed, and a stubborn stain marked one corner from countless picnics it had attended, but the fabric was worn into a comforting softness. She shook it out and spread it over the leaf strewn ground beside the fire pit, and in an instant the space felt more intimate and inviting.

“I made turkey sandwiches,” she said, glancing up at him. “And I know it’s not ale, but I managed to snag a bottle of sparkling apple cider left over from New Year’s. It doesn’t have quite the same effect, but… at least it has bubbles.” She gave a small, nervous shrug as she lowered herself onto the blanket, folding her long legs neatly beneath her with careful, deliberate movements.

Even after he had assured her the food didn’t matter, Kennedy still seemed to care what he thought. “There are a few places in the mansion where alcohol is kept,” she added, “but I couldn’t sneak in without risking getting caught. And I can’t really afford that kind of trouble… at least not right now.”

Skjoldr watched the blanket settle over the ground, its worn edges and old stain doing more to please him than something new and flawless would have. It had history in it. Use. A thing that had been brought out again and again because someone liked it enough not to replace it.

“That is a good blanket,” he said, and meant it with complete seriousness. “It has survived meals, weather, and whatever made that mark there. That gives it standing.”

He crouched by the fire pit and began setting the smaller pieces first, building the heart of it with dry kindling and careful gaps for air. His hands moved with easy confidence, arranging wood the way another man might arrange words he knew well. At the mention of sneaking alcohol, his gaze flicked up to her, and there was a warm glint in it.

“Then no ale tonight,” he said. “I’ve no wish to get you dragged before some elder of the house because I needed old comforts.” A faint smile touched his mouth. “Besides, bubbles sound strange enough that I should try them properly.”

Varo shifted where he lay, one great pale eye opening towards the basket.

“Turkey is better than bubbles.”

Skjoldr huffed a quiet laugh through his nose. “You’ll get none if you start making demands.”

“Then I am not demanding.”

“That was quick wisdom,” Skjoldr murmured, and struck flint to steel. The first sparks caught in the tinder after a few tries, thin smoke curling up before the flame took properly. He leaned close and breathed gently into it until the orange glow strengthened, licking up through the kindling.

Only then did he sit down on the blanket across from Kennedy, close enough for the fire to make a small world of the space between them. Shirtless still, with the light warming the lines of his shoulders and chest, he seemed more settled here than he ever had inside the mansion.

“Turkey sandwiches and apple bubbles,” he said, as if weighing the words with solemn importance. “That sounds like a feast to me, Ljósmær.” His eyes lifted to hers. “And for what it’s worth, I’d rather have food brought honestly by you than ale stolen from another man’s cupboard.” A beat, softer. “This is better.”

“I had some… issues… before I came here,” Kennedy admitted, her voice dipping with a trace of embarrassment. “I got into trouble with the law. I’m on probation for another couple of years. The Professor had been more… lenient with me than Jean, if I step out of line she won’t hesitate to tell my probation officer.” She gave a small, self conscious shrug, as if it mattered that he understood that she wasn’t as flawless as she might appear.

“As for my cooking skills…” A faint, wry smile touched her lips as she reached into the basket and drew out the bottle of sparkling cider, carefully peeling away its foil. “I wasn’t exactly raised to handle practical things. I never learned to cook or clean, I rarely even drove because there was always someone else to take care of all that for me.”

“Instead, I was taught impeccable French, spent years practicing ballet, and rode horses finer than Titan.” She slipped the wire cage from the cork and popped it with effortless precision, the motion so smooth it looked second nature. “When I left home, I had to start figuring out all those useful things on my own… and I’m not particularly good at any of them.”

She pulled three red Solo cups from the basket and poured the fizzy, golden cider into each one. Rising, she carried a cup over to Varo and gently set it between his massive white paws before returning to her spot on the blanket and offering another to Skjoldr.

Kennedy took a sip from her own cup, her gaze lifting through long, dark lashes as she watched him drink. The cider was crisp and sweet, the bubbles lively enough to tickle at the nose.

“Well?” she asked while lowering her cup. “What do you think?”

Skjoldr listened as she spoke, letting the unfamiliar words pass through what he did understand. Probation meant little to him. Probation officer even less. But rules placed around a person after wrongdoing, someone watching to see if they kept their path straight, that much he could follow.

“So,” he said slowly, taking the cup from her, “you made mistakes, and now someone stands at your shoulder to make sure you don’t make the same ones again.” There was no judgement in his voice. “That sounds unpleasant. Maybe needed, maybe not. I don’t know enough to say.” His eyes lifted to hers. “But I know this much. A person should not be weighed only by the worst thing they’ve done. Not if they are trying to do better after it.”

When she set the cup before Varo, the bear lowered his great head and regarded it with grave suspicion. The pale blue light of him shifted faintly around the little red cup, but no breath moved the cider’s surface.

“It is not for me.”

Skjoldr’s mouth softened, and he reached over without making a fuss, picking the cup up from between Varo’s paws. “He cannot drink,” he explained gently. “Not as we do. He can smell, taste the air of it maybe, but it would go nowhere useful.” He glanced at the bear. “And he would complain if it did.”

“Likely.”

That drew a quiet breath of amusement from Skjoldr before his attention returned to Kennedy. “French, I don’t know. Ballet, I don’t know either. But riding, I know enough to recognise skill when I see it. Titan listened to you. Your body knew where to be before your mind needed to think on it. That is not a small thing.” He looked at the blanket, the food, the bottle, the little world she had built around the fire. “And this? You brought food. You found drink. You made a place for us to sit. That is useful work too, even if you did not bake the bread yourself.”

He lifted the cup, studying the golden liquid and the restless little bubbles climbing through it. “It looks alive,” he said, wary but curious. “Like it has an argument trapped inside.”

Then he drank.

The fizz hit first. His brows pulled together at once, not quite displeased, not quite prepared. He held it in his mouth a heartbeat longer than necessary, swallowed, then looked down into the cup again with the seriousness of a man reassessing a strange animal.

“It bites,” he said at last.

A pause.

“Sweetly.”

His gaze rose back to Kennedy, and there was a warm glint there now. “I think I like it. Though if your ale has this much spirit, I understand why the house keeps it hidden.”

“There’s wine with bubbles in it too, it’s called champagne. I’ve had beer a few times, but I’m far from an expert on its taste.” Kennedy lifted her cup for another sip, though the cider was a touch too sweet for her liking. Still, it suited the setting and the company well enough.

Out here, Skjoldr was different. Away from the chaos of the mansion and the disorienting sprawl of the modern world, he seemed more at ease and less like a man out of place. It let her see him more clearly now stripped of novelty and grounded in who he actually was.

She had also noticed that he’d failed to put his shirt back on.

Kennedy wasn’t complaining, not exactly. It just made it harder to keep her attention where it belonged. So she made a point of holding his gaze in an effort to remain at least somewhat respectful and composed.

“I’m just saying… I was raised for a very different kind of life than most people around here.” Her tone softened as her thoughts turned inward. “Public image, maintaining my family’s legacy, meeting expectations that were never really mine. There was always pressure, always someone else deciding what my life should look like.” She exhaled lightly. “I was a bird in a very beautiful gilded cage.”

Her shoulders lifted in a small shrug as her eyes drifted toward the fire, watching it flicker and dance. “But now…” A faint smile ghosted across her lips. “I guess I’m free.”

“I think we’re similar in that way,” she added. “Neither of us were truly prepared for the world we ended up in.”
Her gaze dropped then, settling on his hand. Her eyes lingered there a moment longer than necessary as a sudden urge to reach out and take his hand in hers crossed her mind.

Skjoldr tried the word after her, slow and careful.

“Cham… pagne.”

It did not sit well in his mouth. His brow dipped slightly, as if the word had taken an unexpected turn halfway through and refused to explain itself.

“That one sounds like it belongs to people who own too many cups,” he decided, and took another measured drink of the cider. The bubbles still made him pause, but less than before. “Beer, I know better. Ale, mead. Things that tell you what they are before you swallow.”

He noticed her effort not to look.

Not in a smug way, and not with any wish to make her uncomfortable. Skjoldr simply noticed things. The way her gaze held his a little too carefully. The way it had dipped once before she forced it back up again. After a moment, he reached for the shirt he had left folded nearby and pulled it on. He did not fasten it. The fabric hung open over his chest, more concession than surrender, and he settled back near the fire as though that were the end of the matter.

Outside, he breathed easier. The mansion had its uses, and he was beginning to understand some of them, but stone walls and fireless rooms still pressed close in ways he could not name. Here, with damp earth under him and smoke beginning to curl into the evening air, the world made more sense. The fire asked to be fed. The cold asked to be respected. The trees stood where they had rooted themselves. Simple things. Honest things.

He listened as she spoke of legacy, of image, of a life shaped by hands that were not hers.

“There’s honour in family,” he said after a moment. “In carrying a name well. In remembering those who came before you.” His eyes moved to the fire. “But honour curdles when it becomes a chain.”

He turned the cup slowly between his hands.

“My cage was not gilded,” he said. “It was snow, stone, work, duty. My village. My people. I loved it. I still do.” A quiet beat followed. “But I was still shaped by it. Set into place before I knew there were other places to stand.”

His gaze lifted back to her. “So aye. Maybe we are alike in that. Both stepped out of lives already written for us, and neither of us knowing the language of the next page.”

The fire cracked softly between them. Kennedy’s eyes had dropped to his hand. He saw that too.

For a breath, he let her have the choice. Then, slowly enough that she could refuse without words, he reached across the space between them and offered his hand, palm open.

When her fingers settled into his, they looked small against him. Fine-boned and warm, her hand disappearing into the rougher breadth of his. He closed around it carefully, not trapping, just holding.

“I don’t think freedom feels easy at first,” he said, softer now. “Maybe it isn’t meant to. Maybe the first part of being free is learning what to do with your hands when no one else is moving them for you.”

His thumb shifted once, light against her skin.

“But you’re here,” he added. “Not in the cage. Not where they left you. Here.” His eyes held hers across the firelight. “That matters.”

“I could say the same about you,” Kennedy replied with a soft smile, her gaze drifting coyly toward the fire. The dancing flames carved shifting shadows across her features, accentuating the delicate slope of her nose, the sharp cut of her cheekbones, and the heart shaped curve of her mouth in flickers of gold and amber. “My father is dead, but my mother and siblings are still alive. I may never be able to speak to them again, but I still see them on TV and at least I know they’re safe.”

Beneath his hand, her fingers shifted until they threaded through his own. The contrast between them was striking yet they fit together with effortless ease. Kennedy felt her heartbeat quicken at the contact, equal parts excitement and fear. She didn’t understand how something she wanted so badly could frighten her so deeply.

“Your family, your village… they’re all simply gone.” Her voice softened as she shook her head, the firelight reshaping the shadows along her face. “Not knowing what happened to them, whether they survived or suffered… that kind of uncertainty would drive me mad.” Her eyes lifted back to his then, filled with quiet admiration. “I don’t think I would carry it with the same composure you do.”

Skjoldr looked down at their hands when her fingers threaded through his.

For a moment, that was easier than looking at her face. Her hand was small inside his, warm and fine-boned, but she held on with more certainty than he expected. It did something to him, that quiet choice. Made the fire seem closer. Made the night feel less wide.

“I don’t carry it with composure,” he said at last.

His voice was quieter now, rougher around the edges.

“I carry it because I have to.”

He kept his thumb still against her hand, as if even that small movement might undo something in him. “If I think of all of them at once, I cannot breathe right. My father at the forge. My mother with her charts and stores. Leif laughing too loud. Kára arguing with the wind as if it might listen.” His jaw tightened, and for once he did not immediately hide it. “I don’t know if they died afraid. I don’t know if they were taken. I don’t know if they are somewhere waiting for me to be faster than I am.”

The words came slowly, each one chosen because the wrong shape would cost too much.

“So I make it smaller,” he said. “One day. One task. One road. Find food. Learn this place. Ask the next question. Follow the next sign. That is not peace. It is only a way to keep standing.”

His eyes lifted to hers then, and there was grief there. Controlled, yes, but not absent.

“You’re right. The not knowing is the worst of it.” A faint breath left him, almost a laugh but too tired to become one. “A body can mourn the dead. You can put stones down. Speak names. Carry them properly. But the missing…” He shook his head once. “The missing stay hungry. They take room in you every day.”

His fingers closed a little more around hers, still careful.

“I don’t know what I’ll find,” he said. “And I am afraid of that. More than I’ve said to anyone here.”

A beat passed between them, firelight shifting over his face.

“But I’m less afraid sitting here than I was before.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Kennedy murmured softly, her voice hushed enough that it almost disappeared beneath the crackling fire. “If you’re hurting, it’s okay to hurt.”

“You don’t always have to wear the mask.” She leaned in closer as she spoke and the faint sweetness of her perfume curled through the warm air between them. “I know why you do it. People expect strength from you. They expect you to carry everything without letting it touch you.” Her lips curved faintly, though there was something tender in the expression. “But sometimes your heart wants something different than what’s expected.”

Kennedy tilted her head as she looked up at him. Firelight danced across her features, tracing the elegant line of her throat and catching against the soft curve of her lips as she shifted nearer still. The shadows made her eyes seem darker, more intimate.

“And what does your heart want?” she asked quietly.

Skjoldr went still.

Not from uncertainty this time.

The question landed in him with the quiet force of a hand closing around the truth. Kennedy was close enough now that he could feel the warmth of her, smell the sweetness of her perfume beneath the smoke and damp earth, see the firelight catching along the curve of her mouth. She had asked him softly, but there was nothing small about it. Not with her eyes on his. Not with her hand still in his.

For once, he did not step around what he wanted.

His fingers tightened around hers, careful at first, then surer. With his other hand he reached for her, broad palm settling at her waist as he drew her towards him. Gentle enough to give her room to refuse. Firm enough to make it clear he was done pretending the pull between them was something harmless.

His gaze held hers, dark and steady, and when he spoke his voice was low enough that it seemed made for the fire alone.

“Þig.” His thumb brushed once against her side, grounding and deliberate. “Hjarta mitt vill þig.” (You. My heart wants you.)

The old words sat between them for one breath.

Then Skjoldr kissed her.

It was not rushed. Not careless. He lowered his head and met her as if the moment mattered, as if the wanting in him had weight and he meant to carry it properly. His hand stayed at her waist, the other still holding hers, and the kiss deepened only when she leaned into him. Warmth, smoke, cider-sweetness, the soft press of her mouth beneath his. For a man who had spent so long holding himself steady, there was nothing steady in the way she made his heart strike against his ribs.

Still, he did not take more than she gave.

When he drew back, it was only enough to look at her, his forehead nearly brushing hers, breath rougher than before.

“That,” he said quietly, the edge of wonder in it almost hidden, “is what it wants.”

He felt the sharp gasp that shuddered through her body as he pulled her close and finally kissed her. Relief lived in that first kiss, as though the tension coiled tightly between them had finally snapped and left them both free to breathe again. But the anticipation that had tormented Kennedy didn’t disappear, instead it transformed into something hotter and deeper, as a growing ache for more of him began to build inside of her.

Kennedy answered him without words. The careful restraint and coy teasing vanished as she shoved aside the lingering doubts that whispered at the back of her mind. Her forgotten cup slipped from her hand while she simultaneously released her hold of his hand, only to reach for him again in a reckless manner born entirely from want.

She kissed him back with sudden intensity, pressing her lips to his in a way that was almost desperate. Where Skjoldr had been gentle and patient, Kennedy became fervent and hungry for more. Her arms slid around his neck as she held him close, deepening the kiss until the world around them dissolved into nothing but him.

“I want you,” she whispered against his lips before stealing another heated kiss. “And I want this.”

Skjoldr’s breath caught hard when she came back to him.

For all his steadiness, for all the careful restraint he had tried to keep between them, Kennedy broke through it with the heat of her mouth and the sudden, reckless honesty of her hands. Her arms slid around his neck, pulling herself closer, and he felt the last of the space between them vanish like frost under flame.

He answered her then.

Not cautiously. Not coldly. His arm wrapped around her waist and drew her in, firm and sure, while his other hand found the side of her face with surprising gentleness. The kiss deepened, slower than hers at first, but no less hungry. Smoke, cider, the sweetness of her breath, the soft pressure of her body against him. It all folded into one thing until the world narrowed to firelight and Kennedy.

A low sound left him, rough and helplessly honest.

“Ljósmær,” he murmured against her mouth, the name more breath than word.

Kennedy’s whispered confession struck through him, and whatever answer he had became touch instead of language. His fingers pressed into the fabric at her back; her warmth found him through every careful layer of sense and thought. When she kissed him again, he followed without hesitation, letting the hunger rise between them now that both of them had stopped pretending it wasn’t there.

The fire cracked beside them, throwing gold across her hair and shadows over his open shirt. Somewhere nearby the forgotten cup lay tipped on its side, cider soaking slowly into the blanket, but neither of them seemed to notice.

There was no need for more words.

Only the pull of her hands, the answering strength of his, the heat gathering where the cold evening had no hope of reaching. Skjoldr drew her closer as the kiss turned deeper, less careful, the space between them disappearing by degrees until the fire, the trees, and the rest of the world fell away.

And this time, neither of them stepped back.

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