Babels of Bedlam - Part 4

Stig flashed intrigued eyes towards the lovely woman beside him before standing and following to the back exit. He wasn’t a smoker – useless habit, in his opinion – but it was on a very infrequent occasion that the old man wanted to speak with him. Unlike mann, the location of one’s birth for beings like them determined the entirety of one’s character. Gramps may have made an art of coexisting with Stig harmoniously, but the two were not meant to mesh. Harmony didn’t require understanding, simply patience, and both had just enough.

“What’s on your mind?” Stig asked once the door shut behind them.

“So, you’ve found the hilt.” Gramps stated, lighting his cigarette.

“Mm,” Stig nodded, glancing down the back alley that the exit led to. It was early morning, and the streets were still desolate and silent. Undisturbed snow still lay where it had fallen only hours before and, of the two, only Stig caught a slight chill from it. “Some archaeologist found it on a dig in Orkney. Luckily for me, that particular archaeologist was a greedy man.”

“You stole it from him?” Gramps questioned evenly.

Stig shrugged. “I take great pleasure stealing from thieves. Makes me feel like Robin Hood.”

“Robin Hood was a mann.”

“Makes me feel like him,” Stig repeated. “Doesn’t make me him.”

“And what of the archaeologist?” The old man continued, ignoring the antics.

Stig frowned. “Unharmed. I know the risk that you took by bringing your entire wellbeing to Midgardr, old man – your granddaughter included. I know you’re here for peace, to coexist with mann. And I also know you remember that I gave you my word that I wouldn’t jeopardize that the very day I met you.”

Gramps heaved a long sigh. He did remember. He also trusted in that word, though gods know why, with a thief like Stig.

“What’s really on your mind, Snorri?”

At the sound of his name, the old man laughed. “Not many people call me that anymore.”

“Well, ‘Gramps’ is all well and good, but your name is an important part of your soul,” Stig informed, looking up to the grey sky.

Gramps took a drag of his smoke, his icy eyes on the man beside him. “It’s when you go and say things like that that makes me question my opinions on you.”

“Question all you want,” the thief grinned. “But don’t expect an answer. There are some things better left alone.”

The old man pondered that as he voiced. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Stig. That sword you seek is the property of the gods and there are only a few like us who have a fighting chance against them.”

“You may be right, old man.” Stig's grin fell. “But those few like us who do have a fighting chance are forces to be reckoned with.”

The comment took the older man off guard, igniting warmth in his stomach that he hadn’t felt for too long, and, with that, he gave a rare and genuine laugh.