The night winds were cutting and brutal this time of year in the north, whipping against his pale skin. The battle this night was hard won, his body wracked with cuts and scrapes. He slinks into his cave, dropping his heavy bear fur cloak. He sits by the warm hearth in his comfortable chair. He feels the kind hands of Anon tending to his wounds. “My love,” his voice carries, rough with ache and battle. “These will heal by morning.” His icy blue eyes turn to them. A hiss escapes as disinfectant touches his wounds. Large hands wrap around their wrists, pulling Anon into his lap. “My love, you worry too much for an old god like me.”