"My mother would tell us tales- lessons I know them to be now, but at the time they were legends to us. About how even the most lowly of creatures had it's place, had it's purpose, and had even then the right to strive for more." Not the same as a game of naming, but in the garden of his mother names had power as did the act of naming them. He'd never thought much of it; but to hear a little more of Jane's childhood, to hear of her father? Warms him in no small way.

His own boots he keeps on for once the boar is finished he must slide out to cool the embers and cut away great slabs of roast pork- the skin crisp and the meat juicy, for them to share. He cannot cook much but this? This he knows well.

Air thick with the drippings of pork and the warmth of fresh bread, of the flowers that lingered still- it is not so much reminiscent of Asgard's gardens nor New Mexico but something wholly new. Something of theirs to share.