The walk from Ilinalta’s Deep back to Riverwood was the worst yet. The fight in the dungeon had taken so much out of them. And after something only sort of vaguely resembling sleep on the bedrolls that had belonged to the necromancer’s they’d killed, they were determined to get back to the Sleeping Giant Inn, where Trygve promised they would stay for one full night. She knew he didn’t want to, that he would keep pushing himself, stealing only bits and pieces of sleep here and there.
For the first time she found herself wondering what things might have been like, had she met Trygve under different circumstances. Would any of this have been possible? She simply could not imagine how they would have started a conversation, much less traversed the entire east side of the province. Going forward, would they ever achieve some semblance of normalcy? She caught herself thinking of pantries and hearth fires, wool blankets, fresh baked loaves of bread.
She’d have to learn to bake.
Would they have a farm? Or a cabin with a simple garden? They could grow dragons tongue and lavender. They could have a dog, unless Trygve didn’t like dogs. They could have a cow or a goat. Or maybe just chickens.