I have always wanted to try my hand at pottery and for my last birthday, my sister, who knows it (as everyone who knows me does) gifted me with a discovery lesson. We were to make two bowls. When asked how I wanted to decorate them, I naturally remembered a scene from Eirik’s Oath in the Sons of the Wolf series. In this book I created a hero gifted with his hands (AND with pottery, ahah) so there is a scene in which he makes a bowl from scratch (there were no potter’s wheels at the time, so the process is quite different) and then asks Freyja to decorate it for him. I did what I imagined she did. Branches and fruit tree blossom. The result is not bad, but as it was my fist time, slightly clumsy. Still, I had a blast and I love my bowl. 😉
It was so cool to slip into the skin of one of my heroines. I will try to do that more often. You know I forage, go horseriding and a few years ago, I had hubby buy me a bow for my birthday. Now I need to try basket weaving and cockle picking amongst other things.
So, here you have the raw, crude, wet clay bowls, the uncooked painted version and the final result. Not bad. The blue one will be for my coffee, and the green, for guacamole or olives. How very Viking!
And then, keep scrolling to find the full pot making/decorating scene from Eirik’s Oath. Fun fact, I told my instructor this was why I chose this decoration and she bought the book. Happy days!
The following morning, Freyja finally found the courage to ask Eirik what she had meant to ask him for days.
“Would you show me how you make your pottery?”
He stilled, as if unsure he’d heard her correctly—or as if he didn’t want to show her how he created the pieces. “Why would you want to see that?”
She felt herself flush. “I don’t know. I guess I have no idea how you do it and I’m curious.”
“You mean that you want to learn how to make pottery?”
No. That was not what she meant. But she couldn’t tell him the truth, that she wanted to watch him handling the delicate clay and shaping it into something unique, wanted an excuse to look at him while he worked, wanted to discover yet another fascinating side of him. He would refuse if she said that.
“No. I don’t think I would be good at it anyway.”
“You don’t know until you try.”
She smiled. He was always so encouraging. “For today, I would like to see you. You will at least agree I have to know what to do if I decide to try.”
He returned her smile, eyes glinting with mischief. Oh, how had she ever thought that man gruff? No one smiled like him, with such unfettered joy. “I will agree to that. Very well,” he said, rolling his sleeves to his elbow. “You can watch me. Sit down.”
Even better. She would definitely watch.
While she settled herself at the table Eirik scooped a handful of clay from the pot on the floor next to the door. She guessed this was where he’d deposited the mud he’d collected in his basket the other day.
He rolled and twisted it in his hands a moment. Once it was the consistency he wanted, he started kneading it slowly on the table in front of her. Lovingly. As odd as it was, that was the word that came to Freyja’s mind. He was not beating the stiff dough into submission, pummeling it, or even handling it roughly—quite the opposite. He was caressing it. It was fascinating, soothing to watch.
And, well… also very arousing. Surely she was not the only one thinking that this was a lot more sensual and intimate than it had the right to be? Eirik’s every gesture sent ripples of delight along her spine, burrowing under her skin and reaching deep to the core of her womanhood. She couldn’t detach her gaze from him. Fortunately, he was too focused on his task to notice.
Freyja was thinking that it couldn’t get any worse when it did just that. Straightening back up, Eirik pressed his thumb into the middle of the ball he’d shaped, creating a deep depression which he widened slowly by repeating the gesture many times, while turning the clay in his palm. The muscles on his forearm twisted and corded as he did, pulsing in rhythm with the movement. Freyja thought she was going to pass out from desire. Everything within her was hot and tingling.
She must have let out a moan because Eirik glanced at her, brow arched. Then his expression changed.
Heat instantly seared her insides, moving like a wave, rushing from her skull down to her toes. She knew what he was thinking. The same as what she was thinking. That this was reminiscent of a woman’s sheath—and his caresses very evocative. Here he was, nudging, brushing, stroking, creating an opening in the clay that yielded to his touch, like she had that day in the tub.
By the gods, it was the most erotic moment of her life and she was utterly entranced. No wonder the man was so skilled at pleasuring women. No wonder he had coaxed responses out of her body that were unprecedented. He had total mastery over his fingers, using them without thinking, applying just the right amount of pressure where it was needed, allowing him to do what he wanted.
“See?”
Oh, yes, she could most definitely see.
“I…” She couldn’t breathe or say more.
Tilting his head at her response, he went back to the bowl that had appeared in his hands as if conjured up by magic. He smoothed the sides, flattened the bottom by tapping it gently on the table then cut the top flat with a knife. Freyja watched on, her throat dry. It was obvious he had done this a hundred times and could have made a perfect bowl in his sleep. He made it look so easy. And yet everything was perfect. The smoothness, the proportions, the thinness.
“Here, all finished,” he said, plunging his hands into the basin of water next to him.
And once again, she could do nothing but watch, as he scrubbed his elegant fingers clean one by one, getting rid of the mud.
“Have you ever decorated bowls with scratchings or a pattern of holes along the rim for example?” she asked, desperate to make it appear as if she was thinking of pottery instead of what else he could do—to her—with those nimble fingers.
Eirik frowned. “Do you know, I’ve never thought to do anything like that. I always leave them plain.” He crossed his arms over his chest, considering. “It could work but I’m not sure I would be very good at it. That’s a different skill altogether. My friend Torsten would do a good job, he’s very skilled at carving shapes into wood and bone. I could ask him. Or even better, I could ask you.”
“M-me?”
“You said you were good at embroidery. This will not be very different, I guess. Take something sharp and puncture little dots into the clay while it’s wet enough. Try.”
As soon as he had mentioned the possibility Freyja was seized with the need to do just that, decorate this beautiful bowl, leave her mark on something he had made. And it would be more than a line of holes.
“Do you have a needle?”
“No, sorry.” He rubbed the back of his head, as if embarrassed by the admission. “When I need to mend my clothes, I usually borrow one from my sister. Not that I’m great at it, mind you, I just do my best not to damage the garment further. Do you want me to go over there and ask?”
She shook her head. “No. Let me go get a feather from the chicken enclosure. The tip will be hard enough for our purpose, I should think. Even a thin piece of straw would do.” Now that she had made her mind up she would not be deterred or delayed.
“Yes,” Eirik agreed, following her outside. “Then it will be my turn to watch you.”
Freyja almost tripped at the announcement. It would seem she had not thought this through. How would she fare working under his heated gaze? Was this a good idea? As if to ensure she would indeed have to decorate the bowl in front of Eirik, they found a couple of sturdy feathers as soon as they opened the gate to the chicken run. One was a shimmering copper, the other black with greenish ripples. Beautiful. They brought them back inside, to the bowl waiting in the middle of the table.
“Use this one,” Eirik instructed, handing her the red feather.
“Why?” She frowned and tested the tip of the one she had already selected, the black one. Did he think this one too soft? It wasn’t, even if it was slightly thinner, which was why she had chosen it. She wanted the details to be as delicate as possible.
“The color is almost identical to your hair.”
With this, he took a lock of her hair and twisted it around his forefinger. All the air left Freyja’s lungs. What was the man doing to her? That simple gesture had wreaked havoc through her. Was he trying to seduce her, or was it all in her mind? Either way, she could not give in. The kiss they had exchanged the other day proved it. She desired him too much. If they touched, there would be no stopping her. She would push him down onto the pallet and make him give her what he had sworn never to give any woman.
With a trembling hand, she took the feather he was handing her. “I suppose I’d better start before the clay dries too much,” she said, her voice hoarse.
Though what she would achieve she wasn’t sure. With her mind in turmoil and her body quivering with desire, she might well ruin Eirik’s beautiful bowl.
“Do you know what you’re going to do?”
“No.” She hadn’t the faintest idea. “All I know is I don’t want to spoil what you made.”
He gave a snort. “Don’t worry. If you do, I’ll just roll it back into a ball and start again. This is what is good about pottery. Mistakes can be erased.”
Yes. If only it were the same in life. But in life, it was the opposite. Every decision had a consequence, one that had to be taken into account from that point on. There was no going back, only adapting.
Freyja sat back down. What could she draw? Her gaze flicked to Eirik’s right bicep, where the outline of his arm ring could be seen under the thin linen of his shirt. And suddenly she knew. She would use flowing, intricate lines like the ones adorning his arm ring, and make them into apple tree branches, her favorite tree. That way the drawing would be a bit of him and her intertwined together in a way they could never be in real life.
Decision made, she took the bowl in hand. It felt heavy and wet, unlike what she had imagined, almost alive. She started by tracing wavy lines running around the rim then added clusters of flowers representing the snowy blossoms appearing on the trees at the arrival of spring. At first, as predicted, she was very aware of Eirik’s gaze on her, but she soon forgot it and lost herself to the task. It was nothing like embroidery, in truth, but she was able to apply her skills to distribute the blooms in a pleasing pattern. Lastly, she scattered a few petals here and there and pricked tiny holes at the center of the flowers to represent the stamen.
It was finished. And the result wasn’t bad at all. Eirik, at least, seemed very impressed.
“If you can do something like that with a hen feather and some clay on your first try, I’m curious to see what you can do with a needle and thread.”
She shrugged. “I’ve been embroidering since I could hold a needle so I suppose there is no merit in me being skilled, as you said. And most women embroider, whereas you create something truly unique.” Even if other people made pottery, they didn’t produce such unusual or delicate objects. “Thank you for showing me how you did it. It was most enlightening.”
Sitting as she was, he towered over her and she had to lift her head to meet his gaze. He held out his hand to her and helped her stand up.
“It was my pleasure to show you, Freyja. Now I will have to cook the bowl. When it’s ready it will be yours.”
“Thank you.” She would cherish the gift, a souvenir of the most desire-charged moment in her life. Together they had created something beautiful and unique.