Other words from Google Translate: English - Swedish, apologies if any of this is incorrect, I have no knowledge of the Swedish language whatsoever.
Written to: Collide - Leona Lewis/Avicii, crosspost from AO3
Anomia: The inability to recall the names of people or things.
"What are these called again?" Darcy asks Helblindi as she weaves a strand of daisies through his blue-black hair. "Two cents something or other?"
Helblindi scoffs, reaches blindly over his head and takes a daisy from her, examining its soft white petals.
"Tusensköna," he says after a while, handing it back to her. She takes it and knots its stem neatly with the next one.
"What language is that?" she asks. "It sounds like Norwegian, or Danish, or something."
"It could be," Helblindi muses. "The native tongue of Jotunheimr supposedly has influenced many of the Scandinavian languages. It is not a very fun language to learn, if that is what you are interested in attempting to do. Just the wrong tone could go from calling someone very lovely to calling someone's mother something I would rather not say."
"Oh, and heaven forbid I insult your mother," Darcy says, laughing as she leans down to press a kiss to his forehead. The playful calls of children on picnics, tossing frisbees around them in Central Park surround them, and not for the first time Helblindi wonders what it would be like to have a child of his own. Loki, as many children as he has, of all shapes and sizes, seems to be no more or less content than anyone else, although Helblindi has seen a deep-hidden joy in his youngest brother's eyes whenever he is holding Modi.
"She is a very nice woman, yes," Helblindi says, looking at Darcy upside down from where his head is cradled in her lap. "She likes you very much."
Darcy is silent for a few moments, and Helblindi wants to ask her what she is thinking about.
"What is this called?" she asks, staying very still, and Helblindi cranes his neck to see a bright orange butterfly has landed on her shoulder, its wings fluttering delicately.
"Monark fjäril," he says, lifting out a hand slowly, very slowly, so as not to startle the creature. The butterfly seems to eye him for a second, deciding, before tentatively stepping out onto his index finger. "I have told you these before," he tells Darcy, and smiles as she blushes.
"I forgot," she admits. "Or, it's not so much I forgot as that I like hearing you say their names."
The butterfly flaps away, in search of flowers, as Helblindi sits up and cups Darcy's face in his hands.
"Do you remember what this is called?" he asks, his mouth hovering over hers; she can taste the mint and cold on his breath. "Us?"
Darcy has no idea, answers the best way she knows how, tilting her head up just a fraction and pressing a kiss to his mouth.
Helblindi pulls away after a few moments, laughing.
"You cheated," he accuses her playfully. "You don't remember at all." He tickles her, and she laughs as she falls back into the grass.
He leans down, presses a kiss to her forehead. "I suppose I will have to let it slide," he muses, "because you are min skatt," - a kiss to the space between her eyebrows - "min kärlek," - a kiss to her left cheekbone - "my darling," a kiss to her mouth.
When he lets her up, Darcy smiles, blushing, and just swats him on the arm and tells him he's been watching too many Jane Austen movies.