Aesir Courtesy in a Human Dining Room

At a provincial governor’s dinner I was seated opposite an Aesir officer who had clearly been instructed, in advance, not to alarm the Human guests. The effort was heroic. He ate slowly, spoke softly, and folded himself into a chair designed for someone perhaps half his mass. Each time he laughed, he appeared to remember midway through that laughter from an eight-foot Aesir carries farther than laughter from a Human, and reduced himself to an increasingly strained wheeze.

The governor’s wife, who was considerably less fragile than everyone seemed to assume, finally asked whether he was uncomfortable. He denied it, and the chair creaked. She asked again. Over a louder creak, the Aesir admitted that he was “slightly compressed,” whereupon she ordered two servants to bring a bench from the hall.

He spent the remainder of the evening seated comfortably and became much more animated. Conversation improved immediately. Afterwards, the governor remarked that the officer had “finally relaxed once he realised we were not intimidated.” This was not what happened; he relaxed once his knees were no longer touching his ribs. Cultural interpretation should occasionally wait for furniture.