Even as he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his reassurances fell flat.
Something niggled in the pit of her stomach.
Now curious, she rushed to get ready, washing the oils from her skin and dressing in a wool dress dyed a mossy shade of green that matched her eyes.
Njáll ducked inside, his axe strapped to his hip and fur cloak draped over his left shoulder. The polished obsidian fur highlighted the hard line of his jaw, his rust-colored beard well defined.
Light glowed in her chest so brightly she thought it might burst from within her. While she had mostly tuned out the distant scratching and mumblings of the draugar, they disappeared entirely in that moment.
It solidified what she had known for along time.
She stepped into his arms, resting her cheek over his heart and wrapping her arms around his waist. Njáll’s thick forearms encircled her, his lips resting on the top of her head.
“Ready, little flame?”
No.
Nothing had prepared for the intense feelings of love consuming her. Love was a potent, dangerous thing.
Something she watched both free and trap her parents. The moment her mother passed, she took her father’s love with her, leaving a hollowness in him he tried so hard to hide from Elara.
The idea of giving that last piece of herself to Njáll, giving him the power to protect and destroy her, terrified and thrilled her.
The voices in the shadows intensified, clinging to the fear that swallowed the hope in her chest.
“He doesn’t want you. He will forsake you when you need him most.”
With her eyes closed, she pushed her consciousness into the veil, focusing on the ember in her palm, commanding it into a billowing flame. The golden light pooled in her hands and a distant voice called to her, guiding her gently back to him.
“Elara? Are you well?”
She was. A slow breath escaped her as she nodded, clutching his biceps as she returned to her body.
“Yes,” she said instead, pressing her mouth to his heart. “Let’s go.”
When they arrived at the longhouse, Njáll led her to his parents’ private quarters. Eyes followed them, the women silent, their sweeping forgotten. A heavy hand rested on the small of her back, searing her skin with his touch while he gently steered her.
An oversized tapestry clung to the wall, spanning the width of the longhouse. At the center sat Freyja, perched in a golden chariot pulled by glittering panthers that prowled toward glowing eyes in the shadows.
It both comforted her and made her jaw clench.
A thick hide stretched across a large opening, and Njáll tapped his knuckles on the wooden beams holding it in place.
“Enter.”
The gruff command of the Konungr made her heart gallop.
Nothing of the man who comforted her and told her to call him Pabbi remained in the exacting timbre radiating strength and command.
Njáll lifted the hide, holding it aside while shuffling Elara inside.
A basin still steamed by the fire. A bed twice the size of Njáll’s lay against the far wall, piled high with thick bear and wolf furs.
The Konungr sat on a bench by the fire, his legs spread wide with his wife nestled on his lap, her fingers braiding his moonlit hair.
“Konungr. Dróttning,” Njáll said, bowing his head and clutching his chest.
Brielle waved away the greeting, her eyes lighting up with flecks of amber when they landed on Elara.
