“It is time for you to go back now. We love you. Live your life.”
Lips ghosted over her forehead.
Elara grasped in the fog, her fingers wrapping around nothing. Streams of sunlight poured through the clouds overhead, blurring her mother’s visage until only the warmth of her love remained.
A strong, irresistible pull called to her—the single beat of a demanding heart calling her home.
Rough light pulsed against her eyelids. Elara groaned, struggling to blink her eyes open. A throb pulsed behind her temple and her limbs felt like they were packed under layers of snow.
The air smelled faintly of linen and rose water.
Her head rolled to the side, the silk case housing the downy feathers soft against her cheek.
A man sat on a stool beside the bed, his back to her.
Grey streaked his dark, rumpled hair, looking as though he had run his fingers through it one too many times.
An old scar glinted on the side of his jaw and Elara sucked in a breath.
“Papa?” she rasped, her voice hoarse from disuse.
The broken sound pierced the fragile quiet in the cabin, carrying with it so much grief, loss, and love.
Slate shattered on the ground, falling from her father’s shaking hands. He spun, his weathered face streaked with dried tears and days old stubble on his chin.
“Elara!”
The stool clattered to the floor as he stumbled to her bedside, his motions clumsy. His knees fell to the bed as he gently hugged her to his chest, kissing the top of her head like he had done before bed when she was little.
Wood smoke and clean wool clung to his skin. Elara inhaled the scent that was inherently him.
Unbidden tears leaked from her eyes, soaking the rough fabric of his tunic. A hand callused from years of farm work, cradled the back of her head, stroking over the length of her hair, down her spine and back again.
“You’re here? Is this real? I thought…” she whispered, sniffling as she burrowed further into his embrace.
“Shhh,” he soothed, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m here, pumpkin.”
The name he’d called her since she was old enough to understand made her sob harder as she clung to her like a needy child.
A soft voice broke through the intimate quiet.
“You need to drink,” Brielle said, passing her a cup of steaming water.
Grunting, Elara shifted higher until the cold wood pressed against her back.
Her father righted his stool, lowering himself onto it, his elbows pressed into his thighs.
Slowly, Elara sipped the honeyed water, groaning when it coated the back of her throat and soothed the dry ache there.
The Dróttning looked pale, the usual pink hint to her cheeks missing. She smiled sweetly, tending to a kettle by the fire before sitting on the edge of the bed, her hands clasped in her lap.
Elara drained the last of the liquid, placing the cup aside.
“How am I here?” Elara managed, her voice still weak.
The last thing she remembered was Njáll’s swollen eyes and tear-streaked face.
With that thought, her heart squeezed and she clutched her chest. Her eyes scanned their home for him, saddened and nervous when she didn’t see him anywhere.
