She choked down the panicked flutter threatening to tear her apart.
Njáll hadn’t wanted to continue without her.
Something insidious whispered to her, telling her he did it anyway, once the dark consumed her.
A cold shiver made her hands tremble and she discarded the image.
As much as it might have pained him, Njáll wouldn’t have done that to her. Even if what she asked of him shattered him in a way she didn’t know if she’d ever be able to fix.
Brielle reached out, taking Elara’s hand in her soft one.
“We did not know for certain.” Her thumb stroked Elara’s brow. “You waged a war none could see. The fight sapped all your strength as the panther cleaved through the undead. The Völva believes that because your light was threaded with Njáll’s that he tethered you here while your body healed. We weren’t certain you’d wake up.”
Images from that night flashed in her mind. The foul stench of the undead. The icy frost clinging to their gnarled hands. The panther incinerating them in golden flames.
Nails burrowed in the furs pooled around her hips.
Next, she saw glimpses of Njáll.
Of his strained body. Of his pained gaze. Of his aching heart shattering as she said goodbye.
Tears swelled in the corners of her eyes, her vision blurry as she glanced at the door, praying to Freyja that his broad figure sat in the doorway.
“How long?” Elara asked absently.
A gentle, sad expression creased the lines around Brielle’s eyes.
“You have been in and out of fever for nearly a moon cycle.”
Her lashes brushed over her cheeks as she tried to make sense of Brielle’s words, not comprehending how she could have been asleep for so many days. Brielle squeezed her hand before releasing it, staring into the fire.
“My son has not slept more than a few hours since you succumbed to your fever,” Brielle murmured, her eyes growing distant. “He sat where your father is now, holding your hand and whispering to you, refusing to believe you would not come back to him.”
The hollow ache near her heart grew with the knowledge. Elara traced the soft linen fabric of her shift, worried for Njáll. She had asked so much of him in those final moments. It had been unfair of her.
But now that she was alive, she couldn’t find it in her heart to be upset with her choice.
It meant they were together.
Alive.
“The Konungr had to physically carry him away from you this morning to bathe.” Brielle kissed the top of Elara’s head. “I’ll go fetch him now.”
After Brielle left, Elara’s eyes landed on her father.
A whittled chunk of wood sat in his worn fingers as he chiseled away at the piece—a hobby he picked up after her mother passed. His knee bounced slightly, and Elara broke the silence.
“Your hands are strong, Papa.”
He chuckled a wet sound, running a hand through his hair. The sides touched his ears and she knew how he hated it long.
When was the last time he cut it? She hoped he was taking care of himself. The sallow tint to his cheeks and his slender waist made her worry.
“They are,” he mused, tossing the whittled wood aside. “But so are yours, I hear. They told me what happened. As best they could. I still don’t understand it.”
A rough hand covered hers and a sigh fell from her. Something distant and pained pricked in his gaze. He shook it away before she could place it.
“Njáll sent men for me. To bring me to you. And when we arrived, their village was a pile of smoke and ash and you were bedridden with fever. I have never seen someone as devoted as the man who stood vigil over your bedside, Elara. There is something beautiful and terrifying about its intensity.”
