One hand fell to her waist, the branding, searing heat solemn but full of so many unspoken vows.
“Be my balance, Elara. Be my one truth. The source of my strength and the beat of my heart. Marry me, little flame. Allow me to follow you until the end of time.”
Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, her hand covering his on her cheek. She leaned in, her lips meeting his in an unhurried, soft embrace that left her heart so full that it might burst.
“Yes,” she whispered.
He pulled her closer, fusing their bodies together and deepening the kiss. This was where she was always meant to be.
Epilogue
Elara
Six Months Later
She remained surprisingly calm. Maybe because this moment had always been as inevitable as breathing.
A wooden arch that Njáll crafted stood at the end of the valley, hundreds of wildflowers woven into its trusses. Sun-dappled light illuminated the grassy knoll in a golden glow that made her chest warm and her cheeks flush.
Soft furs slid under her fingers. She had never felt more magnificent than at this moment.
A rich wool dress dyed with forest green pigment flowed from her. Gold threads lay embroidered in the material, glittering in the sun. Over it, she wore a heavy, midnight-blue cloak, the edges lined with snowy arctic fox fur.
Her shoulders fell and she traced the beads of the jade necklace around her throat. Her curls cascaded down her back like a waterfall, a delicate crown of jewels and flowers nestled atop her head.
Njáll stood under the arch, a withered, ancient man nearly hidden behind him.
Leaves crunched under her feet as she moved toward him, her heart banging against her ribs and blood making her ears hum.
A large ceremonial sword had been struck into the earth. Its blade gleamed with etchings of ancestral runes.
Once Elara reached his side, those surrounding them faded away. She no longer heard the distant chatter of the assembled clans. Her heart slowed, a steady rhythm that matched his and her body melted under his reassuring gaze.
“My love,” he whispered, taking her hands in his and pressing a chaste kiss to her lips.
“Jarl,” the aged man coughed.
Njáll dipped his chin, the barest hint of pink tipping the tops of his cheeks. He positioned their joined hands over the butt of the sword. Scarred palms met soft skin, strength and courage meeting.
The man spoke in thick Norse, chanting and whispering phrases she didn’t understand. But she didn’t need to. She felt them in the hum of her soul and the width of Njáll’s smile. The elder’s gaze fell to hers expectantly.
Her throat bobbed, and he spoke.
“Eitt hjarta. Ein sál. Eitt líf.”
A thick silence settled over the valley.
“Repeat the words, little flame,” Njáll whispered, gently squeezing her hands.
Nodding, she stared straight into Njáll’s soul.
“Eitt hjarta. Ein sál. Eitt líf.”
“One heart. One soul. One life,” Njáll said, low enough for only her to hear.
A towering man with a grey beard passed a thick, elderberry-dyed cord to the elder. The man chanted in low Norse words, looping the cord around the wrists, binding them together.
The elder smiled, taking a small, familiar stone from his pocket. A wide grin made her cheeks burn as the man placed the rune over the joined hands. It was the one Njáll had given her long ago.
