Now more than ever, she was sure he saw Alruna, but he said nothing. His eyes roamed from side to side, processing what she had said. Alruna settled. Elara wondered if this Dane might have answers.
“What is Fólkvangr?”
His entire body flexed before relaxing once more. For a breath, she worried he’d deny her. All she needed to know was her mother’s soul was not trapped somewhere.
He rocked off the wall, crossing his forearms.
“The realm of the slain. It is a great honor to reside in Fólkvangr. Some say Valhalla claims warriors for Ragnarök while Fólkvangr takes those pure of spirit and strength. All warriors hope for a noble death where they might spend their afterlife dining in either realm.”
“So someone who died trying to fend off a wolf attack may go to Fólkvangr?”
“Yes. Wolves are fierce predators. A death in battle deems someone worthy of Fólkvangr.”
“Is it like Heaven? Is it a peaceful place?”
“That is where your one god resides, yes?”
“Yes.”
“If the stories are to be believed, it is a vast emerald meadow. One bathed in liquid light where the honorable feast. It is said to offer serenity to those lucky enough to be chosen by Freyja to reside in her house.”
Silent tears slid down her face, and Alruna nuzzled closer, the panther nearly in her lap, purring.
Every night, Elara worried her mother suffered, never knowing eternal rest. It was her fault she died. She had only been in the woods that day because Elara wanted fresh flowers to line an arch in the far field.
The guilt ate at her, festering until it eroded all the happiness she once felt.
“Your mother?” he rasped.
“A wolf attacked her while gathering wildflowers. She died from her injuries a year ago.”
“My heart aches for yours,” he said, bowing his head.
“Thank you,” she whispered, meaning it, hearing the truth in his voice.
Finally, her tears stopped, and her chest expanded with a calming breath.
A shadow shifted, the towering man moving closer. She had no idea how long they sat like there. The Dane didn’t seem to mind, kneeling by the furs as much a steadying force as Alruna.
His massive palm slid along her face, his thumb feathering over her freckles.
“Rest, little flame.”
The warmth of his touch fading, his back retreating through the hide until all she was left with was a million thoughts.
Six
Njáll
Njáll’s cock had been hard for the last two days.
Two days of imagining her beautiful fury being unleashed. Two nights of watching her sleep, entranced by the rhythmic sigh of her breath.
It was a strange vigil, and he didn’t quite know what to make of himself. Njáll, Jarl of the Western Pass, had his entire world narrowed onto the small, still curve of his little flame’s spine under the furs.
Every instinct he possessed dared him closer, to touch her, to ensure the shallow rise and fall of her chest did not cease.
Still, his feet remained rooted, heavy as stone.
