“What about his face?” Solveig hadn’t been able to find a single imperfection. It had taken quite a bit of restraint to ignore him in the dining hall.
The small glance at him she’d allowed herself before stepping into the room was distracting enough. His strong, bloodied hands held daggers in a firm grasp, chest heaving from exertion, jewel eyes wild from the fight. A chill wrapped around her spine at the memory.
“Just a pity it’ll probably never be between my legs.”
Shrugging off a strange pang at picturing Gerrie with the prince, Solveig snorted and they both started laughing uncontrollably. It had been a while since she’d laughed that way.
“That is a grave misfortune indeed.” The two of them smiled at each other. Gerrie reached out and grabbed her hand.
“How are the nightmares?” she asked.
“They come and go. Thank you for being here.” She squeezed Gerrie’s hand.
“Of course. I’ll always be here if you need me ... except when I can’t be.” She smiled weakly, guilt in her eyes.
“What’s wrong?” Solveig asked, alarmed at Gerrie’s tone.
“Nothing’s wrong, but a message arrived for me with the last caravan. It was from the queens requesting I join them in Asgard for a season to train their newest witchlings.”
“Oh.” Solveig let out a sigh of relief. “There’s no need to feel guilty—you go every few years.”
“Yes, but you only just got back and you’re still ... well, suffering. You need me here.”
“I won’t lie and say I don’t, but the witchlings need you too. You can’t deny a direct request from the queens. They’ll have my head.”
“Your head? Wouldn’t they be after mine?”
“Of course not, you’re too valuable. And they would know you stayed behind for me, so therefore it would be my fault.”
Gerrie chuckled. “You’re probably right.”
“I am most certainly right.” They were silent for a while. “It’s okay, Ger, you need to go. I have to learn to function alone again at some point. When do you leave?”
“In two months, right after the vote.”
“That’s plenty of time. Plus I’ll probably be back to my old self again. Kicking Latham’s ass will be cathartic.” She smiled darkly and Gerrie returned it. Soon Gerrie’s breaths became even with deep sleep.
Solveig rolled onto her back and stared into the inky-black darkness of her tent. Gerrie had been sacrificing her own needs for her sake, and she was grateful. The nightmares were few and far between now.
The odd time Gerrie snuck out to be alone with whichever lover she was taking that night, Solveig fell to sleep dreading the visions that would come. And sure enough, she would wake up screaming in a cold sweat.
She had to deal with this—especially with the prince around. Idavoll’s relationship with Asgard was precarious at best. It was surprising they had sent a royal representative here at all. There must be another angle.
The Fae had not always been divided in two. Before Asgard was fit for habitation, the Fae had all resided in the Idavoll forest. As their numbers grew, the land was unfit to house so many.
It was around this point in history when the decree was made that Fae would rule over the Trifold and subsequent alliances with the other realms.
From what Solveig could remember from her history lessons, there had been a civil war between two families vying to rule in Asgard. Amonarchy had been decided upon, but selecting the royal bloodline was the catalyst to the split.
Alfheim remained impartial, but Vanaheim joined the group of Fae that eventually won the war. That family and their followers moved from the forest and into Asgard. The remaining Fae were ruled by the family who’d lost the war and stayed to live in Idavoll. Thus the division stood.
It had taken decades, if not more, for the animosity to cool, younger generations finally allowing an alliance to form between Asgard and Idavoll.
Solveig drifted off into an uneasy slumber as another storm rolled in. They had entered the rainy season early this year, much to Solveig’s delight. She let the sound of the thunder and rain lull her to sleep as she tried not to think of the male with bright green eyes who slept only a few rows away from her.
Ashiverofawarenessranthrough Westley the next morning, jolting him awake, his magic alerting him to nearby danger. He hadn’t slept well, and it took him a moment to rub the sleep from his eyes before he heard voices approaching.
“I swear to the gods, Conalle, if you ever wake me at the ass crack of dawn again, you’ll suffer a fate worse than death,” a very grumpy female’s voice said, the sound coming closer to the entrance of his tent. Westley shivered again.
