He drifted in and out of feverish dreams, tangled in heat and the lingering weight ofseiðrthat clung to his skin.
Asgard’s bulwarks appeared in front of his mind’s eye, shrouded in smoke and flames. Streams of molten fire erupted everywhere, threatening to swallow up the entire fortress.
Panic twisted Thori’s stomach. Which enemy was powerful enough to breach Asgard’s unbreakable walls? Had Surtur and his lot come to engulf Asgard in fire?
He had to get inside the fortress. Frey and Freyja must still be in there. All his friends. Hislið.
The flames blazed higher, coloring the night sky a sick red.
No! Nonono—
“Thori.”
Someone was keeping him back. A hand clasped his shoulder. But he needed to get to them!
“Thori, wake up.”
“Let me—”
But the hands on his shoulders kept holding him back, their touch cool and unrelenting. Who dared to stop him from coming to the aid of his kin?
Consciousness returned to him slowly. Throat parched and body aching, he felt like he’d been tossed around by a troll. This was unlike anything he’d ever been through. Weakness. Pain. Confusion. Was he ill?
A sliver of fear ran down his spine. No! Thori was a god. He didn’t get ill. He couldn’t.
When he forced his eyes open, the world swam. Norrin’s pavilion lay in shadows; the fire in the brazier burnt to embers. Only a faint glimmer of morning light filtered through the heavy furs hanging over the entrance. Thori didn’t dare to move, held down by a heavy exhaustion. His limbs felt stiff and uncooperative, his skin too tight, burning from the remnants of the oil Svanhild had covered his body with.
A movement caught his attention, and he sluggishly turned his head. It took him too long to recognize the shadow looming beside the bed.
Norrin observed him with eyes the color of a tranquil, misty sea.
“You,” Thori mumbled. “What are you—”
He wasn’t sure what exactly he wanted to ask, torn between the need for answers and the fear of what those answers might reveal. Who was this man? What was he playing at? Clearly, Norrin wasn’t what he pretended to be. Neither a stray raider nor a warrior without renown. What did he want from Thori?
He’d expected to be left alone, maybe to be dragged back to the cage Svanhild had kept him in, abandoned to whatever consequences the ritual had wrought upon him. Instead, Norrin had looked after his needs and kept him in his bed, keeping watch by his side as if he belonged there.
“What are you doing here?”
“This is my tent, as you may remember.”
The words were spoken gruffly, but not without humor. They made Thori smile. By the gods, Norrin could be funny when he wanted to be.
Watching him with an unreadable expression, Norrin reached out and pressed a damp cloth against Thori’s brow. The welcome warmth seeped into his skin, chasing away the clammy sweat that clung to him. Gently, Norrin dragged the cloth down the side of Thori’s face as if to wipe away the remnants of last night’s ritual. Thori shivered under his touch.
“You’re running a fever,” Norrin said. “Theseiðrstill clings to you.”
He was right. Thori could sense the lingering touch of immense magical power running all over his body. It made him feel like he’d battled several giants and lost.Hel, he knew rituals could be arduous, but this…this was unlike anything he’d heard of before.
“It will pass,” Thori declared, as much to reassure himself as to convince Norrin.
Dipping his cloth into a bowl filled with steaming water, Norrin cleaned it and wrung it out again, all the while looking at Thori as if he’d said something incredibly foolish.
Unable to avert his eyes, Thori stared at Norrin’s hands. Broad. Sure and strong. The hands of a warrior. Of a sailor.
“Did your parents teach you nothing about the art ofseiðr? This won’t just stop. Not without help.”
Despite his harsh words, Norrin brushed the wet cloth gently across Thori’s skin, as if to reassure him that he was willing to provide what Thori needed. The cloth passed over his throat, down his chest, where streaks of dried oil still clung to him. Thori wanted them gone, wanted to feel like himself again, and not to be reminded of Svanhild’s grabbing hands every time he moved.
