Stubborn witch.
Impudent prince.
Westley chuckled as Solveig faded from his mind. He was worried, but he had to get back to the ship. She’d be okay.
Solveig’s light faded from Latham’s hands as soon as they physically bound him. Viggo threw the traitorous witch over his shoulder, the stab wound on his leg leaving a trail of blood behind them.
The mortals had recovered from the attack and were chasing after them. The ground shuddered with their footfalls. Shots fired from their weapons, narrowly missing them.
“At least their aim is terrible,” Brenna joked as she fell into a run beside them. Westley threw her a smile, about to retort when her eyes widened. As if in slow motion, she looked down at the blood blooming across her chest, seeping through her clothing.
“West ...” Her voice was hushed as she fell to the ground. The others carried on without noticing, but Westley dropped to his knees in front of her.
“Brenna, hold on,” he ordered, panic flooding him. He tried to grab her wrist, prepared to throw her over his shoulder, but she shook her head, collapsing into his arms instead.
She looked up with unseeing eyes as the blood poured from her wound. It must have hit her heart.
Her laboured breathing intensified as the last words left her lips on a gargled breath. “You will make an excellent king.”
“No, Brenna, no.” He bowed his head over her lifeless body. The mortals were gaining. He didn’t have time. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
He scooped her up, unable to leave her body behind, and raced to the others, their faces ashen as they took in who he held in his arms.
They clambered onto their ship, rousing their crew. His head felt like it was underwater, and for once, he hated the suffocating sensation. Westley sent a giant wave onto the mortals’ port, sending the ship flying out to sea.
He thought they were beyond reach until the mortals began lining up. They finally found out what their strange weapons did as chunks of metal came flying towards them, putting holes in their ship and crew.
“GET DOWN!” Westley bellowed as more loud bangs sounded, the mortals firing more and more of their weapons. The weapons werepowerful, but with Westley on the sea they had no idea what he was capable of, even without his full power.
When he stood, he was not Prince Westley of Idavoll. He was Aegir, god of the seas.
He raised his hands in the air and the sea answered his beckoning call.
Solveigreplayedtheimagesof Latham betraying them all.
Again.
Over and over, she used the hatred, disgust, and hurt to fuel her magic. Because of the venom still in her system, her magic was slow to replenish, and she needed to be able to help the prince if he called for her again. Judging by the underlying current of worry running through her, he wouldn’t ask, knowing she was low.
Long after the audience and everyone else had gone, Solveig sat on the edge of the darkened stage. It was peaceful, the haunting empty space lit only by the moon. She inhaled the cool air and watched as her exhale puffed out in front of her.
Steffen had bested her. The choice was clear—if she didn’t choose him as her husband, Alfheim would be slighted. She had to fulfill her promise.
Her body recoiled at the thought of choosing Steffen, like biting into a bitter fruit. Only focusing on other emotions kept her on this path. The path that led to her saving Asgard and all of fucking Yggdrasil for that matter.
Right and wrong seemed murky to her now. For the first time in her long life, what she knew to be right and what she felt to be right were at odds. She wished Sten’s magic wasn’t failing him. He had yet to weigh in and still hadn’t spoken from his Sight since Asgard.
If he would only look at her with those wide eyes, she would feel better about the path she’d chosen.
Solveig stiffened as footsteps churned the still air. Queen Eir appeared from behind the stage curtain. The only bit of surprise Solveig allowed was a raise of her brow. The queen came to sit beside her, crossing her feet as they hung over the side of the stage. The night syphoned the robes of any pale colour they might hold.
“Steffen,” she said simply. Solveig nodded.
The queen turned her contemplative face to the moon. Solveig wanted to ask if she was happy or disappointed with this outcome.
“Would you really have chosen a farmer over my son?” she asked, jarring Solveig out of her musings.
“If that farmer had been a formidable opponent, yes, I would’ve considered it.”
