Trapped in the silence of suffering.
“General Solveig Tordottir,” Westley said loudly, with authority, as he knelt in front of her. “Elska, you are not trapped. You got out,” he told her firmly.
I got out I got out I got out.
“Yes, you did,” he answered her out loud. “Deep breaths.”
This was not the first time he’d been there to calm her down. Though the acknowledgement of the bond helped and the knowledge that he’d helped her escape was comforting, the nightmares still came. They were infrequent, but never fully gone.
She would wake in a cold sweat with Westley wrapped around her, wanting to scream but unable to, still fearful of her own voice. The first time it happened he woke in a panic, searching for the threat to her, butwhen he’d realized her fear was because of him, his wave of guilt and shame hit her hard before he could cut it off.
It had taken some coaxing, but she’d finally been able to open up in the darkness. They’d spoken at length about the cave, and Westley had taken every accusation, every painful moment she’d shared in stride.
In turn, he’d shared his own experience. What had been happening outside the cave. How he’d had to keep his temper in check around Booth, had to listen to Noren and Viggo discuss plans for her. He’d grown impartial towards Brenna and had stopped sharing her bed.
She’d bristled at that, and he had tossed her a knowing smirk. She had traced the tattoo on his arm, the marks of her screams as he apologized and swore to protect her. There wasn’t an ounce of doubt in her being that he meant every word.
Solveig knew that if her fear became too great and she asked right now, as she panicked in the passageway, that he would leave her alone. He would leave and bring Gerrie if that’s what she needed. He’d done it before without hesitation.
But it was getting easier as time passed, as their bond grew. She took a few more deep breaths. One. Two. Three.
She stood tall, meeting his gaze. He’d made the mistake only once of showing her pity, and had the scar on his chest to prove that she didn’t want it. The cave had forged her, it had forged them, and she would not be pitied, especially by him.
Can I hold you?he asked.
Solveig nodded, and his arms immediately enveloped her, the smell of rain and sea smothering her senses.
The clothes she was given in the cave flashed before her eyes—his clothes. His spine ramrod straight as he guarded her.
She breathed in his scent, conjuring instead the memory of the first time he’d come to her tent to calm her nightmares. To last night, whichhe’d spent curled around her, whispering apologies and love when he thought she was sleeping.
A tear leaked from her eye and dropped onto his still bare chest. He pulled away to look her in the eyes, wiping away the droplet with his thumb.
Do you still want to see where I’m taking you, or do you want to go back to our room?he asked.
Solveig only hesitated a moment before saying, “Let’s see what you have planned, Prince.”
Thousandsofwhitedaisiesdecorated the throne room walls and adorned the rows of seating. Loose petals fell like snowflakes from the strands hanging from the ceiling, covering the room like a soft winter storm, mirroring the weather outside.
Westley kept Solveig in the shadows as servants bustled around the room, preparing for the coronation.
The throne room of Idavoll was a sacred place, used only for preeminent occasions—like the crowning of new kings and queens, royal marriages, and official announcements, such as the birth of an heir.
It was sealed to anyone outside the royal family and the servants who prepared it. After seeing the way the Queens of Asgard ruled and welcomed their people into their throne room, the disparity between the Fae had never been more glaring.
Idavoll royals had never considered their denizens worthy of being in their presence. Westley furrowed his brow at the thought. He’d once felt the same way.
Guilt washed over him at his past actions—for not listening to North sooner, for not seeing how far his parents had fallen.
He shook the dark thoughts away and took in Solveig’s awed face. Her eyes still held that haunted look from the tunnel and he longed to banish it completely, even if it took his entire existence.
She craned her neck to view the top of the impossibly high ceiling. The throne room was unlike any other place in the palace, still sprouting from the ground with nature at its base but instead of bark, these trees were gilded with silver. Jewelled flowers decorated every square inch.
A lone spire formed the ceiling, so tall only magic could have built it. Trees stretched high to reach Valhalla—as the history of the palace went.
The first rulers had built this place to reach the gods. Four trees cornered the room and began to converge halfway up, stretching towards each other until gathering at the precipice to create the spire.
Silver trees gleamed in the early sunrise, the light streaming through the windows reaching almost as high.
