V
North read the letter three times. With each pass, her smile grew wider. No, she did not need passion.
She placed the letter in her drawer for safekeeping.
Her excitement grew when she lifted the lid to find a layer of tissue. Discarding the wrapping, she lifted the gauzy fabric, layers of greens and blues dotted with colourful embroidered florals and greenery. The train was a thick garden of wildflowers that thinned out as it rose towards the waist.
It was stunning, and though she had no one to speak to, she was speechless.
He had gifted her an overlay skirt to cover the Elven gown. Her people didn’t wear white to their weddings, but colours and symbols to represent their magic. Vali had assumed correctly.
North faced the ceiling to prevent the tears from falling down her face.
She did not need passion but was grateful to have kindness.
Holding the fabric close to her heart, she breathed in deeply. She felt steadier, more sure of her decision.
Her maids were summoned and they fitted the dress onto her thin frame, but she waved them away when they tried to take the overskirt from her. She fastened it herself, placing it just above her hips and tying the closure shut. It fit perfectly.
The contrast of the colourful skirt to the long-sleeved, white Elven top was quite stunning. Though the neckline plunged deeper than she would have liked, the skirt distracted from the amount of skin she was not used to showing.
North took a deep breath and prepared herself. A knock came at the door and Bo was waiting there to escort her.
It was time to get married.
Solveigsputtered,herbodyrejecting the influx of water as she rolled onto her side.
She coughed violently until only air remained in her lungs and she could breathe easily, even as the black tide rushed over her again and again. Squeezing her eyes tight, she focused on her body—her lungs seemed to have suffered the worst of it, and she was tired and spent, but had no other injuries as far as she could tell.
Her body was hollow, empty and cold as she reached for her magic.
It was not there. Not even a spark.
When she couldn’t feel Westley, she lurched up in a panic, scanning her surroundings for signs of him.
Black jagged rocks of all sizes littered the shore, absorbing any light that touched them. Mist snaked between the cracks like blood spilling out of a body.
No Westley.
Hel.
She recognized it from her previous visit, though the atmosphere had changed. Solveig panicked, smacking her hands all over her body.
Am I dead?
The absence of Westley’s answer put a chill in her bones.
She couldn’t be dead. Wouldn’t she remember dying? No. She shook the dark thoughts away—she was not dead and neither was Westley. She would have felt it.
This was how Hel worked, it messed with the mind. And the living did not belong in this realm.
Laeknir’s story lingered as she recalled how easily he was deceived into thinking he was dead. He’d been convinced of his death and had accepted his untimely fate, even finding happiness in the barren wasteland.
The longer the living remained in Hel, the more they felt as if they belonged.
And it was already beginning.
She reassured herself repeatedly that she was not dead. There was no magic here save for the realm itself and its ruler, which was why she’d been cut off from her power and from Westley.
