Frida tells me only one will choose him as he gets older. She has Seen it.
He is unlike any creature I have heard of before, neither Elven nor Vanir.
He is his own.
Our little Fae.
Westleystruggledtowraphis mind around what he was reading.
He’d never heard of Bragi nor Frida, and certainly never Faedir. He delved deeper into their tales, each entry telling histories, fresh discoveries of their world.
With each passage, mentions of the Aesir became sparse until they were all but forgotten. Once Bragi’s life ended, his great-great-great-grandson, Gudrun, a Fae, took over the histories.
Gudrun’s focus was on the rise and fall of the Fae, and he lived through the division. His descendants became the inhabitants of Idavoll. According to this history, Gudrun was Westley’s great-great-grandfather—Ragnvald’s grandfather.
The concept of time was lost to him as he devoured the pages. Completely entranced in the writings, he did not hear the door open, nor the footsteps approaching.
Movement caught his eye, causing him to jump. He tore his eyes away from the tome to see Solveig perched on the armchair beside him, expression thoughtful in her profile. He was momentarilydistracted by the sight of her. Her hair piled on top of her head exposed her long, slender neck.
Westley got a peek at the tattoo that trailed down her spine.
From this angle, he could tell they were runes but couldn’t decipher them. She wore a soft-looking nightdress and matching robe that did nothing to hide her peaked breasts.
“Are you okay?” she whispered into the night.
“I don’t know,” he answered truthfully.
Solveig reached over and took the tome from his hands. He let it slip through his fingers without resistance. She scanned the cover, face softening in understanding.
“Is it true?” he asked, not bothering to keep the despair out of his voice. “How do you know it is true?”
“Come with me,” she said, setting the book down gently on the table in front of him.
She stood and reached out her hand, and when he looked at her, he could see it was more than an offer to help him stand. There was an unguarded look in her eye, one she’d allowed him to glimpse over the last few weeks. Sometimes there was confusion, other times hurt. But she was allowing him to see it.
By not hiding her emotions from him, she was offering an olive branch. One she extended again with the offer of her hand.
He took it without question, letting her strong grip and current of magic steady him as it flowed through them.
Their fingers interlaced, though he was not sure who initiated it, walking beside her as she led him through the stacks of the library. He wanted to ask her where they were going but couldn’t find the words.
One step brought him closer so their arms brushed together and their magic surged as the air thickened between them. After a fewminutes and some turns that Westley couldn’t quite remember, they ended up in an older section near the back of the library.
Reluctantly, Westley released Solveig’s hand, immediately missing her warmth as she turned to face him.
“This is the history section. Asgard has worked tirelessly over the centuries to collect works from all the realms. Scribes of all races took notes and wrote their histories after Ragnarök. Copies were made for the realms that wanted to build libraries and schools. So while some of these are not originals, they are copies of those journals.”
She reached up and started taking books out, seemingly at random, piling them in Westley’s arms. When she took the next one down, he started in surprise, almost letting the heavy books fall to the floor.
It was a newer book with a familiar language and design.
“This is from Idavoll.”
“Yes, and it is the original.”
Westley’s eyes narrowed, his shoulders rising. “Why does Asgard have it?” he asked, trying to temper the anger in his voice.
Solveig placed the book on his stack and laid a hand on his arm. “It was brought to us after a branch of Fae settled in the forest,” she said kindly. “A scholar wanted to keep it safe when the monarchy of Idavoll began rewriting their history.”
