“Like what?” Baldr asked. “It’s not like we can bring back the dead.”
“Maybe we can.”
My grip loosened. Bring Astrid back? “You can bring her back?”
“I touch warrior souls to send them to Fólkvangr. If I can do that, maybe I can do the same with her soul. It hasn’t left her body yet, I can sense that.”
Freyja placed a gentle hand on mine and held my gaze. “I can’t promise anything, Týr, but I will try.”
Baldr rested his hand on my shoulder in quiet solidarity with me.
I sucked in a deep breath. “You’ll swear a vow.”
Her shoulders drooped. “Týr—”
“You’ll swear, you’ll help me until I am reunited with her, or I avenge her memory.”
“She was already going to help,” Baldr said.
“Swear it to me, Freyja,” I said, my tone more forceful.
The goddess took a long breath and nodded. I released her. She pulled a knife from its sheath at her side and held out her hand while I held out my remaining one.
“I, Freyja, swear to you, Týr, to do everything in my power to return Astrid to us.” She cut her hand deep with the knife, dark blood pooling. She then cut my hand. We clasped them together and power rushed up our arms.
“I, Týr, swear to you, Freyja, should you fail to uphold your oath, I will kill you.”
Freyja’s lips pressed together, but there was nothing she could do, now that I’d uttered the vow. I cared not for the history we had. If she failed me, I’d treat her the same as I would Fenrir, should he ever cross my path again.
“It is done.” She stood. “Gather Astrid, and we’ll go back to my place. My magic is strongest in my home territory.”
Holding Astrid was no easy task with my missing hand, but I had assistance from Baldr. My chest ached watching him cradle her as if she were the most precious thing in the world. While my grief came out in the form of my rage and desire for vengeance, he was quietly grieving her loss. He cared just as much as me, except he never got to tell her. I couldn’t imagine that type of pain.
Freyja teleported us away from the battle, and we found ourselves outside her home.
“I’ll have to do some research,” she said. “But to start, I’ll need an altar. That will help me channel the magic.”
“I’ll build it,” Baldr said. I didn’t refuse him. The look in his eyes told me it was best to allow him to help in this way.
Freyja nodded and turned to me. “Before I start, I want to look at your—”
“I’m fine,” I said.
“Týr, your arm isn’t healing properly. You should already be regrowing what you lost, but it’s not doing that.”
“And it won’t. Not yet at least.” Not until I had Astrid back. It was my punishment—my reminder of how I failed her.
Freyja stepped away, understanding she wouldn’t win this. She entered her house while I stood there, cradling Astrid, and Baldr built the altar.
I wasn’t sure how long I stood there, feeling her body growing colder and stiffer. I didn’t know how many times I replayed that moment in my head of her life fading from her eyes, over and over. I didn’t count the number of times the tides of grief crashed against my crumbling walls.
However long it was, it took Baldr’s touch on my shoulder to rouse me. He didn’t say anything, only nodded, as if understanding.
Freyja stood by the altar Baldr built. Braziers lit the area all around us. The sun was long gone, and a chill clung to the air.
I took slow, stiff steps toward the waiting goddess. My heart ached and fear crept at the back of my mind. What if this doesn’t work? What if I lose my heart for good?
I took a steadying breath and laid Astrid on the altar. “Are you sure you have the spell you need?”
