Jade Fern Grove ᛁᛋᛉᛁᛚᛋ

the last few days with him had been easier than she expected.
he didn’t speak too much. and when he did, it was less to boast and more to ask—sometimes even to listen. that alone had won him a sliver of her patience. trust, though? that remained to be seen.
but there was a thin line between them—a fine thread she refused to slacken. she was wary. of him. of his intentions. as she forever would be of all norsemen.
she had watched for his gaze. to see if it lingered too long with the way her body had begun to betray her, aching in subtle, mounting ways as her season crept closer with the turning moon.
not once did his hunger slip past momentary civility.
and now, with the night drawing its shawl overhead, he asks. blunt, yes, as all norsemen are. but not cruel.
anoré is quiet for a time as she inspects the kill he'd brought. more out of habit, than purpose.
finally, she settles onto her belly, the earth cool against her warming skin, "ég fer aldrei frá börnum." she says at last. there is an aching bite to her words, but not aimed at him.
she would never leave, not hers. they would have to be torn from her, and they were.
"þrír flúðu." her gaze goes beyond pale lashes, looking into the horizon where they might roam, "langt frá roti konungsríkisins. langt frá föður sínum." her jaw tightens, "ég dvaldi nógu lengi til að... síðustu tvo. með höndum hans."
their names catch in her throat like shards of glass. not because she has forgotten—never that.