Chapter Thirty-Three
Three days later, Freya resumed her usual place behind the queen as Astrid wrote to Sydlig’s council about the assassin who had killed their king.
In the letter, Astrid explained that she welcomed them to come take the assassin as soon as they had their succession in order.
Freya hoped that was enough time to get what she wanted out of Alvor.
The decision to keep Alvor around rather than let Astrid kill her had been made in the heat of the moment. Freya could pretend like there were more answers she wanted out of her, like she really did want Hedda to have a task to prove her worthiness, but she knew that wasn’t the full truth.
When she’d looked into Alvor’s eyes, Freya had seen herself reflected back.
Was Alvor’s job not hers, once upon a time? Granted, Freya had never been asked to kill a king, and she did not think she would have aimed for such a large target on someone else’s behalf. Too dangerous, too much risk to herself.
But she had killed warlords and those who served them at the behest of others.
Was it so different that she’d had no choice, that she’d done what she did to survive, when Alvor was not forced to do the same?
If Alvor had come to the queen for mercy from the start, explained who she’d been working for and why, Astrid would have protected her.
As for Freya, she’d only had herself. No one else had been willing or able to protect her. Not until she got to Torden.
She had not yet decided if keeping Alvor alive was another form of protection.
Astrid finished writing and set down her quill.
Her back was tense, and, in understanding of their new boundaries, Freya took hold of Astrid’s shoulders and massaged them in a kneading motion.
Her hands were healed fully, but the recovery from the poison still overwhelmed her sometimes.
She had taken to sleeping long hours, but otherwise, she felt not so different from her usual self.
“You always know how to help,” Astrid said with a sigh.
“That’s what I’m here for,” Freya said.
The sound of the crackling fire filled the room. Freya looked down at her queen. If not for Astrid, Freya could’ve been in Alvor’s position somewhere, or dead. It was only a matter of time before her bad luck caught up.
Believing in bad luck was dangerously close to believing in the existence of her wyrd. Freya leaned back, releasing Astrid’s shoulders.
“I pray Sydlig doesn’t plan to send anyone to Torden any time soon,” Astrid said. “I only just got rid of them.”
“Or Alvor did,” Freya said darkly. “I’m sure they will be busy handling their own affairs for a bit yet.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Freya built up the courage to speak. “Astrid, I want to get something off my chest.”
Astrid faced her. “Anything, Freya.”
Freya’s chest warmed. “We haven’t established where we go from here. What we plan to do with ourselves. Each other, I mean.”
Astrid tilted her head. “Follow me,” she said.
Easy as anything, she took Freya’s hand and led her to the bedroom. Maybe that was evidence enough of how far they had come since the beginning. Not long ago, Freya had touched Astrid’s hand by accident and faced days of mortification afterward.
Astrid sat on her bed and patted the spot next to her. In the corner of the chamber, Fenrir dozed away. The hearth in this room was unlit, but Freya was sure the luxurious rug kept the floors warmer than they used to be.
Her influence was everywhere.
She took Astrid’s hands in her own, but her mind was blank, emptier than it had ever been. She was always thinking, scheming, solving, but when it mattered most, her thoughts failed her.
“I love you,” Astrid said, saving Freya from whatever she’d been about to say. “I will always love you. I am worried it will have significant impact on my rule, but I do.”
“I’ll steer you back to logic if it ever does.”
In the dark room, Astrid’s eyes were shiny. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible someday.”
“When I die, you mean,” said Freya.
“Yes,” said Astrid. “It’s not fair. Your life is so much shorter than mine. It feels like a sign. That you’re…not meant for me.”
Freya squeezed Astrid’s hands—skin to skin, pulse to pulse. “I don’t feel that way at all,” she said.
“Oh, Freya… Stars, I can’t make it through this.”
Freya broke from Astrid’s grip to brush a tear from her cheek.
“Of course I want to be with you,” Astrid continued. “I want to be yours in every sense. But I don’t know if I can survive the heartbreak of your natural lifespan. I don’t know if I can live on five centuries without you. How can anyone compare after I’ve had you?”
Her voice broke on the last syllable.
In the midst of Astrid’s tears, Freya’s own formed. She blinked them back and swallowed. No, it wasn’t fair. She would always have Astrid, assuming they could keep off the assassins. But Astrid…
There had been a moment, back at the temple, surrounded by priestesses, when Freya had come to the specific kind of clarity some people worked decades to find.
Articulating it would be difficult.
“You’re never going to lose me,” Freya said firmly. She pressed her palms into Astrid’s. “I’m yours forever. When I die, and the goddess takes me to her field and reincarnates my soul, I will come back to you.”
The statement did not have its intended effect, heavy though it was said. It did stop Astrid’s tears, however. “Now isn’t a good time for a joke,” she said lightly.
“I’m not making a joke,” Freya said. She brought Astrid’s hands to her lips. “I’ll be reincarnated, I’ll age, and something in my bones will remember you, and I will return to your side.”
“I don’t know…”
“I do know. The next time I die, I will be reincarnated again, and I’ll come back to you—and the same for the next life, and the next.
One day, your body will give out too, and you’ll be the one to come back to me.
That is our wyrd.” Freya kissed Astrid’s knuckles.
“I know it to be true like I know the sun will rise tomorrow.”
Astrid sobbed. “You really believe that, Freya?”
“I do,” Freya said. “I absolutely do, with everything I have.”
Astrid threw her arms around Freya and crushed her. “Then I believe it, too,” she said.
Freya broke free of the hug and planted a gentle kiss on Astrid’s lips—a promise of their many years to come.
She pressed her forehead to Astrid’s and felt her breath against her skin. The smell of her, the warmth of her—all so intoxicating. All hers.
Freya reached for the bronze hair cuff at the end of Astrid’s plait and twisted it off. She twined her fingers through Astrid’s hair. Astrid moved back as Freya loosened the braid, unraveling the three sections slowly and with care.
An inexplicable melancholy overcame Freya when she was done. She wanted to touch Astrid’s hair forever. Astrid sat watching, hair long and wavy and surrounding her face.
“You can braid it again if you like,” Astrid said.
Freya smiled at the easy way Astrid read her mind. “Maybe later. I am in the mood for undoing tonight.”
She tapped the lace on Astrid’s boot. Astrid held it up for her. Freya shifted to the rug, kneeling, and untied the laces from top to bottom.
“What else will you undo?” Astrid asked, eyes playful.
Just like she had been the first time they went to the Rosebriar Inn, when Freya saw she could be happy. Only, this time, Freya had done it.
“I’ll work my way up,” Freya said.
Astrid parted her legs so Freya could access the lace of her trousers. Freya looked not at the laces, but up at Astrid, who kissed her forehead as she worked. She unrolled Astrid’s trousers past the ankle, maintaining eye contact, and tossed them aside.
“Come down here with me,” Freya said. “I’ll undo the top.”
Astrid joined Freya on the rug, facing her so Freya could access the laces of her doublet. Freya’s fingers slid through the gaps in the laces, just the layer of Astrid’s tunic between them, and Astrid gasped.
Freya took her time. She pulled the laces apart row by row and set the doublet, still warm from Astrid’s body, aside.
“Nothing to untie on the tunic,” Astrid said.
“It’s a little long for my liking anyhow,” said Freya.
Astrid lightly punched her shoulder. The tunic reached just to mid-thigh.
Freya tilted forward to kiss her, planting one hand on her thigh. Her skin was so warm to the touch, inviting. Astrid shifted against Freya’s touch. She cupped the back of Freya’s head in her hand, leaning her head back to kiss her deeper.
Freya tumbled into Astrid’s lap. Astrid pulled her up and held her close. Their mouths moved faster, more desperate. The sting of Astrid’s tusks grazing Freya’s skin was a welcome kind of pain. One Freya could get used to.
Freya clenched Astrid’s tunic in her fist.
“This really has to come off,” she mumbled against Astrid’s mouth.
Breathing heavily, Astrid allowed some space between them. Freya grabbed the tunic from behind Astrid’s neck and whipped it onto the ground.
She couldn’t help but place a palm against Astrid’s midsection.
Her soft skin was occasionally marred by a nick from an old wound, from back when she’d been a fighter.
Freya allowed herself to circle the underside of one of Astrid’s breasts.
She looked up into Astrid’s eyes and saw softness there, saw love.
Astrid was still a fighter, even if her fighting looked a little different now.
Freya’s greedy eyes drank in every detail of Astrid—her collarbones, her elegant neck, her horns—so elaborate, so detailed up close—and her tusks, the redness around her mouth.
“You’re gorgeous,” Freya said. She took hold of the end of Astrid’s long hair and twined it through her fingers.
“You certainly make me feel that way,” Astrid said.
Freya released Astrid’s hair and shoved at her shoulders until she was flat against the carpet with Freya on top.
Freya adjusted her stance, her thighs squeezing Astrid’s midsection to either side.
Astrid tugged at Freya’s tunic, and Freya, laughing, removed her own layers so Astrid could touch her skin.
Astrid put one tentative finger to the fresh scar between Freya’s breasts. Alvor’s arrow had pierced her there, nearly taking her life. The wound no longer hurt, but the scar would remain. Just one of many, Freya thought.
“We have been through much to get here, haven’t we?” Astrid asked gently.
“It only makes me appreciate what we have more,” said Freya.
Freya leaned down so their skin pressed together, torsos touching.
Astrid’s hungry hands roved over Freya’s naked back as they kissed.
Freya touched her lips to Astrid’s jaw, the soft spot under her neck that made her whole body clench, her collarbone.
She moved down, taking Astrid’s nipple in her mouth.
Astrid squeezed Freya’s arms as Freya’s tongue worked.
She licked the underside of Astrid’s breast and trailed wet kisses that tensed Astrid’s muscles all the way to her navel.
Freya nudged Astrid’s legs up as she took her place between them. She looked up at the hills and valleys of her favorite person, the orc who made her feel at home, and a rush of gratitude overcame her.
With a sleepy smile, Astrid stroked Freya’s hair with one hand.
“What do you want?” Freya asked.
“You,” Astrid said. “All of you.”
Freya kissed Astrid’s soft belly as her searching fingers found Astrid’s clit to a sharp intake of breath. Freya wove patterns into Astrid, learning which movements made her squirm, what she reacted to best. She swirled and flicked and rubbed until Astrid’s hips jerked.
“Inside,” Astrid choked out. “I want you inside.”
Freya’s fingers swept down and inside her. Stars, was she soft. She pressed two fingers in, tilted up at the tips, and Astrid gasped.
“More,” Astrid said.
Freya slipped in another finger, pumping, watching Astrid’s expressions as she rested her head against Astrid’s thigh. Her own insides squirmed, heat rising to her face. This was a privilege, one she would be happy to exert for the rest of her life.
“M-more,” Astrid said.
Freya pressed a fourth finger into Astrid, and Astrid clenched around her. Sweet goddess. Freya bit back her own moan, seeing Astrid’s head thrown back, lips trembling.
“More, Freya,” Astrid said.
The tips of her fingers and thumb tented together, Freya pushed back into Astrid’s cunt. Astrid grabbed a fistful of Freya’s hair in her hand and thrust. Freya felt Astrid open for her, past the resistance, and watched as her fist disappeared to the wrist.
Astrid writhed against her. Freya used her other hand to hold her down on the rug.
“More,” Astrid said. “Please.”
“I told you, ‘please’ is my favorite word,” Freya panted. “But I’m all out of fingers.”
Astrid opened her eyes. She was sweaty, tousled, hair everywhere. Absolutely perfect in every way.
“Freya Wedd,” she said, “I said I wanted all of you. I want every inch of you that I can take.”
Goosebumps rose on the back of Freya’s neck.
She lowered her mouth to Astrid’s clit, damp curls of hair pressed to her lips.
She tasted her—goddess, did she ever—as she deepened her arm.
One inch, two. Astrid was a puddle under her as Freya lapped her up.
She pressed in some more, and Astrid shuddered.
Her grip tightened in Freya’s hair. A moan left her throat, filling Freya’s ears and heart.
With a scream and another tightening of her grip, Astrid gushed over Freya’s hand.
Freya shuddered, too. She had not removed her trousers, and she knew very well they were wet beyond wearing.
Very slowly, Freya extracted her drenched hand. She wiped it on the rug—it would need cleaning, in any case—and moved up to curl into Astrid’s arms.
“You are something else, Freya,” Astrid said, massaging Freya’s shoulder. She was breathless. Freya was, too.
The room was warmer than it should’ve been, full of the smell of them, and Freya still tasted Astrid on her tongue. She looked at her hand in wonder, looked at Astrid in wonder that she’d been able to take so much of it.
“What would you say to a private commitment ceremony?” Astrid asked quietly.
“I would say yes,” said Freya.
Astrid smiled brighter than the sun.