Chapter 62
Thousands of white daisies decorated the throne room walls and adorned the rows of seating. Loose petals fell like snowflakes from the strands hanging from the ceiling, covering the room like a soft winter storm, mirroring the weather outside.
Westley kept Solveig in the shadows as servants bustled around the room, preparing for the coronation.
The throne room of Idavoll was a sacred place, used only for preeminent occasions—like the crowning of new kings and queens, royal marriages, and official announcements, such as the birth of an heir.
It was sealed to anyone outside the royal family and the servants who prepared it. After seeing the way the Queens of Asgard ruled and welcomed their people into their throne room, the disparity between the Fae had never been more glaring.
Idavoll royals had never considered their denizens worthy of being in their presence. Westley furrowed his brow at the thought. He’d once felt the same way.
Guilt washed over him at his past actions—for not listening to North sooner, for not seeing how far his parents had fallen.
He shook the dark thoughts away and took in Solveig’s awed face. Her eyes still held that haunted look from the tunnel and he longed to banish it completely, even if it took his entire existence.
She craned her neck to view the top of the impossibly high ceiling. The throne room was unlike any other place in the palace, still sprouting from the ground with nature at its base but instead of bark, these trees were gilded with silver. Jewelled flowers decorated every square inch.
A lone spire formed the ceiling, so tall only magic could have built it. Trees stretched high to reach Valhalla—as the history of the palace went.
The first rulers had built this place to reach the gods. Four trees cornered the room and began to converge halfway up, stretching towards each other until gathering at the precipice to create the spire.
Silver trees gleamed in the early sunrise, the light streaming through the windows reaching almost as high.
The throne of Idavoll was legendary, made of pure silver crafted by the Dwarven to never tarnish.
Its ornate design was that of a wolf and a tree—of Fenrir and Yggdrasil.
Idavoll represented the fall of the realms, the death of the gods, and the rebirth of the new world.
For if it hadn’t been for Ragnarok, the Fae never would have come into existence.
The emerald-green eyes of the silver wolf glinted in the early sunlight, and for a moment Westley felt as though the wolf was staring directly at him.
No, not him. At Solveig.
Recognition of the wolf, of Fenrir, flashed through her and with it, a shadow of power danced between them. A shiver ran down his spine. It was the same wolf that marked his torso and arm. The one she had traced with her fingers and lips. The one that intrinsically linked them.
A different kind of shiver moved through him as he gripped her by the waist and brought her flush against his chest. He elicited his favourite breathy gasp from her, sliding his hand across the front of her gown, grazing her breast with his knuckles.
Gods, that gown.
She was a goddess stepping out of his history books—right out of Asgard of old, a living flame in the darkness of his soul.
Why did you bring me here? she asked, the voice in her mind whispering as though the bustling servants would note their presence if she spoke aloud.
He had no such qualms. He pressed his lips to the shell of her ear. “I wanted to show you the throne.”
Solveig pulled back so she could study his face. “But I’ll see it later today. Why now?”
He sighed and rested his forehead against hers. “This is a piece of me, a piece of my upbringing. This throne symbolizes my blind obedience, and I wanted to see it one last time before it changes.”
“Can you tell me about it? The throne has been shrouded in mystery. It is quite stunning. Why Fenrir?”
Wolves in general were revered in Idavoll. They had festivals celebrating the majestic creatures. The animal was chosen to symbolize their connection as Forest Fae, their unending loyalty and protectiveness. That was what everyone outside the palace believed. In reality, it went far deeper.
“The royal families of Idavoll have worshipped Fenrir in secret since the days of the split. The great wolf has been a symbol of our revenge. It’s why I got this tattoo in the first place, as a reminder of why I fought.”
“But why Fenrir? Why not Skoll or Hati?”
It was a fair question. He’d learned extensively about Skoll and Hati—the wolves who had chased the sun and moon relentlessly, catching them during Ragnarok. But it was Fenrir, their father, who was considered the ultimate being of strength and revenge.
“Fenrir was kept by the Aesir because of his power. And when he continued to grow rapidly, they decided to restrain him, to keep him from wreaking havoc on the Nine Realms. Though they eventually succeeded, the Dwarven chains they’d trapped him with couldn’t hold him in the end.”
“The first Idavoll Fae saw themselves like the wolf?”
Westley nodded, lost in lessons of his youth. “The Aesir feared Fenrir because they knew that eventually, he would seek his revenge.”
Solveig was quiet for some time. Eventually, the commotion of the throne room died down until they were the only two left.
The silence wrapped around them, allowing Westley to bask in her closeness. Sharing this piece of himself, of his history, was another chain breaking. Each link weakening until he could completely shake them off.
But it wasn’t revenge he sought. It was forgiveness.
“Vidarr killed Fenrir in the end,” Solveig said, breaking through his thoughts.
Westley smirked. “Allegedly.”
She returned his smile and nodded in acquiescence. “We’ll never truly know what happened during Ragnarok, will we?”
“I don’t think even the Aesir knew what happened. They were all supposed to die.”
It was something that had been on his mind. What truly happened to them? The texts from Asgard claimed they roamed Yggdrasil, powerless. And yet, if Idavoll’s history could be rewritten, so could the beginning of days.
“Loss of magic is a kind of death,” Solveig speculated. They shared a meaningful look. It had felt a lot like death when their magic had been stripped from them.
“True, their essence and dominion over the Nine Realms was destroyed. They were ripped from their world.”
Solveig’s gaze trailed back to the silver wolf. “What will North do about Fenrir?”
“It still might be a fitting symbol because, if the legends are to be believed, the wolf died for his cause.”
“Only after wreaking havoc during Ragnarok,” Solveig reminded him.
Past and present stilled the air, as if the gods themselves were listening and learning. Lightning clapped outside the windows, followed by a booming thunder. If Westley hadn’t known better, he would’ve thought it sounded an awful lot like the rumble of a wolf’s growl.