The hearth burned low now.
The great blaze that had warmed the birth chamber for nearly two days had calmed to flickering orange embers, painting the room in honeyed light and long, dancing shadows.
Vetrúlfr sat beside the high bed carved from ash and stone.
His boots were off, the wolf-pelt cloak draped across the chair behind him, his sword leaned unceremoniously against the wall.
For once, the warrior looked like a man at rest.
Roisín stirred under the heavy furs, her pale auburn hair damp with sweat and sticking lightly to her forehead.
Her hand, still trembling faintly with the exhaustion of labor, rested in his.
"You lived," he said softly, as though repeating it aloud might make it more real.
She gave him a tired smile. Her voice was hoarse, but steady. "I told you… the gods haven't finished with me yet."
He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. "You scared me."
"You always look so fearless," she whispered. "But here you are… shaking."
