Larson hit the floor in a crouch. His groping hands found his sword belt in the darkness, and he worked Valvitnir from its sheath without a sound. The blade trembled questioningly as he pressed it to his naked chest, hoping to shield the steel from residual light which might reveal him. Taking care that the inseams of his doeskin pants did not rub together, he pressed to the wall and worked his way toward the portal of his bedroom.

Again, Larson heard movement. Carefully, he flicked back an edge of his curtain and examined the main room. The lantern had burned out, and the suite lay in blackness. A light in the corner bedroom discolored its drawn curtain in a central circle, marred by wrinkles in the fabric. Beyond, Larson heard a sandal scrape wood and a pained human sob.

Larson stalked the sound, acutely aware of each of his own motions. Well aware any person skilled enough to harm Silme could easily kill him, Larson still continued, relying on surprise to even the odds. Positioned to spring, he snaked the sword forward and tipped an edge of the curtain up. The linen folded aside to reveal a slight figure pacing before a candle on a bed table. It was Silme.

Larson dropped his sword and stepped into the bedroom. Silme whirled abruptly. Her hair, hung in a cascade of golden tangles, and her eyes looked red and swollen. A tear slid halfway down her cheek before she caught it with a finger and flipped it away. Though stripped of pretenses and pride, she seemed every bit as beautiful to Larson.

He caught her to his chest, and she, at first, resisted. Then grief broke in a flurry of tears. She wept for her family, for all the innocent victims of Bramin's hatred, and for the men of Midgard fated to die in Loki's Chaos. Her tears glided down Larson's chest. He pressed his arms around her, muttering senseless comforts. Her warmth raised him to a dizzying height of passion, and it took no small amount of will to suppress the urge to force his desires upon her.