The Eight Days of the Week (4)
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A chill ran down Idun’s spine. She looked up from the wooden bucket, letting her eyes scan the hut. The essence of apples filled it all, but not even that, her favorite smell, could calm her fear. Then, she saw it. Two eyes. One blazing glare. And behind the molten gold of those eyes, Freya’s skin gleaming pale as glacier ice. In midsummer, ice was an impossible thing. As impossible as the presence outside her hut.

Idun had left Asgard so long ago, she had almost forgotten the power it hold. Not chance of forgetting it now. Not while feeling her skin prick with alarm and her feet itching to run away as fast as she could. Instead, she swallowed hard.

She knew this day would come.

Time is like that. Invincible. She didn’t fight it.

And slowly, she stood.


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