The next morning, Astrid woke alone.
The furs were still warm with the echo of bodies. The scent of salt, sweat, and faint crushed wildflowers clung to her skin like proof. She sat up slowly, her thighs aching pleasantly, her lips still swollen from too many kisses.
On the small wooden table near the door, someone had left a clay bowl of berries and a note in clean, looping Norwegian:
"Today is yours. Take it."
No name. But she knew it was Linna.
The village was quiet in the early light — not empty, but respectful. People moved with the kind of calm that only came from bodies well-fed with touch and sleep. Astrid walked barefoot down the gravel path, the soles of her feet learning the village like Braille.
She bathed alone in the inlet, letting the water rinse her between her thighs, her breasts, her lips. When her fingers drifted low, she didn't stop them. She slipped into herself with reverence, remembering Mattis's moan and Linna's whispered "yes."
But it wasn't climax she sought.
It was claiming.
Later, as she stood outside her grandmother's cottage — freshly dressed, face open to the sea breeze — Åse appeared like a vision from the mist, her white hair unbraided and wild.
"You feel it now," she said, stepping close. "Don't you?"
Astrid nodded. "It's not lust. It's… hunger."
Åse smiled knowingly. "It's power. But it will not come from waiting. You've asked. You've received. Now you take."
"How?"
Åse tilted her head. "Who do you want?"
Astrid hesitated only a moment. Then: "Leif."
She found him in the woodshop near the edge of the village, shirtless, sweat gleaming down his spine as he planed a slab of birch. His body moved in rhythm with the blade, hips swaying, muscles taught not from vanity but from use.
He looked up when she entered. Didn't speak.
Just nodded.
Astrid stepped inside, closing the door behind her. Her fingers found the knot on her robe and tugged.
It fell.
His eyes darkened.
But he didn't move.
Not until she walked to him, placed her hand flat on his chest, and whispered, "I want."
That was all.
The workbench was rough beneath her thighs, but she didn't care. Leif lifted her as if she weighed nothing, laid her down like something sacred — not fragile.
When he kissed her, it was deep, asking.
But she broke it.
"No," she said. "Not like that."
His breath caught. Then he smiled.
She pushed him down. Straddled him. Took his wrists and pinned them above his head.
And she took.
Not rushed. Not cruel. But completely self-honest.
She rolled her hips with purpose, watching his face twist with pleasure he no longer controlled. His cock twitched deep inside her, and she slowed just to feel it ache.
"Let me—"
"No," she whispered, hand against his throat, applying just enough pressure to say: not yet.
He obeyed.
Because the village taught its men to revere a woman's rhythm, not rush it.
Her orgasm came like thunder behind a mountain — felt before it was seen, sudden in its finality.
She collapsed over him, their sweat mixing. Her fingers tangled in his hair.
After, Leif sat back against the wood wall, her head resting on his shoulder.
"You took," he whispered. "Good."
"I liked it," she replied.
"Then take more. Take everything. Just don't forget…" He trailed a finger down her spine. "We give freely. But you must choose."
"Choose what?"
"What kind of woman you want to be."
That night, Astrid stood naked in the window of her grandmother's cottage, the fjord shining under a cloudless sky.
In her reflection, she didn't see London anymore.
She saw her.
Bare. Bruised. Wanting.
Worthy.
And below, in the field, a new gathering had begun. Torches flickered. Bodies moved. Someone played a cello, slow and aching.
Astrid stepped outside.
She didn't wait to be seen.
She walked into the light.
And this time, they parted for her.