Mattis's house sat at the edge of the fjord, where the grass gave way to rock and the water lapped like a sigh at the shore. It was smaller than Astrid expected. Modest. Pine-walled. Humble in its invitation.
She knocked once.
And the door opened without sound.
It wasn't Mattis who greeted her.
It was Elise.
She was barefoot, hair still damp from bathing, wearing only a single rope wrapped around her waist and tied loosely behind her back — not for modesty, but for ritual. Her eyes, dark and ageless, landed on Astrid like heat.
"You're late," Elise said.
Astrid hesitated. "I—was I meant to—?"
"Yes," Elise answered, and stepped aside. "But the fjord delays what it wants to deepen."
Astrid entered.
The scent of dried juniper, warm honey, and clean cotton surrounded her. Light poured in through high windows. A single wooden table stood in the center, adorned with nothing but a carved bowl of still water.
Mattis wasn't there.
Or maybe he was waiting.
"Where is—?"
Elise turned, lifting a finger to silence her. "Let me show you what he's already offered."
She led Astrid by the hand through the hallway. Every door was open.
In one room, a bed of fur and linen, still warm.
In another, shelves lined with folded cloth, oils, books with handwritten bindings.
In the last: ropes.
Not crude. Not for restraint. But braided in color — soft golds and mossy greens, sea-washed blues and deep dusk-reds.
Elise selected one, green like forest after rainfall.
"This was mine," she said. "The first time I lay down for him. He tied me not to control me—but to witness what I was too afraid to hold."
Astrid stared at the rope. "And now?"
Elise stepped closer. Her hands rose to Astrid's shoulders and slowly unfastened the buttons of her dress.
"Now," she whispered, "I pass it on."
The rope didn't bind her.
It offered her.
Elise wrapped it around Astrid's waist, letting her fingers trail every exposed inch of skin. She worked in silence — slow, respectful, reverent — until the ends were knotted behind Astrid's back, pressing her hips forward, as if to say: you belong to your own hunger.
Astrid trembled.
"Are you cold?" Elise asked.
"No," she whispered. "Just... open."
Elise smiled. "Good."
She stepped back. Removed her own rope. Let it fall.
And then — without prelude — she knelt.
Elise's hands traced Astrid's thighs, firm and assured. Her mouth pressed a single kiss to the inside of Astrid's left knee.
"You've never been touched like this before," Elise said, not asking.
"No."
"Then I won't rush."
Astrid gasped when Elise's lips met her inner thigh. The softness. The reverence. It wasn't hunger — it was communion. A prayer whispered not in words, but in tongue.
Astrid's knees buckled. Elise caught her.
"Don't fall yet," she murmured. "Let me keep you standing."
Mouth moved higher.
Breath hit skin.
Astrid moaned, helpless and holy.
"Ohh—Elise—"
But Elise only pressed a finger to Astrid's lips. Shhh. "No names during receiving," she whispered. "Only breath."
When Astrid came, it was not a climax — it was an offering. Her thighs shook. Her chest arched. Her moans spilled like wine over altar stone.
And Elise stayed with her, kneeling, lips pressed gently against Astrid's lower belly — like sealing a letter with heat.
Silence filled the room after.
Astrid collapsed into Elise's lap, weeping softly.
"Why does this feel like... truth?" she whispered.
Elise held her. "Because it is."
Later, wrapped in linens, Astrid sat at the low table with Elise.
Mattis entered quietly. No surprise on his face. Just a warm, steady presence — a man who had given permission and asked nothing in return.
He poured wine.
Handed it first to Elise, then to Astrid.
"To the fjord," he said.
Astrid raised her glass. "To remembering what we forgot."
Elise touched her glass to hers.
And somewhere beneath their feet, the fjord whispered against the rocks, like a body exhaling long-held grief.