The morning after the sauna, Astrid woke tangled in sweat and heat, her robe halfway open, the scent of birch and something saltier still lingering in her sheets. She didn't move for a while. Her body pulsed with memory—Leif's voice in the dark, the water's sting, the sacred stillness of being watched without shame.
She rose slowly. Wrapped a thick woolen shawl around her shoulders and made coffee strong enough to burn the past off her tongue. Outside the window, mist hugged the trees like a veil. Ase had once said that on mornings like this, the fjord drank memory from the sky.
And today, it would drink hers.
When she stepped outside, the path was quiet. Not even the birds were singing. But by the time she reached the edge of the village, she saw the Widow Åse waiting—wrapped in midnight wool, her gray braid coiled tight around her head like a crown.
"You're late," Åse said.
Astrid blinked. "For what?"
Åse turned and began walking, expecting to be followed. "Your first lesson. Don't ask. Just come."
Åse led her to the far northern edge of the village, where the pine trees grew thicker, older. They walked in silence for what felt like an hour. Finally, they reached a small, curved structure made entirely of stone and moss. A door half-covered in vines. No windows.
Astrid stared. "What is this place?"
Åse didn't answer. She opened the door and stepped inside.
Astrid followed—and gasped.
It wasn't a cabin.
It was a watching room.
Low stone walls, torches flickering in iron sconces. A bed of furs in the center. Chains—not crude, but ornamental—hung from the ceiling in silvery loops. Mirrors. Hooks. Carvings on every beam. The air was thick with the smell of musk and smoke and old breath.
And in the center: a circular pit, barely raised off the ground. Not a fire pit. Not a bathing pool.
A ritual pit.
Åse looked at her. "This is where you learn."
Astrid's mouth was dry. "Learn what?"
Åse walked to the center and reached down, drawing something from the pit. A chain. At the end of it: a silver ring, smooth as bone.
"To watch without interruption. To feel without shame. To be the vessel, not the fire."
She handed the ring to Astrid.
Astrid took it. The metal was warm.
Åse's voice was gentle now. "In Løvlund, some moan. Others listen. But all are part of the body. The fjord remembers every role."
Astrid swallowed. "And my role?"
Åse smiled, stepping closer. Her hand touched Astrid's shoulder, fingers like branches on skin. "You are still deciding."
That night, the villagers came.
Quietly. One by one. No invitations, no schedule. Word had spread—Astrid is learning. And in Løvlund, when someone began to learn, others offered themselves. Not as teachers. As mirrors.
Kari and Emil came first. Still flushed with youth. They kissed at the edge of the pit while Astrid sat in the shadows, the ring around her wrist, her breath caught in her chest.
They undressed each other slowly. With the kind of reverence only the innocent know. Kari's hands trembled when she lowered herself onto Emil, and Emil's voice cracked when she whispered "harder". Astrid watched it all—jaw clenched, thighs slick under the woolen throw, fingers gripping the ring tight.
Then came Leif.
He didn't look at her at first. Just stood behind Emil and Kari as they rocked together, then stepped into the pit when they were done. His shirt came off. His scars caught the torchlight.
"Astrid," he said. "Come sit at the edge."
She moved without speaking. Bare feet on warm stone. Knees drawn to her chest.
Leif knelt in front of her. "Don't speak. Don't touch. Just watch me."
She nodded.
He reached for his own thigh. Began to stroke himself slowly. Gently. Eyes never leaving hers.
She stared. Open-mouthed. Dripping.
He moaned softly. "This is what you do to me. Just by being."
Her hand slipped between her thighs.
He didn't stop her.
He whispered: "You don't ask permission here. You only give it."
She was panting now. "Leif…"
"Shh," he smiled. "Let it happen."
She came with a sound that broke something. A noise raw and ancestral, echoing through the stone room like wind through cave halls. Leif came a second later, his breath stuttering, his back arched.
They didn't touch.
They didn't need to.
And from the shadows, Åse whispered: "Good. Now you understand."
Later, as the torches died down, and the last of the villagers slipped quietly into the mist, Astrid sat alone beside the pit.
She wasn't thinking.
She was remembering.
The way the fjord touched her. The way Ida's mouth trembled before a kiss. The way Leif's moan folded around her name like it belonged there.
She slipped the silver ring off her wrist.
Held it to her lips.
And kissed it.
Not as a symbol of surrender.
But devotion.
To this place.To this body.To every sacred ache inside her that had waited too long.