neck, kiss her cheek, her brow. My senses may scream that she is my Vanirdottir, that she belongs to me in the deepest way possible – but that is all poetry and ancient magic, that is the dream that gleams upon her, holding me transfixed when I let myself look at her. But the reality is that she is suffering, and she wears Thrain’s mark, and I… I am who I am.