then turned to Rune, who stood panting. His face was spattered with blood, his hair plastered to his sweaty brow, and in his gaze was the fierce flame of something that could have been love. She had never understood life, Elma thought, until that moment. Blood and death swirled around them in a maelstrom. Terror warped her thoughts, made her lungs burn hot. But she was free, and the wind was on her face, and grief, sharp, painful grief embedded in the recesses of her soul. Only a Volta, she thought, heart slamming in her ribs, finds life at the edge of death.
