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Chapter Text

The first breath of dawn woke the Enchanted Forest with a kiss of mist. Father Sun sent his children, the sunbeams, to dance in the ground clouds for the ceremony of lightfall. Man-made siedis looked on as frolicking reindeer celebrated the rivulets of sunlight streaming through the canopy. Opportunistic stoats prowled the forest floor for leverets, who were vulnerable in the haze. Ravens began croaking as they winged above the rolling vapor, doing their part in rousing dreamers. 

From the birch trees poured a sacred song that only the nature spirits could hear. The Nokk peeked above the lapping waters of Nååmesje River and listened with upright ears, enthralled by the divine frequencies. Gale shook the emerald leaves of the singers as she danced happily between their branches. Bruni uncurled from his tight ball on the shoulder of a sleeping Earth Giant, tuning into the melody like his peers. Elsa, whom Mother Nature had anointed in autumn, poked her blonde head out of her goahti to join her kith in their appreciation of the music.

Nature often sang to the Fifth Spirit when she walked along the riverbank at daybreak, breathing in the minty scent of fireweed flowers. The tunes it most commonly shared were those of chattering red squirrels and cheeping blue tits, but on this misty morning, the trees had shed their shyness to perform for a besotted audience. Elsa stood on the handwoven mat at the entrance of her hut as they harmonized beautifully among a chorus of birdcalls. The leafy choir summoned her away from the Northuldra camp, asking her to meditate with them in the open so she could interpret their chants. What she heard when she obeyed them were lyrics honoring the Northuldra story of Niilá and Áilu, a legendary couple in the constellations.

Their folkloric romance had taken place in the Enchanted Forest, where they lived together for four seasons. Niilá had hailed from the stars while Áilu was born from a Northuldra womb. They had bridged the gap between their worlds by falling deeply in love as Áilu taught Niilá tree cultivation. When Áilu had died, Niilá took his soul to her cosmic home. Today marked the anniversary of their meeting, which hinted to Elsa that the ballad arranged by the birch trees was sung annually.

She smiled as the harmony suffused her heart with unexpected warmth. The sensation was a gift from the trees themselves, who seemed eager for her to experience the tender emotions in their song. Then suddenly, they fell silent, leading to the collapse of her smile. She kept her eyes shut as she waited in a flowered glade, trying to reconnect with the birch families, but they answered her not. Gale whirled around her body, causing the skirts and wings of her gossamer dress to flutter in the air.  

Elsa opened her eyes when Gale's energy intertwined with her own, permitting her to feel the spirit's anxiety. "What is it, Gale?" Elsa asked her airborne messenger in a concerned voice. 

"The Nokk," Gale telepathically informed her. 

A neigh as thunderous as a war cry caught the Fifth Spirit's attention. She turned her head toward Nååmesje River, where the Nokk stood on the undulating surface like a sentinel. With his gaze tethered to her, the iridescent water horse squealed and reared, kicking his front legs. What was originally a worried expression on Elsa's face sank into a frown as dark as a thundercloud. He placed his hooves back on the water and flared his nostrils. 

Elsa approached her agitated companion, caressing his chin with both hands and pressing their foreheads together. “What’s troubling you?” she murmured gently with closed eyes. 

The physical contact allowed the Nokk to plant an image of a boat's underbelly in her mind. Six oars cut through the water that shouldered the hull while a pod of orcas swam underneath it, clicking and whistling. Elsa's mental rapport with the water horse helped her understand that they were alerting him with their vocalizations. The mammals also sent telepathic messages to him that implied the oarsmen had questionable spirits according to their energy scans. 

A rush of distress coursed through Elsa as they added that the passengers were crossing the Álttáeatnu Inlet. "Why are they coming here?" she whispered to herself in confusion.

Unconcerned with the reason, the Nokk pulled his chin out of her palms and snorted in disapproval of her need to know. His rumbling voice entered her mind as he insisted, "It matters not. They must be removed." 

Elsa petted his snout to calm him. "I'm just as frustrated as you are, but we have to handle this diplomatically. They could be sailing from Einar or Ivana, two kingdoms that are neither friends nor foes of Arendelle." 

The Nokk narrowed his luminescent eyes before pawing the water, asking to be liberated from his river. Magic quickly coated his body from head to toe, encasing his pelt in ice crystals that shimmered like stars. He relished being transformed by Elsa’s hands as Gale circled him with leaves in her gust. The Nokk bowed before his snow queen, encouraging her to mount him. She gracefully climbed onto his back and eyed the quiet Northuldra camp in the distance.

Honeymaren Nattura, a reindeer shepherdess of twenty-three, emerged from her goahti in a summer gákti with a flower pattern. Her kind eyes found Elsa and the Nokk, widening delightedly. 

Elsa's lips thinned into a line. "Let's let her know," she told the Nokk, patting his frozen neck.

The Nokk whinnied as he galloped toward Honeymaren, who frowned when she saw the look on Elsa's face. The water spirit stopped before the brunette shepherdess and turned sideways to allow Elsa to converse with her.

"Outsiders are approaching the forest by boat," Elsa shared, her voice solemn and heavy. "They're in the Álttáeatnu Inlet." 

Honeymaren paled at the disconcerting information. "What? How many boats are there?" 

“Only one, but the orcas are disturbed by it." 

The brunette's exasperation replaced her initial fear. "Can you sense why the outsiders are heading toward us?"

"No, but I’ll see what they want before they reach the shore,” Elsa vowed, stroking the Nokk's scalp when he projected his impatience onto her senses. "Please tell Yelena and everyone else." 

"I will," Honeymaren obliged, balling her fists. "But please be careful." 

Elsa's eyes softened as she assured the shepherdess, "I'll be fine, Honeymaren." 

Eager to confront the outsiders while the day was still young, the Nokk reared up on his hind legs before anyone else could say another word. He sprang forward with determination, bolting between birch trees and leaping over siedis. Reindeer made way for him without hesitation while critters scurried into their dens to avoid his stomping hooves. 

Elsa's lavender capelets billowed behind her like flags as the Nokk's powerful legs became a blur of blue. Her brow creased when the water horse showed her a vision of the boat nearing land. She said to the panting Nokk, "We can only hope they come in peace. I don't want there to be any violence." 

A colony of gulls glided over black dorsal fins surfacing from restless waters in the northeast. Sea fog veiled the inlet stretching into the unknown before Flynn Rider, creating white phantoms all around him. The boat that carried him through the gloom was oared by three prison escorts with hollow stares and downturned mouths. 

Their brawny leader, Captain Guðmundur, raised his glowing lantern to the level of his eyes as he squinted at the brume. "Exile is a soft punishment for a pathetic rat like you, Flynn Rider," he grumbled. "My only prayer is that this accursed land will eat you alive."

Gagged and shackled, Flynn could do little else other than gulp down the terror welling inside his throat. He knew not where he was being transported, only that King Kristján of Einar had promised him Hell for his theft of royal parures. His arrest in the kingdom had come as a shock to everyone on the continent, including himself. Never in all his days had he imagined being held at gunpoint by soldiers inside Einar's seaport. Too good was he at hiding, slinking, and evading, yet his talents had failed him on the summer solstice. 

Flynn believed that someone had aided Kristján in tracking him down like an English Pointer directing their master to game. Alas, their identity would remain a mystery to him for as long as he lived in exile.  

"We're here," barked Captain Guðmundur, sending a jolt of fear through Flynn's body.  

The thief shuddered as the pebbled shore of their destination came into view. A subordinate escort jumped out of the boat and landed in the shallow water, tugging the vessel toward the shoreline until its hull met solid earth. Coarse hands pulled Flynn out of the boat and dumped him on the damp ground as if he were a sack of potatoes. Before his body could even register pain, Captain Guðmundur's foot struck his jaw. Unbearable agony exploded in Flynn's mandible, rippling throughout his molars and gums.

He felt water—no, spit—hit his cheek while he hollered against the gag and curled into a fetal position. A hurricane of fists and feet swept his breath away, battering him from all angles. 

"This is the price you pay for stealing from Her Majesty the Queen, foreign scum," Flynn heard Captain Guðmundur growl like a demon. 

The exile succumbed to something he normally detested: praying. He prayed to whatever God or gods housed in the heavens for the assault to end before the prison escorts killed him. A hand grabbed the front of his green doublet and jerked him into a sitting position as tears stung his eyes. All he saw was Captain Guðmundur's fist pull back before it connected with his—'Not the...!'—nose.

—CRACK—

The back of Flynn's head slammed against the earth as the feeling of having his face split open overpowered all others. Captain Guðmundur stood over the dazed exile with a sick grin on his ugly mug. He gradually unsheathed a dagger from his waist, waving the blade in what little sunlight penetrated the fog. Flynn's heart was on the verge of undergoing cardiac arrest. He attempted to beg for his life, but the cloth between his lips muffled every spluttering sound he made.

Captain Guðmundur smirked and squatted beside him, tracing the length of his arm with the flat edge of the dagger. He enjoyed watching Flynn shiver as he tapped his deltoid muscle with the blade's tip. "Time to stop you from flying, Flynn Rider." 

Flynn's eyes shot wide open when the dagger pierced his shoulder with excruciating slowness. The thief howled as he drove his teeth into the gag that burned the corners of his mouth. Captain Guðmundur extracted the weapon from his wound with a yank, increasing his suffering. Flynn pressed his face against the pebbles and cried, unable to withstand more torture. One escort nudged him with his foot like he was a piece of garbage. 

"Now you'll have to survive without a wing," Captain Guðmundur declared, hocking up spit and launching it onto the stones next to Flynn's head. 

Blood dribbled down Flynn's numb shoulder as his body throbbed. His brain fought to maintain consciousness by clinging to the last threads of it, but darkness slowly colonized his vision, snipping those threads and leaving him blind. 

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A ringing sound bloomed in Flynn's ears. He cracked his flickering eyes open, swollen as they were, and saw a white blur overhead. The briny taste of blood salted his ungagged mouth as he twitched and trembled from excruciation. Gone were the shackles around his wrists and ankles, granting him a freedom he couldn't cherish. The cold tingling on his stabbed shoulder made him want to survey his surroundings.

Flynn tried to concentrate on them to the best of his ability, but his eyesight was poorer than his willpower. The weight of darkness returned with the heaviness of an anvil, pulling his eyelids shut.

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"He can't stay here, Elsa," a voice whispered grimly. "After he heals, he must leave." 

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Flynn felt a wet cloth slide across his sore face, leaving trails of warmth on his skin. The muscles in his forehead laced into a frown as he opened his eyes again, beholding not a blur, but a visage more beautiful than any painting. He studied the high cheekbones and cherry lips, losing himself in hypnotic eyes. The latter, which were as blue as a pair of sapphires he once stole, gazed at him compassionately. Holy light seemed to emit from the platinum blonde hair that cascaded across pearlescent shoulders, making him believe he was between worlds.  

"Are you...an angel?" Flynn whispered weakly, terrified of dying. 

The expression worn by the ethereal creature changed into one of sadness. She wiped the blood from his nostrils with the cloth as though she were trying to clean his soul before he met his maker. "Rest," uttered she.

Flynn was too afraid to do such a thing, but his body wouldn't fight for him this time. His weary eyes began to slip closed as his consciousness swam away from him once more.

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Chapter Text

Drops of blood rained into the wooden pail Elsa wrung her rag above, reddening the water inside. The sight of so many crimson tendrils in the liquid pained her sensitive soul. Yelena, the leader of the Northuldra, watched her quietly from the doorway of her goahti with a grave countenance. Elsa glanced at the jođiheaddji before placing her cloth in an earthenware bowl and examining her patient's shoulder wound. Ice crystals sparkled around the edges of his lesion, supporting vasoconstriction; she used her mind to expand their reach until they were at a suitable proximity to his broken flesh.

The Fifth Spirit had created the magical scaffold after she discovered the man on the shore—bruised, bloody, gagged, and unconscious. His abusers had left the land, deserting him on the fringe of a wilderness that would have seen to his death. The Nokk, who had been no less disturbed by their gruesome find than she was, wanted to pursue the brutes, but she chose to prioritize the man's wellbeing. Her nature forbade her from seeking confrontation over safety for an injured person. Upon tending to his stab wound, she had called on Gale to carry him to the Northuldra camp for additional care.  

Elsa's people had gawked and gasped when they saw the stranger's body floating beside her like a cadaver on an invisible bier. She had urgently searched for the siida's healer, Márgu, but learned from Ryder Nattura that the woman was picking medicinal flowers near Lake Šuoikkát. He had mounted a reindeer and promised to retrieve her, gaining Elsa's gratitude. Yelena had appeared at the forefront of the crowd after Ryder's departure, demanding an explanation for the newcomer's horrific state. Elsa had sworn she would give details inside her goahti, where Gale had placed the man on her bed.

Once they were underneath Elsa's oval roof, both women had discussed the trespassers and their actions with great indignation. Then they had removed the victim's upper garments and turned him onto his side to see the depth of his puncture. Elsa had been pleased to lay eyes on an intact shoulder blade, but what marked his back stunned her. The letters "EX" and "T" had been burned into his spine by branding irons, labeling him an exiled thief. Elsa had recognized the symbols because she had studied judicial stigmatization during her princesshood.

Despite her dismay toward her discovery, the man's crimes—whatever their extent—had not persuaded her to dismiss his humanity or find his torment righteous. She believed in justice, but opposed brutality and extrajudicial punishment in all forms. Elsa had explained her stance to Yelena after describing the meaning behind "EX" and "T." However, the elder had cared little about canvassing morality and more about the stranger's character. She had expressed to the Fifth Spirit that letting a criminal live in the siida was unthinkable. 

After the man had awakened momentarily, Yelena decided that he would leave the community once his body recovered from its trauma. Elsa, for all her compassion, had felt that her choice was reasonable. She had understood her concern wholeheartedly and honored her authority to make judgments for the weal of the siida. Nonetheless, Elsa had contemplated the unlikelihood of the man's survival in the wild as she silently dabbed his face with the rag Honeymaren provided. She had estimated that a foreigner would require supplies while he braved the forest alone until he could be canoed to wherever he came from. 

Honeymaren had exited Elsa's goahti before the man slowly came to, calling her an angel. His brain had been so far from haleness that he was hallucinating, deepening her revulsion at his brutalization. Such revulsion still sat between her lungs as she watched him breathe shallowly in his sleep with purple contusions all over his body. The Fifth Spirit added another cluster of ice crystals to the cut on his nasal bridge, where his fracture protruded. She then blew snowflakes from her palms that latched onto his bruises like glittering starfish.

The man grimaced as his long eyelashes quivered in reaction to the cold, followed by his eyeballs darting beneath his eyelids. Elsa mentally adjusted the temperature of her magic until a numbing effect was produced to remove the pinpricks he felt. Her snowflakes told her exactly what his body needed, forging a temporary connection between her and him. His grimace melted as he sank into a deeper slumber under the influence of her remedy. The Fifth Spirit was confident that her cold therapy would reduce his swelling and pain significantly while he slept; clotting acceleration and contamination control were other benefits her magic offered him. 

"We must find out who brought him here before more criminals are dumped on our shores," Yelena stated drearily, folding her hands behind her back.

Elsa began dressing the exile's stab wound, unsettled by the possibility of Northuldra becoming overrun by felons if boundaries were not implemented now. "I believe either Einar or Ivana is responsible for this."

Yelena's eyes narrowed into slits. "Are they allies or enemies of Arendelle?" 

"Neither."  

The silver-maned Northuldra leader rubbed her chin as she glared at her kommager. "That doesn't bode well for us. Unpredictable kingdoms breed unforeseeable circumstances, and we have no bridge between our people to foster communication."

After checking the security of the man's bandage, Elsa stood up and folded her hands in front of her body, looking at Yelena with resolve. "Once this man is well enough to tell me who exiled him, I'll help you open up a line of communication by writing to the monarch in question on your behalf." 

Yelena, who knew only how to write in Northuldran, nodded in appreciation. Hurried footsteps suddenly spilled into Elsa's goahti, belonging to none other than Márgu. Relief swept over Elsa's heart the moment she saw the healer. Márgu shuffled toward Yelena in an antlered headdress and iron deer hooves, wearing her role as a medicine woman. She patted her heart twice before bowing from the neck for the jođiheaddji, who acknowledged her gesture of respect with a single nod; then the healer's eyes alighted upon the Fifth Spirit, gleaming with veneration.

Elsa glided forthward until her toes were inches away from Márgu's hooves. "Thank you for returning, Márgu," she said gratefully as she held the healer's hands.

The white-haired woman bowed her head in reverence. "When the Fifth Spirit calls, I come." Inquisitive gray eyes met warm blue ones. "Now, where is this foreigner Nattura spoke of?"

Elsa and Yelena stepped out of Márgu's sightline to reveal the wounded man on the former's bed. Márgu came near him with measured steps, appearing to inspect his spirit. Elsa recalled that she was a seer as much as a healer, making her the perfect candidate to read the man's spiritual energy. 

Márgu finally sat beside him and undressed his bandage, peering at the frost surrounding his injury. Approval brightened her face. "Good. He'll heal faster because of your intervention, Elsa." 

"We have learned that he is an exile from overseas—a thief, no less," Yelena spouted to Márgu. 

Márgu's demeanor neither darkened nor wilted, so stoic was she upon receiving the information. She dug into her leather bag and pulled out jars of herbal antiseptics, resting them on Elsa's fur blanket. "That explains why I see a golden fox when I look at him." 

"A golden fox?" Elsa echoed under her breath, frowning. Then she spoke louder as she said, "Fox spirits are usually red and white. What does a golden fox represent?" 

"The golden fox represents a spirit that is benign beneath the mask of craftiness," Márgu elaborated. 

The Fifth Spirit looked at the man pensively as she digested Márgu's words. She wondered what had led him down the path of thievery if he possessed a golden heart behind the latticework of misdeeds. Elsa speculated that desperation, while not an excuse for crime, may have contributed to his lifestyle, and masks were often worn by those who sought to protect their own vulnerability in her experience. Only he knew the truth. 

Yelena stepped forward, evidently surprised by the seer's evaluation. "So you don't feel that he's dangerous?" 

"There is no black cloud over him to indicate such, yet to be a thief is to be spiritually ill," Márgu confessed. "This man could still poison our peace as a community. He would need to be cleansed if you chose to keep him. Soul retrieval may even be necessary, for there is often trauma attached to wayward men."  

Frustration claimed Yelena's expression. "His soul is not our responsibility. This outlander must go after his health returns." 

Márgu sprinkled a brown powder onto the man's punctured shoulder. "Then with the Fifth Spirit's help, I will quicken his healing." 

"Is there anything you need from me at this current moment?" Elsa asked Márgu, holding her own hands. 

Márgu nodded as she redressed the man's wound. "He must be monitored due to the fog I see around his head. Moving him from your bed will worsen his condition, so he must sleep here. If he wakes, he cannot rise quickly lest he grow dizzy. Food must be withheld until dawn to avoid vomiting. I recommend your honey water if he needs to quench his thirst."

Elsa absorbed the healer's instructions without complaint, determined to do what was necessary despite the discomfort frothing within her. 

Márgu turned toward Elsa to gaze at her softly. "Would you like me to monitor him with you tonight? That way, you can have periods of rest." 

A large part of Elsa didn't want to inconvenience the elder, but the other part knew it would be best to have a healer by her side. "Only if it won't burden you," Elsa leveled. 

Márgu smiled at her. "Keep your door open for me after sunset. For now, I will sing a joik for his healing." She laid her bare palm on the man's forehead and closed her eyes, opening her mouth.

Elsa and Yelena listened as Márgu sang, filling the goahti with the beauty of her enchanting voice. 

Sound perforated the barrier between waking and sleeping for Flynn. The noise took the form of melodious notes that were soft and airy like wind passing through reeds. He willed his heavy eyelids to lift, bemused by what he was hearing. Flynn assumed the songstress was a celestial entity—likely the same seraph who had tried to purify him—and searched for her unforgettable face. His aching eyes landed on sagging jowls, painted dry lips, and crow's feet—the features of a haggard old woman instead of a stunning young angel. 

Intimidating antlers jutted from the headpiece she wore like a crown of bones. Encircling her flabby throat was the chain of a sun wheel with foreign markings on its golden surface. A pair of hoop earrings with spun pewter braids hung from her elongated earlobes, catching sunglow. Her warm hand was sitting above his eyebrows, contrasting against the brisk breeze on his skin. The pang in his nose distracted him from both sensations, but he quickly noticed that agony did not surge through his body like lightning bolts, blowing his mind to smithereens.

The brain cells that were left commanded him to puzzle out the reason. Sections of his face and body—particularly where wounds lay—were cooler and more numb than others. Perhaps the singing crone above him had applied a cool herbal ointment that dulled pain; he peeked at the jars beside his head through the corner of his eye, spotting salves that buttressed his conclusion. Freedom from excruciation was a blessing, but he questioned her intentions for helping him, believing there to be a catch. Kindness remained expensive in most parts of the world, and wherever he was, Flynn doubted customs were different. 

His eyes, tired and inflamed, began to explore his environment at last. The walls surrounding the thief were made of pegged birch trunks that curved and towered over his figure, cocooning him inside a dome-like structure. No cabin, European or otherwise, contained such bizarre architecture. He was clearly in an uncharted land at the ends of the Earth. Panic hastened his heartbeat, motivating him to raise his head, but a hammering migraine forced it back down onto the fur pillow beneath his cranium.

Flynn squeezed his eyes shut as he endured a wave of painful pulsations in his temples. 

"Our golden fox is awake," announced the old woman, removing her palm. 

The thief heard footsteps approaching the bed he lay on. He pried his eyes open, finding two more faces hovering over him. One belonged to an elderly woman with sterling silver hair, whilst the other was that of the stunner he had mistaken for an angel. Both women wore clothing with strange patterns, but the platinum blonde had rhombus-shaped sapphires on her white frock that only enhanced her otherworldliness. 

'So you are real,' Flynn thought as he squinted at her.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, her crystalline voice sounding even more majestic than when he first heard it. 

Flynn coughed hoarsely before he could answer her question. His sandpapery throat needed water, but he felt ashamed asking her or anyone else for anything. He had been self-reliant all his life, the very opposite of a helpless case begging for aid. To be potentially bedridden was humiliating and unnerving in itself. Yet his throat cared nothing for his ego as it tightened with every cough, forcing him to croak desperately, "W-Water." 

The platinum blonde disappeared from his sight before returning with a wooden cup. She slid her hand underneath his head and lifted it slowly, helping his lips touch the cup's rim. Honey water streamed down his throat, breaking up dryness. He consumed the silky liquid until the cup was taken away from him. His moist tongue skated across equally moist lips, tasting sweet droplets. 

Flynn gazed into the young woman's eyes as she rested his pounding head back onto the pillow. "Thank you," he whispered, saying as much as he could with a swollen jaw and a drilling headache.  

"You're welcome," she said in a soft tone, placing the cup on a small birch table beside him. 

"You need more rest before you can wag your chin further," warned the oldest woman in the room. "The tension in your jaw will increase with movement."  

Flynn didn't need to be told twice; a deep ache blossomed in the area of concern, locking up his masticatory muscles. He grunted at the nuisance as it eclipsed his jaw. 

The crone shook her head at him. "You require birch bark tea for the pain."

The thief watched her stand up and walk through a rectangular exit awash with sunlight too bright for his vision. He could hear people talking and milling about outdoors, preoccupied with God knows what. Flynn suspected he was inside a village, yet he could not ask the women for its name until his jaw was in better shape. He tried to move his fingers and toes to confirm that they still operated. They responded stiffly, telling a story about possible hours of immobility, but they were functional.

Moving his entire body would welcome more pain, thus Flynn avoided doing so altogether. The silver-haired elder stole his attention from his constitution by clearing her throat. His eyes flicked up to her own, trying to read them, but they were guarded.   

"My name is Yelena," she revealed to him. "You are in Northuldra, where my people live." 

Flynn knitted his eyebrows together upon hearing the name. Despite being a well-rounded traveler, he had never seen Northuldra on any world map. Knowing for certain that he was among a mysterious civilization did little to relax his nerves. 

"Elsa, whom you called your angel, saved you from certain death," Yelena continued, glancing at the platinum blonde woman beside her.

"With a little assistance," Elsa tacked on, but she wouldn't expand upon her comment, sparking his curiosity about her secret helpers. 

Yelena's expression hardened before she told Flynn, "Tomorrow, you will tell us whether Einar or Ivana exiled you here so we can address the leader responsible."

Flynn didn't have the energy or luxury to widen his puffy eyes, but his heart hit the bottom of his stomach in response to her statement.

Yelena crossed her arms over her chest, looking down at him sternly. "If you object, we will contact both."

The muscles in Flynn's throat constricted.

"You will also detail your transgressions," she added bluntly, unveiling the price of her hospitality. 

Jaw tension was the least of Flynn's worries as something far more disquieting dawned on him: the inevitable evaporation of the women's mercy once they learned his crime. He had stolen precious heirlooms from a grieving queen despite his conscience, branding him a heartless scoundrel in the eyes of those who read of his theft. No community would tolerate him in their territory, wounded or not. Telling diaphanous lies at this juncture would result in him seeing the end of a spear. 

"I'll get you more water," Elsa said, interrupting his anxious thoughts. She grabbed the wooden cup on the table and walked out of the dome, leaving him alone with the hard-faced elder.

Yelena studied him like a mongoose studying a cobra for weak spots. "Sleep well tonight, thief," she told him without warmth in her voice. 

Flynn resisted gulping as her shadow abandoned his face. He lay in bed, bound by his condition like a bird with broken wings, staring at the wooden ceiling fearfully.