The remainder of your time in Asgard is a blur. You vaguely hear Edwechon speaking of the Fire Giants, Odin offering condolences, Lyssa sobbing uncontrollably. You float about in a daze, occasionally drifting to awareness.
They take you to see him, lying pale and still in the healing rooms. His strong features are not yet softened by death, and for a brief moment you foolishly hope that he will once again draw breath, that the eyes will open and the handsome mouth will part in laughter as he'll draw you into his arms. Come, let us return to Eryncelon and meet your new sibling...
But the eyes remain shut, the mouth does not open, and his arms are limp by his side on the wooden litter as you go down the Bifrost, each step taking you closer to home and heartbreak.
As the rainbow bridge buzzes around you, you think with regret that you weren't able to say farewell to the princes. But then the surge of energy pulls you forwards, and all thought is gone.
The halls of Eryncelon are hushed, your father's death a muffle upon all activity in the weeks that follow. Your mother is pale and drawn, and Lyssa is quiet, crawling into bed with you every night so that the two of you may hold each other and weep softly until sleep claims you again. Your brother Truman is oddly quiet, for an infant. He does not cry, but he does not smile either. He merely looks up at you, eyes wide and struggling to make sense of the world.
You do not dream at night, mainly because you do not allow yourself to. What other horrors could be lurking there, behind the thin veil of consciousness? You have no desire to know. So every night without fail you take essence of nightlily, a sweet-smelling flower so named because it blooms only before the moons of Vanaheim. There is no young prince of Asgard to rock you back to sleep if you have nightmares. Your only token of your time with the Aesir is Dalla, who looks at you with soft eyes whenever you awake in a sweat, uncomprehending of your discomfort. So you do not dream, but instead fall into a nightly trance, refusing to let your mind touch the cold shadow always lurking on the edge of consciousness, beckoning for you.
But slowly things get better.
Life returns to the court; your father's younger brother Cellithor comes to stay, bringing your youngest uncle, Sven, along. There is music and laughter again, and Truman learns to smile and then to walk and then he toddles through the halls after you, moving his legs as fast as they will carry him. A year passes, and then two, and then ten, and you and Lyssa flower into womanhood and are moved into the Nymphaea chambers. Time holds a different meaning for the Aesir and Vanir than it does for Midgardians, but it marks you and Lyssa in subtle ways. The childish innocence of your eyes is gone, replaced with a clarity that is for a time absent from Lyssa's eyes. Hers are glossy; she always seems at first glance to be lost in some dreamland. At times you envy her, for her ability to let the world flow around her unobserved, but then a young lordling from another faction will smile and ask you to dance, always you, and you let the thought pass from your mind.
Eventually she drifts back to Vanaheim, and as the halls of Eryncelon roar to life, kindled by the eligibility of two young women, you are glad to have her by your side.