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Summary
He knows those eyes. Her hair is a wreathe of flame, pulled back in a style reminiscent of his mother's, but it's her eyes that stop him short. They are a pale blue he's met and held since he was a young boy, often alight with mischief or determination, but this is not Sigurd's face tilted up at him. Eivor recognizes her brow, her cheekbones, her chin— all from his own reflection in rivers and metal.
There is no mistaking her for anyone else's but Sigurd and Eivor's.