The invitation came not with words, but with steam.
A thin ribbon of it rising from the old bathhouse, visible from Astrid's window at dawn — curling into the sky like incense. No one knocked. No one called. Yet the village moved, quietly, deliberately, toward the warmth.
Astrid followed the trail barefoot, wrapped in a long wool shawl. Her body still ached softly from Elise's mouth, her inner thighs humming with the ghost of held rope. Her heart? Bruised in the way that love begins to bruise — gently, deeply, without permission.
At the threshold of the bathhouse, no one stood guard.
Only a carved sign hung from the wooden arch:
"Blotnatt Begins in Silence."
Inside, heat wrapped her instantly.
Steam thick as fog. Stone floors slick with melted snow. Candles flickered in alcoves, glowing against naked skin. And there they were — villagers she'd seen clothed and distant, now bare and close.
Kari and Emil, the young lovers, laughed without shame, their bodies folded together like vines.
Ida, her hair piled high, poured lavender oil down her spine as her daughter massaged it in without modesty.
The Widow Åse, tall and pale, walked between them all, carrying bowls of salt and branches of silver birch, as if blessing each back, each hip, each pair of closed eyes.
No one stared at Astrid.
But everyone saw her.
And then Mattis approached, a towel slung over one shoulder, his hand extended without urgency.
"Come," he said. "Let them wash you."
Astrid nodded.
She unwrapped her shawl and stepped forward, body bare, heart thudding.
Kari smiled first, taking her hand and leading her to the center stone basin — a deep oval carved into rock, where warm water swirled with herbs and floating rose petals.
Two women approached.
One was Siv — or perhaps her sister. The resemblance was uncanny.
The other was Eli, a woman with strong shoulders and sad eyes who sang under her breath as she reached for the washcloth.
Together, they guided Astrid into the basin.
The water wrapped her like breath. Like memory.
And then — the washing began.
It was not sexual.
But it was intimate beyond belief.
Fingers brushed behind her ears. Thumbs pressed the soles of her feet. Water poured over her scalp while oil warmed her chest. The women moved with practiced rhythm, like music passed through hands, not notes.
Astrid bit her lip at first.
But then—
Her arms loosened.
Her thighs parted.
And her tears came — not from pain, but from being touched without expectation.
"Why are you crying?" Kari asked softly.
"I don't know," Astrid whispered. "I think... no one's ever held me like this."
Eli paused, pressing her forehead gently to Astrid's.
"Then this is your first Blotnatt," she said. "And your first body."
As they dried her, Ida stepped forward, wrapping Astrid in linen.
"Tonight," she said, "the moon will be full. We gather on the rocks. No clothes. No names. Only breath and salt and truth."
Astrid's voice cracked. "Do we—do we touch?"
Ida smiled. "We offer. And wait. Touch is never the beginning here. It's the answer."
That evening, as twilight stretched over the village, Astrid stood outside the cottage with a mirror in her hand.
She looked at her reflection.
At the softness returning to her eyes. At the lines around her mouth no longer carved from tension, but from wonder.
Behind her, the fjord shimmered like a secret finally told.
And in the distance — smoke again.
The final sign.
The Blotnatt was beginning.