Chapter 12
Twelve
Bjorn
Bjorn pushed the door open and stepped into his past. It was so strange to walk through that door of twigs, knowing that the person who had once lived here was long gone.
It was exactly as he remembered, although covered in dust and perhaps rotted from years of no one being here. The cottage might’ve looked like a hovel to some, but he’d grown up around blood witches. He knew what their homes looked like, and he knew what to expect.
“This was the home of a blood witch,” he murmured as he stepped across the threshold. “Her name was Embla.”
Like saying her name had awakened something in the home, all of a sudden there was light.
The shadows were banished by hundreds of will-o'-the-wisps who had served this blood witch for centuries.
Suddenly they could see that while it was a small single room, it had once been very comfortable.
On his right were walls of old spellcrafting materials.
Bones of every kind of animal safely kept in jars that were always where she had left them.
Although all the jars were now covered in a fine layer of dust.
Beyond that, at the back of the room, was a small seating area.
Although a few clods of dirt had fallen onto the couches, Bjorn knew they would be very easy to clean off.
They were facing an old fireplace that was only lit when Embla had known she was safe.
The stone hearth stretched all the way up to the earthen ceiling.
Her kitchen was in the back left, a homey part of her abode that had always been full of light and life.
As though the ghosts of his past had awoken, he saw trolls wandering there.
His mother and her sisters, another blood witch who had come to visit, all of them vibrant as they were the day he’d seen them here.
They were all huddled around the stove, joking with each other and pushing to be the first person to taste what Embla had made.
And then to his left, a bed that had broken in half from crumbling age.
It was still covered with the same patchwork quilt he remembered from his childhood, though.
The same one that had always made him lift it to his nose and deeply inhale, because it smelled like home, and memories of when everything in his life had been calm.
The entire room was illuminated by wisps decorating the ceiling, dotted about so they looked like stars. They were so pretty, hundreds of them in glimmering golden light that made the entire room far more welcoming than it likely seemed to her.
He moved aside and allowed Astrid to explore. She didn’t seem ready to do so, however. She stood next to him, her hands clasped at her waist in that prim and proper way that set his teeth on edge.
She was nervous. He could tell that much. But why?
This was home. This was a place where she could feel safe. No one would find them here, and perhaps she needed to hear that.
“No human has ever discovered Embla’s house,” he said. “We are safe here. Safer than any other place in the forest while they hunt us.”
“I...” She took a deep breath. “I don’t think we see the same place.”
He glanced around, trying to see the room through her eyes. But he really couldn’t. “What do you see?”
“The home of a witch. The bones give it away, of course. The herbs hanging from the ceiling. The smell of mildew and musk in the air. This place is probably cursed, and I know the feeling of witchcraft on my skin when I feel it.” She ran her hands up and down her arms. “There is more danger here than in sleeping on the forest floor.”
That was ridiculous. “This is my aunt’s home. Embla was family. If there are any of her spells still alive, they certainly would not react to me.”
Perhaps she was merely reacting to seeing the home of a troll.
He was certain this was not what she was used to, and she looked out of place here.
With her pretty silver gown, she looked like someone had pasted her into this space.
The discomfort practically radiated out of her.
Even when he pointed to the chairs, she refused to move away from the door.
At least she’d closed it behind her. He’d mark that as progress.
“Are you thirsty?” he asked.
At her slight nod, he got to work in the kitchen.
Fortunately Embla’s piping still worked.
He turned the water spout on and let it run for a while, since dirt had clogged it in the time since anyone had used it.
Soon enough, the spring water would be drinkable, and he could use it to start some tea.
Wood still sat in the corner from the last time Embla had brought it in. Some spell must have been placed on the woodbox, because it didn’t look all that old. It should have been rotten at this point, but it would burn nicely in the stove.
It hit him then. Not when they’d been running through the fields, not even when he’d stepped foot into this house. Only in that instant, making tea on a stove, did he realize he was free.
He was no longer in that horrible place. He was no longer subjected to fighting or killing whenever humans pointed him like an arrow. He was here. Back in the same place he had been as a child, and now he was...
Free.
A low laugh started in his chest before it burst forth. The sound must’ve sounded manic, or perhaps insane, but he couldn’t stop laughing because he was no longer in the labyrinth. And all it had taken was a priestess, just like the beginning of his life.
The sound ripping out of his chest was equal parts humor and grief.
He laughed until tears ran down his face, mourning the ten years he had lost in that place.
But he also laughed because he had given up hope that he would ever be free again.
Those emotions spilled out of him until his ribs ached, his stomach burned.
He no longer had to sleep with one eye open, waiting for a guard to prod him awake in the middle of the night. He didn’t have to fear what they would ask him to do next. No more killing. No more unwanted touches from unwanted people.
He was free.
Bjorn finally got control of himself, although it took some time.
The joy and relief that burned through him were nearly impossible to grasp.
Freedom such as this was only gifted once or twice in a lifetime.
A part of him didn’t think he deserved to be free.
But another, much larger part, was just glad that he was offered this opportunity.
Finally, the water turned clear, and he filled the old teapot with it before putting it onto the stove. He made the fire and then turned to see she was still in the same spot. Standing by the door, like an outsider who had no right to be in here.
“Come,” he said. “Let me tell you about Embla.”
“You are a man of few words, Bjorn. I didn’t think you knew how to tell a story.”
Perhaps he had been in the labyrinth. He’d had to be that person to keep his sanity and not lose his mind amid all the death and destruction there. But pieces of him were returning now, even the large piece that had enjoyed telling people stories.
He gestured again for her to come near the fireplace, although he could not light it. The stove would already be putting off smoke above the cottage, and he could only hope the humans were as dull as he thought they were. Hopefully they wouldn’t notice.
“Blood witches are similar to your kind. We do not fear them, although I understand your people might.”
“Anything labeled a witch is to be feared,” she murmured, but she took a few more steps into the room.
“Are you not a witch?”
“I have elven blood. A high and revered bloodline, although nowhere near that of the princess.” She brushed her hair away from her ears, showing him the rather prominent points. “Like you.”
He reached for the tips of his own ears, stroking the long lengths thoughtfully. “Ah, but trolls are far from those bloodlines. The elves made it so.”
“I have heard the stories that you were made from mud and scales.”
“We were made from all that were animals. The elves created us. They crafted slaves and gave us thoughts in the hopes that we would be more biddable if we could worship them.” If she wasn’t going to sit, then he would.
He took a seat on the couch, remembering all the other times he’d been here with his family.
Loud and boisterous memories that felt so muted now.
“The trolls are far from that these days, though. Our king pushes us ever more toward our elven bloodline, rather than the animals we were made from. At least, he did in the years I was there.”
“How long has it been?”
He glanced over at her, seeing those wide eyes staring at him with what he hoped wasn’t fear. “Ten years. Maybe more than that. I lost track of time in the darkness. But if Embla is gone, it was at least ten years.”
At her inhalation, he knew she understood how hard his life had been. He didn’t want her to pity him, but some part of him wanted Astrid to own what her people had done as well. It wasn’t her fault. And yet, something inside him still wanted to punish her for what had been done.
She licked her lips, turning those wide eyes toward all the bones that hung on the wall and the jars of questionable things. “A blood witch, you said?”
“They use their magic to identify power within people. It is a ritual many of us partake in throughout our lives.” He held up his hand, showing her a small scar that traced along the meat of his thumb.
“This is the mark I earned when I was a boy. We meet with a blood witch to test our powers and our magic.”
“You have magic?” she asked, her voice suddenly surprised.
“I am elven, am I not?”
He watched as she turned scarlet. Bjorn had thought it was rather obvious, given his ears. All those with elven bloodlines had magic. Just like she did.
“I have felt your magic,” he said as he leaned against the couch more comfortably. “But I do not know how to describe what you can do.”