Chapter 52 Westley
Westley, Conalle, and Noren sat around their dining table long after most of the other patrons had left.
They began reminiscing about the old days when they played pranks on each other in the immaturity of youth.
He hadn’t laughed so hard in ages, especially when Noren brought up the time Westley had tried to prank his parents.
His parents, the king and queen of Idavoll, who’d been monarchs for almost six hundred years. He must’ve been about twenty-five, not yet having reached his maturation so his magic hadn’t manifested.
He’d been able to do what all faelings could before maturation—influence already existing elements by moving them around.
Dignitaries from Helheim had come to speak to the king and queen about an alliance.
Whenever the King of Hel was in attendance there was always tension. Even as a faeling, he detected it.
The royal family and their three guests were sitting in a large hall in the palace. Guards lined the perimeter of the room, both Fae and a selection of races from the other continents.
Westley had needed to go to the washroom for over an hour and couldn’t stop wiggling in his seat. His sisters kept giving him disapproving looks, his brother taunting him by making ocean sounds under his breath.
He remembered thinking it would be brilliant if a leak sprung from the ceiling. Then he could escape to use the bathroom between the changing of rooms. There were pipes above the table where he sat and came up with a plan.
Unbeknownst to him, the meeting that he was having trouble sitting still through was one of high importance.
So he sat there with what he thought was a straight face—his father later told him he’d looked like he was relieving himself—and willed small droplets to rain down from the ceiling. He tried to aim for his brother so their guests wouldn’t be offended, but magic was unpredictable before maturation.
Instead of a few little drops, as he’d intended, a huge bubble of liquid formed on the ceiling. His eyes widened as it moved directly over the King of Helheim. No one else noticed, and before he could try to stop it, the bubble of water popped and drenched the king.
Everyone froze in shock and his mother, always the diplomat, said in a truly convincing voice, “Oh dear, a pipe burst!”
Since they had recently employed mortals to help design one of their plumbing systems, it was a fairly believable lie. The king grumbled to his guards and they all left to change.
Westley had been about to make a break for it when his father caught him by the collar of his shirt. He made Westley sit in that room and practice making small droplets rain over his head until he got the hang of it.
He lost track of how many times he made a huge blob of water splash over himself, but after an hour, he finally managed some little droplets. He had the longest pee of his life after that—the stream went on for an eternity.
At their family dinner table that evening, they’d been discussing the events of the day.
When they got to the water incident, his mother—the queen, no less—let out a huge snort of laughter.
She recounted the look on the King of Helheim’s face as he was doused with water, saying it took everything in her not to laugh.
The whole family joined in the merriment.
It was such a happy memory from his younger years. Westley was grateful to Noren for insisting he tell it again.
He missed those carefree days when all he had to worry about was sitting through boring meetings and not getting caught doing stupid things during his lessons.
It was nice to take a break from the seriousness of their situation for a few hours over dinner, but now they sobered up, planning their next moves.
The war had gone on so long and still, a century later, Idavoll had not recovered. Stuck in a permanent state of winter, the lands were barren. Even with the wealth being distributed, there was barely enough to go around.
His sisters fought with their parents to start rationing early, but they didn’t listen. Now, if they didn’t get their magic back and fix the curse of the lands, they were facing the end of their kind.
Idavoll and her people were in dire circumstances. They couldn’t afford any more loss.
“What if we petition Asgard to send a legion of dignitaries to each continent asking for allies against the mortals?” Noren was saying, bringing Westley back to the present. The weight of his current circumstance settled on his shoulders once again.
“The last time we tried that, the ship went down and no one survived. We can’t risk sending more people,” he replied heavily.
“Our people are already suffering, West. We have to do something.”
“My parents plan to step down soon. North is set to take their place—she’ll be much more proactive and open to suggestions than they’ve been.”
“That’s something then. When does that happen?”
Westley grimaced. “I don’t know if a date has been set. North and Easta have been trying to persuade them to do it within the year, but they’re headstrong. They’re waiting for a sign from the gods.”
“Superstitious old crones,” Conalle muttered. “They’ll doom us all.” Though Conalle was an Asgardian Fae, Westley appreciated the camaraderie—despite his blatant disregard for Idavoll beliefs. He knew Conalle cared for Idavoll as much as he supported Asgard.
“North has been gathering support. You know she already has more power than they think. It’ll happen soon, but a coup would also be bad for the people. It has to be the right time.”
“Do you know what kind of sign they are waiting for?”
Westley hesitated before answering. “Yes. They’re waiting for the Vanir traitor to be found.”
“Then we have it!” Noren exclaimed excitedly. “We can give them Tordottir’s name!”
“No,” Westley and Conalle said at the same time.
“It would no longer affect the Southern Wilds, so what are we waiting for?”
“How do you think Asgard would feel if we accused the queens’ daughter of treason against the Trifold? Without hard evidence, we cannot give her name,” Westley said firmly.
Noren stared at him for a long time. “Don’t think I haven’t seen the way you look at her, West,” he said quietly. “She’s clouding your judgement.”
“My judgement is fine, thank you.”
“No, it’s not, you don’t want to turn her in. She is not your responsibility, but your people are.”
“I know my responsibility,” he snarled, and Noren sat back at the menace in his voice. Westley stood from the table. “You know what lengths I will go to for my people,” he spat. Anger filled him—anger at Noren, at himself, at the mortals, at the gods. He stormed out of the empty dining hall.
It was later than he thought, the drizzling rain making the dark night eerily quiet.
He stood for a moment, letting the water cool his skin, soothing his anger. He made it to his tent and got ready for bed. His movements methodical as he went through the motions.
His mind was everywhere but the present as he slid into his warm furs. Memories flashing from horror to horror, much as it did every night before sleep these days, ensuring he would not find the rest he so desperately craved.
North would tell him this was a sign he was growing a conscience, but he wasn’t so sure.
It was more than regret for his actions—he’d lived with the weight of regret for centuries.
Maybe it was the doubt. For the first time in his existence, he was doubting who he was and what his purpose should be.
Westley drifted off to a fitful sleep as the sounds of the rain grew heavier outside.
Screams echoed in his ears as he jolted awake. The daggers he slept with were already in hand as he leapt out of bed. He scanned for a threat inside his tent but spotted nothing. Had it been a dream? A nightmare? It wouldn’t have been the first time.
Silence greeted him as he strained to listen. Only the loud vibration of the rain pouring heavily on the canvas of his tent. He relaxed his fighting stance but couldn’t shake the feeling of terror coursing through him.
The screams had been so real—too real, like he’d heard them a hundred times before. He was about to set down his daggers when another wave of terror washed over him, nearly taking him under.
Before he’d even decided to move, he was sprinting out of his tent. He didn’t know where he was going—he just knew he had to get there.
He jerked to a halt outside her tent, realizing he was barefoot and bare-chested, the loose pants he wore to sleep soaked through. It was probably a bad idea to barge into her tent in this state.
“Solveig?” he whispered. There was no answer. “Solveig?” he said louder, but still, there was nothing.
Before he could change his mind, her scream tore through him again.
It was the oddest sensation. He couldn’t hear it, but he felt it in his bones.
His blood hissed with it. Panic gripped him as he tore through the knots that held the front flaps closed, desperate to get to her as quickly as possible.
As soon as he entered the tent, he could not only feel the screams but hear them too. Did she have some kind of magic to block the sound? It would be pretty incredible if she had managed to get her hands on a Sound Stone.
His eyes flashed around the room but there was no physical danger.
In the middle of the large tent was Solveig’s bed. She thrashed among the furs and covers, her face glistening with sweat and tears, eyes wide with a terror she was not seeing in front of her. In half a second he was at her side, trying not to drip all over her bed.
“Solveig,” he whispered firmly, hoping her name would wake her. But she continued to flail, another ear-splitting shriek tearing out of her. With trembling fingers, he took hold of one of her hands, squeezing hard, a sharp jolt coursing through him as their skin met.
“Solveig!” he tried again, louder this time, but she still did not wake.
Consequences be damned, he got onto her bed, straddled her hips and gripped her shoulders hard. He ignored the living current of magic flowing between them.
He yelled her name.