Chapter 62 Solveig
The prince and Laeknir tried to convince Solveig to get her shoulder examined immediately, but she would have none of it. She gritted her teeth through the pain as she hurried to her tent and wrote a furious letter to the queens demanding more details.
Leave it to her mothers to give no explanation when they knew how important Gerrie was to her. Was she missing or dead? When? How? So many questions would be left unanswered until she received their reply.
After she finished writing what could only be described as a lengthy interrogation, Laeknir insisted that she come back to the infirmary, offering to send the letter for her.
He grumbled something about needing the extra hands and what use was she to him if she was whining all day. That made Solveig smile for a moment.
Then she remembered Gerrie was gone and had no choice but to acquiesce given that the pain was now impeding her ability to think clearly.
Gerrie is gone.
As pain shot through her shoulder and down her arm, it was the only thought in Solveig’s mind. Laeknir dug his fingers into her wound, pulling out shards of the black arrow tip, which were preventing her from healing. Much like her magic, her grief was a living thing.
It moved painfully through her, shocking her when she least expected it.
The prince had left to write to his parents, confirming that he would travel to Asgard with Solveig. There may or may not have been some chiding about asking mommy and daddy for permission, which may have elicited a scowl from the prince.
Not wanting him to know how much his expression endeared him to her, she told him his face was reminiscent of a female in the throes of giving birth. He’d turned away with an even deeper scowl, his hand gripping his sword tightly like he was tempted to stab her with it.
His restraint was admirable.
“Are you trying to make this more difficult for me?” Laeknir barked. Solveig had been rising from her seat as her tension grew.
“Sorry,” she mumbled, trying to take a deep breath to relax.
“I’m coming with you,” Laeknir stated.
“Absolutely not. They need you here.”
Laeknir let out a noise that could only be described as a bird squawk. If that bird was a centuries-old witch doctor.
“Eloquent as always, Laeknir,” Solveig teased, hissing with pain.
“You shouldn’t make this journey alone with those Fae still here.” He lowered his voice so the wounded Fae in the tent couldn’t hear him. “I don’t trust them.”
“I won’t be alone. I’m bringing my shieldmaidens.”
“You’ll still be outnumbered.”
“Not by much. And if you ever finish removing all this debris, I’ll be good as new.” She gestured to where his fingers were still buried deep in her shoulder, unmoving. He took the not-so-subtle hint and got back to work. Probably not as gently as before.
The silence dragged on and Laeknir pulled out two more pieces.
“I think there’s only one left,” he said.
“You think?”
“Well, if it doesn’t heal, we’ll know I’m wrong,” he deadpanned.
“How did the mortals get their hands on these weapons? Why weren’t they dying?” she said under her breath, trying to distract herself from the pain. “We need answers.”
“You could always ask them,” Laeknir said.
Solveig’s scoff morphed into a grunt of pain. “I’m sure they will be very forthcoming.”
“The humans may surprise you. They aren’t all bad, Solveig,” he admonished.
“I know.” Solveig brought her uninjured arm up to drag a hand over her face. “Fucking Latham. What the Hel was he thinking?”
“He was thinking that he had to fight for what he wanted, and since you won’t let him fight for you, this was a good outlet.”
She focused on his concentrated face. What an odd thing to say. Did he actually think Latham was right? Did he think she should give him another chance? She wouldn’t.
“And one hundred and two soldiers paid the price for it.”
“Some prices are worth paying,” he said quietly.
Solveig was about to respond when the flap of the medical tent opened. Sten poked his head in and gave her a small smile, but his eyes widened as he spotted Laeknir half a second later.
“Oh . . . s-sorry, I didn’t know you weren’t . . . I’ll just . . . I’ll wait outside,” he said, stumbling over his words. Before he could back away, Solveig stopped him.
“Come in, Sten. It’s fine. We’re almost done.”
He hesitated at the opening but let the tent flap drop and stood awkwardly to the side, trying to avoid looking directly at her wound. Or at Laeknir—Solveig didn’t quite know. She waited for him to speak, but he didn’t.
“What do you want, lad?” Laeknir barked. Solveig shot the healer a look and he shrugged his shoulders.
“I just, uh, I need to speak to General Tordottir,” he said quietly. His eyes shifted back and forth between Solveig and Laeknir.
“Then speak,” Laeknir growled.
“I . . . I uh, I need to speak with her . . . a-alone,” he managed to get out.
Solveig furrowed her brow. Sten was acting strange—well, stranger than usual. She hadn’t told anyone about Sten’s access to his magic, but she supposed it might be good for Laeknir to know.
“It’s okay, Sten, we can trust him.”
Still, Sten seemed uncomfortable. “I don’t . . . I just think maybe . . .”
“Oh, for the love of the gods, boy, spit it out!” Laeknir said, glaring at the lad, clearly annoyed.
Sten opened his mouth, either to tell her what he needed to say or to try to avoid the question again, but he was cut off by the prince barging into the tent and almost knocking him over.
“Aren’t you finished yet, you old witch?” the prince snapped at Laeknir. Solveig gave him a questioning look, but his focus was on the healer.
“How am I supposed to work with constant interruptions!”
“Okay, two interruptions does not qualify as constant,” Solveig said, wincing as he dug deeper. The prince finally brought his attention to her, concern replacing anger.
“You okay?”
“Oh yeah. Just peachy.”
He smiled, and she ignored the way her heart leapt in response. Her focus returned to her shoulder as Laeknir’s fingers found what they were looking for and yanked out what was hopefully the last shard of arrow.
“Fuck,” she hissed, rolling her shoulder once Laeknir’s fingers were out of the way. The prince grabbed her hand and she squeezed it tight as the pain slowly subsided.
“You were right,” she told Laeknir through gritted teeth. “I think that was the last one.”
The sharp, throbbing pain that had been present since she was skewered eased, her body finally able to start mending itself. Laeknir covered the wound with a salve to numb the ache and treat the poison.
“Don’t know why you sound so surprised,” Laeknir mumbled, cleaning up the arrow pieces and blood. “Now get out. I need the bed.”
Solveig gave Laeknir the vulgar mortal hand gesture as she hopped off the table. The prince was there to steady her if needed, but thankfully she was already starting to feel better.
Her head no longer spun, and strength was seeping back into her muscles. Sten was still standing off to the side, shifting nervously from foot to foot, looking between Solveig and the two males.
“I’ll find you later, General Tordottir.”
Before she could protest, he darted through the tent opening and was gone by the time Solveig ran out to follow him. She knew better than to chase after him.
“Well, that was odd,” said the prince, who had followed her outside.
“It was.” She was worried about what Sten needed to tell her, but the prince was watching her.
“So, what now, General?” he asked, leaning casually against a tree stump meant for tying horses.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, we have about three weeks until you need to leave for Asgard. I’m assuming that, although you said you don’t want revenge, you’re champing at the bit to tear Latham a new one. As much as I would take pleasure in watching you direct your delicious viciousness at him, I don’t think it’s wise.”
She ignored the compliment. “And what do you think I should do with all my free time?”
“I think we should train.”
“Together?”
“Ideally, yes.”
“Why is that ideal?”
“Were you at the same battle as I was, General?”
She didn’t bother to respond, looking expectantly at him.
“Our fighting styles complement each other. Even without training, it was like . . . Well, it was as if we instinctively moved with each other.” When she still didn’t respond, his eyes darted to his feet and back up, a little self-conscious. “Didn’t you feel that too?”
She let him sweat for a few seconds and then sighed. “Yes, I did.”
“You’re an asshole,” he said, glaring at her.
“That’s my line, Prince.”
“So what do you think?”
“I hate to admit you’re right, but it makes sense. Plus, if I can’t unleash my wrath on Latham, you’re the next best thing.”
He scoffed. “I’m the first best thing.”
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
He shrugged. “You reek. Go clean up and meet me by the gates. We’ll go to your super-secret, private training ring.”
“Forgive me, Your Highness, for smelling like the blood of our enemies.”
“You’re forgiven.”
Solveig let out a huff. “I wouldn’t have needed to take down so many if I wasn’t saving your sorry ass the whole time.” She walked away from him and turned on her heel, throwing her arms out wide. “That’s why you’re suggesting the training—you need my help,” she said, still walking backwards.
She didn’t give him a chance to reply before heading to her tent. But not because he told her to. Though she didn’t want to admit he was right again, she did stink. It was going to feel so good sinking into that bathtub.
Her bath healed and rejuvenated her spirit. The only thing missing was a warm, hearty meal, and once her belly was full, she may even go so far as to say she’d have a spring in her step.
It certainly had nothing to do with the burgeoning anticipation of training with Wes—the prince. The prince. The prince. The prince.
He had to stay that way to her. As soon as she thought of him as anything else, it would be over for her. His title was her last line of defence.
As she made her way to the dining hall, her good mood vanished as quickly as it had come.
Gerrie was gone. Latham had led their people into slaughter. She was still having nightmares of the cave. The queens had summoned her. This wouldn’t be her home much longer.
A wave of sadness washed over her, and she slowed her pace. Her people went about their business oblivious to her inner turmoil.
Stopping abruptly in the middle of a row of tents, she took in the unfamiliar atmosphere.
Something had changed. She’d been so caught up in her own healing that she hadn’t realized there was something different in the air. A current of tension wove around her body, making her jaw clench.
Home was no longer a safe place with routine and predictability—it didn’t fit anymore.
She watched her people tend to their daily responsibilities, noticing small things like the lack of laughter and leisure.
There was no dallying, no stopping to chat.
They kept their heads down and unbroken focus on their tasks.
Was it Latham? Or was it the result of the upheaval her absence had caused?
After over a century of living in a camp rather than a proper town, her people must be exhausted.
Maybe there was truth in what Latham had said. She’d gotten complacent. She’d never sabotaged any missions—she was not a traitor—but maybe she’d taken comfort in certain aspects of her routine and her position.
She had fought for their freedom, but somewhere along the way, the fight had become the focus instead of liberation.
What her people needed were results, and she was going to do whatever she could to deliver. That current through the air was change.
Something big was on the horizon, she could almost taste it. With renewed purpose, she again started walking towards the dining hall for fuel. She was going to need it if her last few weeks in the Southern Wilds would be spent training with the prince.
Goddess help her.