Chapter 64 Solveig/Westley
That first week after the initial interrogation of John Davis was a blur.
Solveig started each day with a hard run through the forest trying to outpace her nightmares.
After her run, she leaned against that same wall of the dungeon and listened to the mortal’s every scream.
The shadows she tried to keep at bay lingered on the fringes of her mind, a constant presence threatening to pull her under.
Though she never stepped inside, she had to acknowledge it in some way. To pay a price for allowing this to happen by being a witness to his pain.
She warred with herself over the right course of action. While she listened to his screams, she wanted to break John out of the Vault and get him to safety, to the point where after a particularly gruesome nightmare, she made a plan and almost carried it through. Almost.
The rational side of her won that fight.
This was war, and John was another casualty, just like her. Her nightmares intensified, and she took her fears and failures out on the prince during their afternoon training sessions.
For the first two days it was just the two of them. On the third, Noren came to, as he put it, “make sure you don’t obliterate my prince.”
But the prince never complained about her vigour. He met her blow for blow and began teaching her the finer details of using a bow and arrow. With nothing else to do, she put everything into mastering it.
By the end of the week, the prince had offered himself as a moving target. It was more fun than she wanted to admit. She shot arrows at the shield he carried while he ran through the trees, his Fae speed making him nearly impossible to catch.
Nearly, but not quite. She managed to sink quite a few arrows, some of them even landing exactly where she intended.
One particularly trying afternoon, the prince had irritated her so much by insisting that the Riddari would wipe the floor with the Southern Wilds that she shot two arrows in quick succession.
She aimed one at that stupid smirk on his face and the other at his ankle.
He caught the first with his hand in mid-air, but the second met its mark and he stumbled to the ground.
“What the fuck was that for?” he yelled as he yanked the arrow protruding from the tendon behind his heel. It had managed to slice cleanly through his ankle, and from the cry the prince made, it hurt like a bitch to take out. The sound was satisfying.
“I missed,” Solveig said with a shrug.
“Yeah, and I’m one of your mothers in disguise,” he muttered under his breath, limping over to sit down on a tree stump. “Fuck, that hurts.”
“You’ve had worse—stop whining. And you deserved it.”
“You know I’m going to get you back for this, right?” he said as he stood, limping to stand right in front of her.
She stepped closer to him, anger and magic colliding, creating a perfect storm of desire in her blood. “Excuse me, but that was me getting back at you for being an asshole.”
“Maybe if you weren’t such a vicious witch I wouldn’t have to be an asshole,” he said as he towered over her.
She jabbed a finger at his chest. “I’m a delight.” The harsh tone of her voice contradicted her statement. “You just bring out the worst in me.”
He grabbed her wrist before she could poke him again. “Yes, such a delight. Shooting arrows through people who are trying to help you.”
“Like you’re doing it out of the goodness of your heart,” she scoffed.
His grip on her wrist tightened to near pain. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re getting just as much out of this training as I am. Or do you not remember the double swords you could only wield like a faeling before this week?”
Her chest heaved as she tried to wrench her hand away from him, but he would not let go, instead, pulling her closer.
“Wielding a bow and arrow is a much more useful skill than double swords. Which, to be clear, I could do before we started,” he threw back in her face.
“Like Hel you could. How about we fight face to face and we’ll see who wins. Me with two swords, you with your precious bow and arrow.”
He stepped even closer, their bodies almost completely flush.
“Is that a challenge, General?” he sneered.
“Do you want it to be, Prince?” she hissed.
“Shrew.”
“Prick.”
As they glared at each other, a low whistle came from behind them.
They sprang apart, and for some reason, heat climbed Solveig’s neck like they’d been caught with their pants down. An image of the prince without pants skittered through her mind, and she tried to bury it as quickly as it had surfaced.
“Is this how you are spending your afternoons? Shouting at each other like two animals in heat?”
“What the fuck do you want, Conalle?” the prince snarled at his friend, releasing Solveig’s hand when she yanked it back.
He stepped away from her, and Solveig didn’t want to think about the disappointment that threatened her resolve. She pushed it down with all her other emotions, trying to remember every reason she needed to keep the prince behind her walls.
The list was dwindling.
Conalle put his hands up in a show of peace.
“Easy there, lad. I come waving a white flag.” His head bounced between them in delight.
“Maybe you two should do the deed and get rid of this tension between you. It might make everyone a little . . . calmer,” he said with a pointed look at Westley, whose stance could only be described as feral.
He flashed his teeth, canines lengthening, and Conalle took a step back, his hands still raised.
“What do you want, Conalle?” Solveig’s voice broke through the fog in Westley’s mind.
“I thought you might want to know the Lionhead has requested to see you,” he told her.
Her demeanour changed immediately from ferocious to apprehensive. Westley’s first instinct was to protect her from going to the dungeon. She sat outside the door and listened every morning, she shouldn’t have to go inside as well.
It was why she’d been particularly vicious towards him lately. He truly had not minded until she’d shot him on purpose today—though he supposed he had been kind of a dick to her.
Still, did that mean he deserved an arrow through the ankle? His leg still throbbed as his flesh slowly knit itself back together.
“Now?” Solveig asked.
“Yes, he said, and I quote, ‘I’d like to speak to the only competent one around here.’” Conalle chuckled as he delivered the message.
“Very well,” Solveig said, gathering her things. Westley did the same and she stopped. “What are you doing?” she asked.
“What does it look like? I’m coming with you,” he said, genuinely confused.
“Why? Stay here and train—I don’t need you.”
Her words were not sharp, but they stung him nonetheless.
“I know you don’t need me but I figured I’d be there for, I don’t know, moral support,” he said with a shrug. She continued to stare at him.
He didn’t want her going alone. Her nightmares were already bad enough—it would be worse if she went to see the prisoner and something went wrong. He lived through her screams every night. That was probably why he had been a dick this morning. He wasn’t getting very much sleep.
Every night he leapt out of bed, his magic responding to her distress, not knowing what to do. He wanted to go to her, but he doubted she wanted him with her. His resolve weakened with every piercing cry.
“Fine,” was all she said.
Westley supposed that was about as close as she would ever get to asking for his help. They packed up and rode back together, unsaddling their horses and sending them to the pasture to let loose. When he opened his mouth, she put up her hand.
“Whatever you are about to say, just don’t.”
“You have no idea what I was about to say. Maybe I was going to apologize for being a dick today.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Were you?”
“No.” He smirked and she rolled her eyes. “But for what it’s worth, I am sorry. I know you’re going through a lot—”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked sharply, cutting him off.
“Nothing, I just meant . . .”
“Whatever you meant, keep it to yourself, okay?” Her voice cracked and she tried to cover it with a cough. He wasn’t fooled.
Her hands fidgeted with the weapons at her side, skimming over the daggers and the hammer. Before he thought about what he was doing, his hand reached out and took hers. She didn’t pull away. Her fingers trembled as he stepped towards her.
“You don’t have to do this.” When she met his gaze, her mask slipped just enough to reveal the vulnerability and fear in her copper eyes. She swallowed, her breaths coming faster.
“I don’t even know if I can,” she whispered. Westley’s heart stuttered with her confession.
“You absolutely can. I said you didn’t have to.” He gave her a small smile. She looked down, her hands starting to shake, and he squeezed a bit tighter.
“If I go in there and I don’t stop it, I’m no better than the monsters who took me,” she confessed. Westley’s gut twisted and wished he could erase every moment of pain she’d ever experienced.
“It’s not the same,” he insisted.
When her eyes flashed to him, tears gathered there.
“How is it any different?”
“For one, you are not a sadist—you’re not finding pleasure in this.
Second, you offered the mortal an alliance—to work with him.
You didn’t ask your questions and go straight to torture when he didn’t answer.
You treated him with respect.” She turned her face away again, but he put his other hand under her chin and gently guided her to meet his gaze.
Her skin was soft beneath his touch.
“Third, you are not hiding from him. He knows who you are, he has seen your face. The ones who captured you were cowards. You are anything but a coward, Solveig,” he told her fiercely, willing her to believe the words as much as he meant them.
Something flickered across Solveig’s face before he had time to decipher it.
She took a breath, inhaling deeply, composing her features. When she let the air out, her face was set in determination. Westley smiled as he dropped both of his hands, flexing them at his sides when the feel of her lingered, the current that always ran between them humming under his skin.
He gestured in front of her. “After you, General.”
“Thank you, Your Highness,” she said haughtily. He chuckled at her teasing tone and fell into step behind her, almost walking into her when she stopped abruptly.
She whispered a soft, “Thank you.”
Westley reached out to hold her again, but she walked forward, her back straightening, strides full of purpose. He dropped his hand and followed her to the dungeon. She didn’t hesitate at the door, throwing it open and waltzing inside.