Chapter 14
Rekindling the Magic
At the entrance to Fálkholl, úlf bellowed above the noisy din.
“You've been at sea too long, Falcon. We’ll not keep you from your rest. Or from úlvhild." A wolfish grin broke across his blond bearded face while the wolf warriors whistled and howled. "We’ll head down into Tórshavn, stir up the market, and have our blades honed. We’ll be back by nightfall. Enjoy your rest. You’ve earned it. "
Njord inclined his head to Haldor, and Elfi smiled knowingly at úlvhild before linking her arm through her betrothed’s.
The White Wolf led her along the trodden path which wound down the black cliff behind Fálkholl toward the bustling village of Tórshavn.
They were joined by Bodo and Elfi’s maid Sif, Njáll and Luna, úlf and the raucous úlfhéenar, followed by Lugh and the refined, luminous Ljósálfar.
Skjold, his eyes wild with longing for the unknown, seemed drawn to the untamed energy and chaotic revelry of the wolves as he stood hesitantly at the entrance door with Yrjar.
“You hear the call of the wild, don’t you, lad?” The berserker goaded Skjold with a taunting grin. “Come, your brothers are howling. Let’s go into town…or would you rather sit here and soak with old men?”
“I’ll return before nightfall,” Skjold said to Haldor. “The sea hasn't left my bones yet. I need to walk it off …with them.”
Yrjar let out a gusty laugh and wrapped a burly arm around Skjold’s shoulder. As he hauled Skjold toward the howling wolves headed into town, he hollered back at Haldor.
“Don’t worry, Falcon. We won’t break your pup. Just rattle his ribs a bit.”
Haldor chuckled as he watched the two bearskin-clad brutes barrel down the pebbled path. With a wry smile, he turned back to úlvhild, whose amber eyes glittered like molten gold. As he imagined his beloved volva naked atop his pile of furs, Viggo’s voice interrupted Haldor’s lusty thoughts.
“I’ve prepared your bath, my lord. All is ready in your private quarters.” The competent, capable bryti handed Haldor the key to his personal chamber. “Welcome home, my jarl. Fálkholl is yours once again.”
“Thank you, Viggo. Prepare a feast for this evening. I’ll want to reconnect with my allies, share tales over mead.
See that it is done.” Haldor dismissed his loyal steward with a nod, then led úlvhild across the vast hall where the central hearth provided warmth from the biting, salty wind.
They walked together down the side corridor which connected the hearth room to the private quarters behind the dais where servants were preparing the high table for tonight’s welcoming feast.
Haldor slid the iron key into the ornate lock and opened the heavy oaken door carved with images of falcons and runes.
Inside the large chamber, a bed piled with furs stood along one wall, with a wooden table and two chairs nearby.
A set of shelves displayed runestones, engraved bones, vials of herbs and oils, with a silver chalice, several candles, and a dagger whose elaborate hilt glittered with glowing gems. Beside a narrow window facing east, flames flickered in a stone hearth along the exterior wall.
And in the center of the room, fragrant steam scented with sage rose from the large wooden tub.
As Haldor closed and bolted the door behind them, úlvhild fetched a few juniper berries from the pouch at her waist and tossed them into the fire.
The crisp, piney scent wafted into the warm air.
She ran delicate fingertips along the wooden shelves, gazing out the small window at the waves which crashed upon the black cliff far below.
“Fálkholl is even more magnificent than I imagined.” She smiled, her pale face even more lovely without the thick blue paint.
Although Haldor had lived with her for months at a time throughout the nearly twenty winters they had been lovers, it had always been in King Harald’s royal hall in Norway, or úlvhild’s thatched roof huts in Normandy.
This was the first time she had ever been to Tórshavn.
And Haldor wanted to keep her here, as his wife, for the rest of their lives.
After eight long winters apart, he vowed to never leave her again.
“Let me bathe you,” she crooned, removing the leather harness and the ísfálkr spear strapped across his back, along with the sheathed sword Seiervingr, belted at his waist. With loving care, she hung the weapons on hooks near the bolted heavy door, then returned to unfasten the straps of his leather armor, as she had done so many times throughout the years.
Piece by piece, she unbuckled the cuirass from his torso, the wing-shaped pauldron plates which covered his shoulders, and the vambraces adorned with falcon feathers strapped upon his forearms. When she had stripped him bare, she laid the armor upon the bedside table and placed his leather boots on the pinewood floor.
Ardent longing in her lustful gaze, she swept appreciative eyes over his aroused, aching body. “Come,” she whispered, taking him by the hand and leading him toward the steaming bath. “I have chamomile soap for your hair. And scented oils to soothe your tired limbs.”
As Haldor lowered himself into the blissful relief of heat, úlvhild removed her woolen gown and linen chemise underdress, kneeling nude beside the woolen tub.
With a small ceramic pitcher, she poured warm water over his head, kneaded soap through his filthy hair, and rinsed away the salt and grime from the sea.
He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the tempting sight of her creamy breasts, the pink nipples enticing him as she leaned forth to pour the rinse water through his hair. Unable to resist, he pulled her toward him and suckled one with a guttural moan.
“Let me finish first,” she murmured, her voice husky, as she soaped his chest, back, neck, and arms, driving him wild as she washed between his shaking legs.
“I want to worship all of your glorious body.” She rose to her feet and slipped across the floor, giving Haldor a perfect view of her alluring backside and long, lithe limbs.
Fetching something from her pouch of herbs, she returned—ever so slowly—allowing Haldor to drink in the sight of her sleek body.
And the tempting thatch of dark hair between her slender thighs.
“Lavender, mint, and myrrh,” she whispered, pouring a small amount of fragrant oil into her hands and massaging it into his shoulders and back.
“To soothe, revitalize, and restore you.” Her strong hands kneaded his flesh, stoking his desire to the point of madness.
Unable to withhold any longer, he stood, water running in rivulets through the hair of his chest and down his legs.
He grabbed the linen cloth which lay at her side and dried off quickly, stepping out of the tub and onto the floor.
He pulled her against his pounding chest, shuddering with desire as he lowered his lips onto hers. Brushing them softly at first, he deepened the kiss, parting her lips with the tip of his tongue to penetrate, probe, and reclaim her as his.
She moaned into his mouth, her legs weakening as she collapsed against him.
He scooped her up and carried her to the bed, laying her gently atop the pile of soft furs and spreading her legs wide to feast his ravenous gaze on her tender flesh.
“I have hungered for you for eight long winters. How I long for your taste.” Haldor lowered his mouth onto her glistening pink folds, savoring her sweet, salty flavor.
“Mmm,” he murmured, lapping and stroking with eager lips, fingers, and tongue.
“Golden mead of the gods.” He rubbed her sensitive bud with the tip of his nose, bristled lips, and tender tongue, thrusting two fingers deep inside her wet warmth in a relentless rhythm, like waves crashing against the cliff.
He felt her limbs tense, her body taut as a tightly drawn bow, until she shuddered in release, clenching his fingers with a pulsating grip, quivering under his insistent tongue.
Haldor hovered above her, nudging her thighs apart with muscled knees as he positioned himself between her trembling legs.
He slid calloused hands beneath her smooth bottom and tilted her hips up to receive him.
With a groan of ecstasy, he buried himself deep inside her.
He pounded her tight flesh, the delicious surge rising quickly, until the fountain burst forth from his body as he arrowed into úlvhild, filling her with his seed and his soul.
After a few moments, he laid down at her side, cradling her over his chest. She traced the seierfjáer mark above his heart with first a fingertip, then her tongue, sending a sizzle up his still shivering spine.
“Now that I can think and speak,” he quipped, smoothing her wild mane of long black hair, “perhaps you can explain why you summoned me here. I suspect it has to do with Njord and his quest to reclaim Brokk’s Dwarven sword.”