Chapter 18
Eighteen
Elara
As she had for the last two mornings since they visited the Volva, Elara strode silently along the packed dirt paths. Despite the quiet pad of her footsteps, a riot of noise plagued her, the constant whir buzzing in her ears.
Slowly, almost tentatively, she lifted her fingers to her mouth, tracing the curve of her lower lip. Her fingers jumped over the raised skin, still swollen from the press of Njáll’s mouth along hers.
If she closed her eyes, she could still taste him.
All salt and iron with the lingering sweetness of berry-tinged mead. He hadn’t slowed after hearing what the Volva said, kissing her lips raw until they fell asleep each night.
It maddened her. She wanted more. Internally, she begged for his hand to slip from her hip to the crux of her thighs.
The spot now ached almost permanently because of him and his talented tongue. He held her close, refusing to allow any space between them as they slept in his furs, illuminated by the glow of the fire.
Every brush of his skin along hers made her body flare with passion, strength, and desire. These new sensations unnerved her. They eclipsed the rest of the world, muting the remnants of grief and despair clinging to her.
His lips, his hands, his touch. It was a wonderful distraction.
A distraction from the weight sitting like steel in her stomach.
Njáll hadn’t pushed her to return to the Volva, to start the training she mentioned. The only semblance of relief Elara felt was the understanding that she wasn’t mad, but gifted. Even if she wasn’t certain it wasn’t a curse.
At most, Elara assumed she saw the future, but she never believed anything more would come from it. Not this veil-walking or mind spinning or brain throwing or whatever the hell the witch called it.
A shaky breath shook her shoulders as she kicked at wayward pebbles. She still didn’t understand this place. She was the daughter of a farmer, born to a land with rolling hills.
Somewhere that had rarely seen blood or battle.
Yet, here she was.
A foreign person in a foreign place that celebrated all the things she deplored—violence, death, war. Not only did she have to relearn who she was, but she had to do it in a place that seemed determined to remind her she didn’t belong here.
Elara craved peace, harmony, and hope. Things that meant little here. Here, those things were a weakness.
What was the purpose of binding two people who couldn’t be more different together?
He deserved to have someone strong and unyielding, like him. Someone worthy of being a queen—his queen.
She’d ruin Njáll.
Just like he had already ruined her.
Because she was.
Ruined.
One taste of his lips, and one swipe of his tongue, and she craved him like sugared berries in the winter.
The more time she spent with Njáll, the stronger it made the light inside her pulse. Its warm glow hummed with each thump of her heart.
With that light came the same incessant visions, so vivid they left her dizzy. Images of blood, smoke, and ash flooded her mind each time she slept. The tang of copper lingered on her tongue, the sound of shouts and clashing steel still vibrating in her mind.
When the nightmares woke her, Njáll held her close, murmuring soft Norse words and stroking her hair until she fell back asleep.
A twig cracked near the edge of the forest. Elara’s gaze snapped to the spot, her spine straightening.
A shadow moved among the thick tree trunks. At first, Elara thought it was a stray dog or a deer bold enough to wander so close.
Instead, a figure stumbled into the light. A breath whistled through her nostrils.
A man stood before her.
Or what was left of one.
Gaunt skin stretched over his skeletal frame, tight along his high cheekbones and hollow jaw. Nothing more than tattered furs and grease-stained wool clung to him, the garments patched too many times to count.
Matted hair rested on top of his head, looking like a wild thicket. Dark, sunken eyes found hers, their bloodshot veins on the verge of bursting.
Her heart twisted, making a sharp pain sting beneath her breastbone.
“Please. Help me,” he croaked.
A long, gnarled hand reached out toward her as the man trembled with unsteady steps. Mud and scars marred the thin skin around his knuckles. Elara stayed rooted to the spot. He moved like a ghost who had forgotten it had died.
Soon, a small crowd surrounded them. Mothers with their children, warriors with pinched brows, and elders who whispered in furious Norse.
“Please,” he said again, a wet, hacking cough racking his body. “It has been too many winters. I can’t… I won’t… I need…”
No one moved to assist him.
No food. No clothing. No nothing.
How could they be so cruel?
Fine.
She’d do it herself.
“Wait here. I can get bread,” Elara said, her soft voice thick with pity. “I can get—“
“Stop!”
The deep voice thundered, making stones shudder on the packed earth. Long, flaming braids flared behind her as she spun, her breath catching. Njáll descended toward her, the veins in his throat thrumming.
Sweat slicked down his bare chest, catching the morning light. He moved with lethal—terrifying—precision; his eyes narrowed into thin, serpent-like slits.
“Back away from him,” Njáll commanded, his voice the only thing to be heard in the thick silence.
“Njáll, look at him,” Elara growled, gesturing to the haunting figure barely standing upright between them. “He needs food and water and h—“
“Enough,” he snapped, canines flashing in his grimace.
In a blur, he moved behind the man, something cold and violent sliding onto his features. A shiver chased the gooseflesh skittering down her arms.
Elara hugged herself, eyes darting around.
A calm indifference settled over the dozens of people now surrounding the scene. As though this were a regular occurrence. Elara spotted the Konungr and the Dróttning standing stoically in the distance.
“Heitinn,” Njáll spat, the Norse word landing like a curse.
Before Elara could gasp, Njáll buried his fingers in the man’s matted hair, tangling at the base of his scalp. A pained hiss slipped through the sickly man’s yellowing teeth, his face pinched as Njáll grunted, forcing him to his knees.
The stranger didn’t fight. Njáll tipped his head back, forcing his unseeing gaze toward the sun.
A braid slid over Njáll’s shoulder as he mumbled something in Norse that sounded too close to a judgement.
In one fluid motion, Njáll reached for the dagger in his belt.
An invisible hand closed around her throat, squeezing until she gasped. She struggled to suck in a breath, refusing to believe the scene playing out before her. Her mouth moved, but no noise came.
Again, she tried, this time her voice slicing through the silence.
“No!” Elara screamed, the inhuman sound tearing from her throat. “Njáll, don’t!”
For an imperceptible heartbeat, he stuttered, his throat working with a swallow. Then he continued as if he had never heard her. The blade glinted in the light, looking almost as radiant as it was deadly.
Bile splashed up her throat. Elara moved, believing she was somehow capable of stopping Njáll.
She was too slow.
The steel bit into the man’s throat, gliding from one side to the other in a precise, clean motion. Another scream caught in her chest, muffled as she covered her mouth, eyes wide.
A wet, gurgling sound escaped the man as his body crumpled to the ground with a horrific thud. Njáll released his hair, blood covering his massive palm, droplets dripping down his fingers as he sheathed his crimson-stained dagger in his boot.
She stood there, rooted to the ground by some unseen force. A wisp of shadowy fur weaved between her legs, Alruna sitting beside her mistress.
Two warriors approached, unbothered by the corpse staining the fresh dirt. One of them even laughed at something the other had said. Slowly, the crowd dispersed, smiling as if nothing had happened.
Despite being surrounded by people, Elara had never felt more alone.
More like an outsider.
Her vision blurred, all the blood rushing to her head.
How… How could they just stand there? Pretend none of it happened and go about their day.
And Njáll. How could he kill a man for being hungry? For looking for help?
And do it with no remorse in his glacial gaze.
Her tongue licked at the acid coating her mouth, staring at the blood congealing into a dark pool.
She was under no delusion about what and who Njáll was. A warrior. A jarl. But this… She hadn’t been braced for this, for this flippant sort of cruelty.
Color drained from Elara’s cheeks. She stared at the body, her eyes blinking, refusing to look at it.
Instead, they focused on the demon looming over it.
A demon who she belonged to.
Whether she wanted it or not.
That morning, she’d started to believe she could find a place with Njáll. To care for him. To find comfort in him.
“Little flame. Come,” he said, his voice a quiet rumble vibrating her spine.
A warm palm pressed into her lower back.
She recoiled slightly, still too stunned to pull away. Njáll stifled a growl, his displeasure evident in the tight set of his jaw. The heat of his fingers felt like a brand, a stark contrast to the touch she craved only minutes ago.
Her mind retreated into a dark, numb corner, Alruna following in their wake. Elara allowed him to lead her away, her feet kicking up dust clouds as they moved.
Eventually, they stood in the shadow of his home, with only ash left in the fire pit.
Dried blood and dirt caked his knuckles. Slowly, her gaze found his. The icy chill around her melted, replaced by a foreign ache that twinged like hurt and regret.
“Why?” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “All he wanted was food. Shelter. Why? How?”
Njáll didn’t flinch, his face barren of all emotion.
This wasn’t the man who had kissed her lips raw and murmured sweet Norse praises to her by the fire.
This was a jarl.
He took one step, and then another, crowding her until her back pressed into the wooden beams supporting the roof. Alruna sat nearby, watching the scene, but not enticed to act.