Chapter 18 #2
“He was spared death once. The Konungr exiled him as punishment for his crimes. An exile who returns to the lands of the clan forfeits their life. It is our law. He knew the consequences.”
The lack of emotion on his features made her skin crawl.
A different kind of energy prickled in her fingertips, and she resisted the urge to slap him across his unfeeling face. Instead, she made a fist, clenching hard enough to turn her knuckles white.
“Law?” Elara choked out a dry, bitter laugh. “He could barely stand, Njáll. He threatened no one and no thing. What kind of law demands the execution of a dying man?”
Something dark sharpened in his eyes, his nostrils flaring.
“It is my duty as Jarl to carry out the laws of my Konungr,” Njáll growled, stepping closer. Her traitorous nipples pebbled beneath her woolen dress as his chest brushed against hers. “He was a danger to the clan. To you. Do not be fooled by appearances.”
Hot anger stained the tips of her ears. She jutted her chin up, glaring at him.
“To me? I am not some fragile creature that needs protection from a man who could barely stand. Is that how you justify what you did?”
Njáll reached out, his bloody hand cradling her face with terrifying gentleness. She flinched, but didn’t pull away. The pad of his thumb feathered over her cheekbone, a faint smear of blood staining his knuckles.
“He killed your brother.”
The ground shuddered beneath her. The wind ceased, and the world stood still. Even the blood in her veins seemed to slow to a crawl.
“He attacked your village,” Njáll added softly, his thumb swiping along the crease under her eye.
Unable to stop it, her knees gave out. The cold ground dug into her dress before Njáll could catch her. He crouched beside her, his large hands hovering as if he wanted to touch her but didn’t know how.
“What?”
The word left her in a barely there breath.
“That man had once been a warrior in the clan. A decade ago, he stole a ship, and took a dozen men with him who shared his bloodlust. He defied the Konungr’s orders to only seek trade, not war, with the settlements to the south. But Ragnar wanted blood.”
Elara shook her head, nails burrowing into the dirt. “But how do you know it was him? That he killed Edmund and not some other warrior?”
The hard lines around his mouth softened into something too close to pity.
“Because the Jarl at that time, Amund, tracked the traitors down. He caught them in the throes of their attack on your village. Amund captured Ragnar in the middle of his slaughter, as his blade cut down a boy who was not yet a man. A boy with dark, messy hair and eyes that glimmered like the ocean.”
Birds chirped overhead, punctuating the long quiet that followed. She blinked once, twice, and then a third time, expecting tears to fall that never came.
A boy with messy hair and brilliant blue eyes.
Edmund.
Her sweet, protective brother, who had always managed to get his tunic dirty, and who had promised to build her a house made of stone so the storms couldn’t find her.
Njáll’s hand slid to the side of her throat, the touch dangerous and thrilling.
“The men who accompanied him were executed on the spot for their defiance. But as their leader, Ragnar was sentenced to something the Konungr deemed far worse than a quick, merciful death. Exile. To be a man without a name, without a clan, without a home. Forced to survive in the wild without kin. The fact he lasted so many winters is… impressive. But he knew, little flame. He knew what returning meant.”
The last words muddled with the swirling thoughts clouding her mind.
Part of her knew she should feel something.
Joy. Relief. Anything.
The satisfaction that her brother had been avenged.
It didn’t come.
Instead, she sat in the dirt, a cold, hollow emptiness threatening to swallow her whole.
Through thick lashes, she looked at Njáll, truly understanding him.
This was the Norse. This was the man she’d allowed herself to find comfort in, to hope for more from.
While with her, he may have softened, he was as much the demon she always believed—a harbinger of death.
No one in the village questioned his actions. They lived in a world where blood was a currency.
This was not a place for someone like her. How could she wake up and look at the hands that held her, knowing they were stained with blood?
She mended clothes, tilled soil, and raised goats.
Even knowing Rangar was a monster, Elara still couldn’t shake the loss of life. There had been so much pain and resignation in his gaze as he begged for help, looking at her as if she were his last hope.
“Little flame,” Njáll choked out, his voice uncharacteristically unsteady. “Please. Say something.”
The backs of his knuckles grazed the hinge of her jaw.
Since the night of the celebration, she’d truly believed she was meant to be here. That she and Njáll might find common ground to grow together. There had been a spark. A spark that ignited into a blaze.
For a moment, in the quiet of the morning after Njáll left for training, she wondered if she’d found her place.
How wrong she’d been.
The spark hadn’t been a beginning; it had been a warning.
Freyja had been wrong. Elara didn’t belong here. Didn’t belong with him. She couldn’t be what he needed.
Njáll’s eyes sharpened on her, his patience waning as he waited for her to speak.
“This is a mistake,” she whispered. “I’m not right for you.”
She scrambled to her feet, ignoring the protest in her aching muscles. She ran, refusing to look back at the jarl, desperate to put as much distance as possible between them.