Chapter 20
Twenty
Elara
Smoke hung low around the rafters, weaving through the ornate wooden carvings etched into the pillars. She tugged the furs around her shoulders tighter, the bench creaking with each slight movement.
When she ran, she half expected Njáll to chase her.
Frustrated and relieved that he hadn’t. For some reason, her feet led her to the longhouse. She hadn’t found it in her heart to flee, not completely.
Not that she had anywhere to go.
Still, something tethered her to this place. Told her to stay close.
An exhausted groan fell from her as her shoulders slumped. Her fingers trembled. When she closed her eyes, she saw the light drain from the outcast’s.
And then she saw Njáll’s cold, emotionless features as he drew the blade across the throat.
Instinct told her to run, to keep running. She didn’t belong here.
But deep down, she knew she couldn’t.
It was more than Freyja or Fate or whatever annoying magic brought them together.
She knew a gentleness brimmed beneath the surface. That Njáll was more than war and blood—even if it was only for her.
She cursed herself under her breath.
Weak, stupid girl.
This would be her death, falling for a demon.
And she had no control over it. No matter how hard she clawed to pretend she didn’t care for him, didn’t crave him, didn’t feel anything for him, it was fruitless.
In front of her, the Dróttning moved with grace, stirring a heavy iron pot simmering over swirling flames. The woman had followed her into the longhouse, silently staying by her side.
Elara enjoyed the company.
No one else bothered them, leaving her alone with their queen.
“Drink this,” the woman said, her English accent unmistakable as she handed Elara a wooden mug filled with warm broth.
Soft skin brushed against hers as Elara took the mug, hunching under the weight of the furs. Warm, salty liquid slid down her throat. Elara sighed, closing her eyes and letting the steam soothe the dull pain constricting around her middle.
“Thank you, Dróttning.”
Long mahogany curls entwined with silver spilled over the woman’s shoulders.
“Not here. Here, you call me Brielle.”
A bit of the tension in Elara’s limbs melted away at the words.
“I can’t go back,” Elara mumbled, running her finger over the rim of the mug. “I can’t stay with him. Not tonight.”
She wondered if she’d ever be able to share his furs with him again. But the lie tasted like ash in her mouth.
A slight smile slid along the Dróttning’s pink lips as she pulled up a stool, settling onto it beside Elara.
“Then you won’t. You’ll stay here. There is room for you in our quarters. I will lay out some furs for you. You can stay as long as you wish.”
Brielle gazed at her with a tenderness that reminded her of her own mother. Elara tried to swallow the thickening lump in her throat, but failed. Fingers glided over her cheeks as Brielle pushed a lock of hair behind her ear, gently cupping her face.
A disheartened chuckle strained Elara’s cracked voice. The image of her sleeping on the floor of the Konungr’s home like some wayward child was almost comical enough to thin the shadow looming over her like a storm cloud.
“I don’t think the Konungr would be pleased to have some stranger in his home.”
Brielle scoffed, sipping mulled wine.
“This is my home and I have who I wish. The Konungr will do as I say or he can leave. You do not need to worry about him and his sensibilities. He will be fine.”
Elara shifted, adjusting the fur with one hand and holding the broth with the other. Brielle’s flippant attitude made her relax further, even if she could still smell the tang of fresh blood. She wondered if it would ever fade completely or if the memory would be permanently etched there.
Not a Dane, but English, like her. Brielle didn’t fear her husband—the Konungr. If anything, Elara guessed he was frightened of her—wolf or not.
“How long have you lived among the Danes? How did you handle the…” Elara’s voice trailed off, struggling to put sound to her thoughts.
“The violence?” Brielle finished for her, handing her wine in place of the broth.
Nodding, Elara took a long gulp of the berry drink, hissing at the slight burn. Nails tapped against her wooden goblet, and Brielle closed her eyes for a long pause.
When she opened them again, two almond eyes flecked with gold stared back at her. Brielle’s hand fell to her thigh, lying gently in place.
“It hadn’t been easy at first. I was raised as a healer. I watched Leif slit the throat of a man who challenged his rule. I watched him tear flesh from bone as a wolf and not lose a wink of sleep for it. I often wondered if I was too soft for this life.”
The heavy bearskin slid off her shoulders, pooling on the ground as Elara sat up straighter. Sparks sputtered in the fire, the wood crackling to punctuate the poignant moment. Brielle faced Elara fully, with so much knowledge lingering in the creases framing her eyes.
“It all seems so senseless,” Elara whispered.
“It’s not senseless to the Norse. Growing up, you and I were taught to fear death.
To stave it off for as long as possible.
To pray in churches. To lament our sins.
But this world, these people,” she gestured around her, “they do not fear the end. They revel in it. In the glory that comes with it. They see it as a beginning, not an end. The value of life in this world is different than you’re used to.
And it took me a long time to learn that. ”
For a moment, her heart thrummed faster, making blood rush in her ears.
To her, death had always been terrifying.
It had stolen so much from her. Her brother. Her mother.
She knew the pain that came with death, the grief, the loneliness. She couldn’t reconcile how others saw it as a triumph.
It was a loss.
Cruel and unfair.
As if sensing her inner turmoil, Brielle leaned closer, running her wrinkled hand along Elara’s arm.
“What you saw today was a mercy.” Elara’s mouth thinned and her brows pinched. Brielle raised her hand, and Elara swallowed her retort. “Njáll gave Ragnar a glorious death in battle. One that will grant him a seat with Odin or Freyja.”
This time, Elara couldn’t stop herself.
“A mercy. That wasn’t a battle. It was an execution. He killed a man and you call it a gift.”
Elara emptied the last of the wine, her mind a little muddled around the edges as she placed the empty mug on the bench. A shiver rocked her tiny frame.
Without saying anything, Brielle reached down, lifting the furs from the ground and placing them around Elara’s shoulders once more. The gesture was so motherly it made her heart fill with longing.
“It’s a different kind of love. Ragnar was a warrior. He was not one to be satisfied with an afterlife in Helheim. He knew he was on the brink of death. He returned to the clan to be granted a death more worthy of him. If Njáll had banished him again, it would have been cruel.”
For a long time, neither of them spoke. Elara sat there, struggling to make sense of anything.
Maybe she could understand Njáll and his duty and his place among his people, but she doubted she would ever be like that.
Be the kind of person who lived without fear and killed without grief.
Eventually, Brielle stood, guiding Elara up with her and leading her to their private quarters at the back of the longhouse. The massive room was quiet except for the crackling fire. Brielle laid out a mountain of furs for her.
Before leaving her to rest, Brielle said one last thing.
“You don’t have to lose who you are to belong in a place like this. I am still a healer. I temper Leif’s anger. You can be a wildflower, but you must grow some thorns.”
She pressed a soft kiss to Elara’s forehead, bidding her easy sleep.
At night, Elara lay under the furs with only the sound of the fire and Leif’s rhythmic snoring as company. Her hand drifted to the stone around her neck, and she traced the jagged lines of the rune.
If Brielle could find a home in this life, maybe she could as well.
Maybe she could grow a few thorns.
Maybe she could be to Njáll what Brielle was to Leif.
The thought made heat curl between her thighs.
That she was the only one capable of eliciting any type of gentleness from a warrior as ruthless and fearless as he was.