Chapter 21
Twenty-One
Elara
Shivering, Elara fluffed the tawny fur hood around her cloak.
Haze fogged in the crisp morning air. Part of her craved to return to the makeshift bed Brielle had made for her, and burrow beneath the furs.
Yet, her restless feet refused to allow her to stay, leading her to the training yard on the outskirts of the village, drawn there by an invisible but annoyingly insistent tether.
Finally, she reached the wooden posts surrounding the dirt pit the warriors practiced in, doing her best to remain unseen. A sharp breath whistled through her teeth when she saw him.
Even through the fog, his mountainous form moved with a warrior’s grace. She tracked the elegant arc of his blade arm as he blocked an attack from the side. Njáll moved like a devastating storm.
Despite the morning chill, his bare chest lay exposed to the elements, his breath misting in front of his face. Sweat slicked his torso, highlighting the lines of muscles and scars bisecting the tanned flesh.
Dark, loose braids clung to his neck as his feet moved in determined steps, his body steady. Her mouth turned dry as she greedily drank in the sight of him.
This was him. All of it.
He could be nothing else. And she could only be herself.
A thorned rose and a velvet-wrapped blade.
Purple smudges marred the thin skin under his eyes.
Despite the exhaustion in his features, one side of his mouth lifted in a lazy smile, making her center ache.
She sucked in a groan. Njáll spun the large silver axe with an effortless twirl of his wrist, his biceps bulging against the confines of the golden cuffs encircling them.
He parried a blow from a short, stocky man, the resulting clang sending mourning doves soaring into the sky.
Metal met metal, neither man relenting. A snarl hissed through Njáll’s teeth as he ducked and delicately trailed the tip of his axe across the other man’s shins, a careful, controlled strike.
Not one to severely injure, but a warning.
The man fell to a knee, his sword sticking in the ground as he held up the other in surrender. Trickles of blood leaked from the wound, and Njáll extended a hand, helping the other man to his feet before issuing a command in thick Norse.
Another rose from the assembled crowd, helping the injured man toward the longhouse.
Njáll carried with him a strength, a confidence that made her feel safe. Even if his methods unnerved her.
With a curl of his fingers, Njáll beckoned his next opponent forward.
Sunlight peeked through the mist, clearing her mind with it.
She closed her eyes, tilting her face up toward the sun, letting its rays warm her wind-burned cheeks.
A knot twisted in her stomach as cold rushed in, bringing with it the reminder of the night before.
It wasn’t just flashes anymore; whatever they were grew stronger.
Last night, she tasted blood in the air. She heard the piercing screams of wailing women.
And worst of all, she’d seen Njáll, streaked with blood as he fought against bloated, decomposing bodies cloaked in tattered threads of wool.
The putrid scent of acrid flesh stung her nostrils and she gagged.
Blood roared in her ears and she almost forgot where she was.
Her heart hammered so fast in her chest she wobbled unsteadily, clutching a wooden fence.
She pressed her palms into her temples, trying to push the images away.
Velvet voices purred, demanding her attention.
“We’re coming, Seiekona, and neither you nor your Jarl can stop us.”
White light pulsed within her, chasing away the chill that came with the draugars’ whispers. They grew desperate, hissing when she retreated toward the inner light, drowning out their taunts.
Static crackled at her fingertips, zipping down her spine.
Elara’s eyes popped open, relieved to see Alruna perched at her feet, a quiet growl permeating the silence.
Heavy breaths stuck to her ribs as she splayed a hand over her thrumming heart.
A throat cleared behind her.
Elara gasped, spinning with a jolt, prepared to run away.
Alruna stretched her massive mouth, pearlescent fangs glittering in the sunlight as she flexed her claws in the earth before lying in a puddle of shadowy fur on the ground.
Long silver braids framed the scarred face of the Konungr, his impassive features unnerving. Though she had shared his home for the last few days, their paths rarely crossed.
Elara spent most of her time with Brielle.
A hint of icy blue swirled in his steely eyes.
“Enamored with the warriors?” he asked, his voice a gravelly growl more wolf than man. “Or a warrior?”
Elara stammered, unsure of what the protocol was since they were no longer in the privacy of his quarters.
The Konungr wasn’t simply a chief, but a being mixed with myth and legend. And the father of the man she couldn’t stay away from.
“Konungr,” she finally managed, bowing her head awkwardly.
Eventually, she righted herself, glancing at him.
The corner of his mouth twitched. Her heart still thumped in her throat, but at least blood had worked its way back into her fingers.
“Let us talk, lítil volva.”
He didn’t wait for her reply, simply walking toward a secluded alcove, tucked away from prying eyes. The man moved with elegance, lowering himself onto a bench beneath a flowering tree, gesturing for her to join him.
Elara moved, gooseflesh pebbling over her arms.
Settled in the spot beside him, she clasped her hands tightly in her lap, absentmindedly picking at her cuticles, wishing the earth would swallow her.
“Should I address you as Konungr or úlfr? I’ve overheard many use the latter.”
His throat vibrated with a soft chuckle, the sound shifting the air around them.
“Either is appropriate. In private, you may call me Leif or Pabbi.” Elara’s brows raced into her hairline. “For you have chosen my son and he has chosen you. Even if you are hesitant for now. You are as much my daughter as my own blood. We have no need for such titles when we are alone.”
Emotion clogged her throat, making it hard to breathe as her hands trembled.
Huffing, she forced them to still, a muscle in her jaw jumping. Her stomach lurched at the term “pabbi.”
While she sat here, worrying about titles, destiny, and the future, her father suffered alone in the home he once shared with her, her mother, and her brother.
All alone.
Perhaps she could convince Njáll to let her see her father once more.
Maybe even allow him to join them here.
A slight figure draped in a fur cloak glowed like polished amber, backlit by the awakening sun.
Brielle moved closer, her thick curls blowing in the breeze. Bright white teeth flashed in Leif’s broad smile as his wife slid her hand into his much larger one.
“Hjartae mitt,” Leif hummed, crashing his lips to hers in a fierce kiss. “Come to join us?”
“Dróttning,” Elara squeaked.
“Brielle or Mamma, sweet girl. How many times must I tell you?”
A sweetness touched her eyes as she smiled, patting Elara’s cheek. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, but she swept them away. Njáll’s mother reminded her so much of her own. Elara’s mouth parted, trying to form the sounds to say mamma, but failed.
Instead, she simply nodded.
Undeterred by Elara’s presence, Leif tugged Brielle onto his lap, grinning when she swatted at him. He murmured something in Norse. Scarlet stained Brielle’s cheeks.
Some of the tension knotted in Elara’s stomach loosened, seeing the Konungr undone by his wife.
That light in Elara’s chest flared, knowing she had a similar effect on Njáll.
“Freyja is never wrong. She brings souls together, blending them into one. Like me and my kona and you and our son,” Leif said.
Elara stiffened, her stomach swooping.
A beard peppered with grey and silver framed Leif’s strong jaw. He ran a hand through it before splaying his palm across his wife’s thigh. The relaxed lines around his eyes tightened, his face turning serious.
“The draugar are drawn to you because you burst with Freyja’s light.”
“How do you…” Elara started and then stopped.
They knew, and despite that, welcomed her into their lives and their home.
“Freyja has chosen you like Odin has chosen me. With great burden comes great duty. Freyja already knows you. Knows your hurts and desires. Knows your strength. She trusts you to fulfill her will. Trust in that. Trust in Freyja. Trust in Njáll. And most importantly, trust in yourself.”
She suspected they knew about her to some extent, but hearing Leif mention the draugar made an icy shiver drip down her spine.
All the unknowns swam in her belly, soon replaced by a tide of calm that quieted the rushing thoughts blurring her vision. Elara found Leif’s knowing stare before meeting Brielle’s softer, soothing one.
Both exuded reassuring, confident auras.
“I don’t know what Freyja wants from me,” Elara said, guilt prickling her fingertips like she’d failed the goddess who put so much faith in her.
A roughened hand cupped her cheek, Leif’s touch reminding her of her father’s.
“Time will show all things. Many winters ago, Odin gifted me my wolf to fight Fenrir. Live your life and know when you are needed, Freyja will call upon you. In the meantime, hone your gift.”
“Gift?” Elara asked, her brows pinched.
“Yes. A gift. Do not fear it, min dottir. Now,” he said, swatting Brielle’s thigh, making her stand. “Let us return home for a meal.”
Elara didn’t move. Not until Leif extended a hand toward her, beckoning her to join them.