Chapter 39
Thirty-Nine
Njáll
Each moment dragged into the next. The draugar were a relentless storm. Bjorn and Erik flanked him, their muscles twitching and their breaths short and uneven.
Njáll stole a glance at Elara’s prone, kneeling form in the grass. The whites of her eyes glowed with a pearlescent sheen, her hair billowing behind her like a bloody cape heralding destruction.
She embodied the spirit of a Valkyrie, fighting a spiritual war without a blade.
Streams of wind and smoke swirled around her knees, kicking up dust and leaves. Njáll grunted, dodging a frozen hand before shoving the draugar away from him and his kona.
Time turned into a relentless enemy, each moment hurtling them closer toward the inevitable. Bjorn and Erik shared a grim look with Njáll. One he refused to acknowledge. He had promised Elara he’d keep her safe and he’d die doing it if he had to.
Decaying corpses corralled him and his warriors, pushing them back and further away from Elara until the cold wood of the longhouse bit into his back.
Njáll hissed, his body on the verge of surrender.
With a thud, his head fell back against the wall and he murmured a quiet prayer to Odin for strength. Another followed. This one to Freyja, thanking her for the gift of his kona and offering his life in exchange for hers.
“Let me take her place,” he whispered. “Spare her and take me instead.”
“Njáll! Jarl!”
For a minute, he thought he had died and Freyja had honored him with the gift of her voice one last time.
But then he saw her, conscious but weak, all color drained from her face. His lips parted at the hulking panther pawing the ground beside her.
Gold claws tilled the earth. Mercurial eyes tracked its prey, waiting for its mistress’ command.
Elara swayed, taking control of Alruna and driving the draugar back. The beauty in her destruction emboldened him, renewing his strength.
Despite how her body trembled, how her fingers clenched, she did not give in.
With one swipe from Alruna, the draugar melted into a pile of sputtering ash.
Once she cleared him a path, Njáll rushed to his kona’s side. Each breath burned like cold fire. He’d stand by her like a sentry at the gates of Helheim.
Whatever emotions threatened to tear him apart, he shoved them away. The only thing that mattered was her.
She remained kneeling on the ground, pushing herself and Alruna to the limit as the panther systematically destroyed all the wandering corpses.
Njáll sensed it before she did, the realization splintering like shards of broken wood. A heavy thud hit the earth beside him, Elara twitching and gasping.
A shimmering cloud of gold dust covered both of them as Alruna evaporated in a wisp of smoke.
Blood turned to ice and he froze, refusing to accept what he saw.
The gold flecks clung to his axe and his fingers, highlighting the lashes of her fluttering eyes.
“Elara,” he whispered, her name a prayer to the seat of the gods.
Bones cracked as he knelt by her side, reaching out to brush his knuckles over her too-cold cheeks.
“Jarl,” a guttural, strained voice howled.
The muscles in his thighs seized and Njáll jolted upright once more. His head snapped to the source of the sound, eyes searching.
Bodies of men he’d fought with littered the ground.
Fires consumed homes, destroyed grain, and engulfed the forest.
“No,” Njáll whispered.
In the shadow of the fire, he saw it. One draugar remained, its oversized, staggering form moving unhindered toward Elara’s still shuddering figure sprawled out in the damp mud.
The tip of his tongue traced his cracked lips, licking soot and blood from the spot.
Knuckles ached beneath the leather on his axe, the weapon swaying uselessly at his side. The only thing capable of destroying the draugar was gone.
A silent vow flared to life deep within him, the heat of it thawing his blood. The frantic thrum of his heart slowed. The indecision in his mind quieted, and one unflinching truth rooted itself in the fabric of his soul.
Love you.
Elara’s voice played on repeat, whispering the same phrase over and over again until it was the only thing he heard.
Moonlight reflected off the steel of his blade, and Njáll’s brow pinched, something else catching in the light.
Slowly, he rotated his wrist, angling the axe until he caught a glimpse of gold dust shimmering on the blade. The same hue that had coated Alruna’s claws. His chest expanded with a hopeful breath, the tension in his shoulders releasing.
Njáll locked eyes with the last undead corpse, his gaze flicking to Elara. Her figure now lay still, no longer shaking.
A lump caught in his throat as he swallowed, unsure if that was a good or bad thing.
“Rest, kona. I will keep you safe. Always,” he murmured, hoping she heard him.
With slow steps, Njáll closed the distance between him and the creature who longed for her soul.
A guttural roar rumbled behind his sternum, and Njáll sliced the blade clean against the corpse’s torso.
For a long moment, no one breathed, the earth itself waiting with bated breath.
The latent heat in the dust erupted, bursting into the draugar with an igniting spark. A horrifying spiritual shriek rattled the trees as a golden fire consumed death itself. Bones clattered, ash mixing with cold mud.
Victorious shouts grew in the distance, but Njáll remained rooted to the spot, watching the cooling ash. Sweat slid into his eyes, his chest heaving.
The toe of his boot kicked the remains, ensuring it was truly over.
Exhausted, Njáll collapsed, rocks tearing through his trews and digging into his knees.
Uncaring of what others thought, Njáll crawled to her, too weak to stand, but needing to get to her. Njáll would crawl through the valley of death if she waited for him on the other side.
The world shrunk into the space between his kneeling body and her eerily still one. With trembling fingers, he reached out, brushing the wet, golden ash from her forehead.
Her skin was like ice, the color of marble, devoid of the fierce inner flame he lived for.
No. No. No.
She cannot go. She cannot leave me.
Figures moved nearby, warriors running past, their faces drawn and their voices hushed. He ignored them.
None of it mattered. None of them mattered.
All that mattered was the promise he’d made to her. The oath he swore to cherish and worship the one woman he couldn’t live without.
Stagnant scents of burning flesh still lingered in the dusty air. He leaned in close, resting his forehead against hers, praying desperately to any god who would listen to make her chest move.
Painful seconds dragged on, and nothing happened.
Nothing.
Dread rolled in his gut, spreading up to his heart, freezing it in a wall of ice that would never thaw if she didn’t breathe again.
Didn’t speak again.
Didn’t love him again.
Resolve hummed in his veins. He’d made a vow to her, one that did not extinguish in death. A promise that death wouldn’t stop him, only the end of the world could keep him from her, and he meant it.
There was nowhere she could go that he wouldn’t follow. He’d follow his flame into the blackest realm of Hel if only to hold her in his arms and feel her lips on his one more time.
As selfish as it was.
But Njáll had never been pure of heart.
He never pretended to.
He took what he wanted.
And ever since that day when she stared down his blade, all he wanted was her.
He’d never give her up.
Not even in death.
A shallow, rattling noise drew a collective gasp from the crowd huddled behind him.
It was minute, the weakest flicker of air.
Njáll hissed, wrenching his head back to gaze at her. Almost imperceptibly, her chest rose, falling slowly afterward.
A ragged plea tore from his throat until it shredded the raw skin there. Tears streamed down his face, scorching a trail over his cheeks before pooling in the dirt. It smeared with the dust and dried blood on his face, stinging the small cuts there.
A whistle hissed through his clenched jaw, burying the pain down.
Gently, he slid an arm under Elara’s slender shoulders, propping her against him. His cheek pressed to hers, trying to pour the heat of him into her clammy skin.
Murmurs continued to hum in the shadows, but no one bothered them.
Njáll leaned back enough to see her ashen, drawn face. He brushed the hair caked with mud back, whispering Norse praises and promises into the stale air.
Then her eyes blinked open.
What looked back at him stole all words from his mouth, leaving him still.
Gone were the familiar glittering jade eyes that blazed with the challenge which he admired. Luminous liquid gold eyes shone under thick lashes.
They were unnaturally still, the color reminiscent of that of the panther’s.
Elara stared through him, pliant in his arms, scanning the scattered remains of the village.
What little warmth remained in her limbs slowly dissolved, leaving her as icy as death itself. Her lashes fluttered, staying closed for longer and longer with each passing second as if the act of keeping her eyes open physically pained her.
Maybe it did.
For the first in a long time, Njáll let himself feel.
Feel everything, as catastrophic as it was.
The small flame of hope in his chest extinguished as quickly as it came.
Hot tears poured from him, his body shaking with violent tremors. Snot mixed with the tears and he struggled to breath, clinging to her weak form.
He didn’t care who saw.
“Elara,” he whispered, wanting her name to linger on his tongue. He sniffed, his voice thick with tears. “Little flame. You cannot go. You cannot leave me. For you will take my heart with you. I cannot bear it.”
Lips brushed her temple, closing his eyes for a long pause.
She didn’t respond.
Instead, a hacking cough shook her petite body and she sputtered, bringing a mix of foam and dark liquid to her lips.
Hopelessness gnawed at his heart, withering it with each passing second.
This was the one thing he couldn’t save her from.
This was the end.
Finite and permanent.
Swallowing, Njáll sought the rough leather hilt tucked in his boot.
Soon, he found the cool, familiar weight of his dagger. He tugged it free, the polished steel shining in the muted starlight.
Blood dripped from his thumb as he swept it over the blade, testing its bite.
He clutched the hilt, sighing as the supple leather brushed along his palm for the last time.
The sharp point pressed deliberately against the rhythm of his hammering heart.
He didn’t fear death. He feared a life without her.
The moment her breathing stopped, he would join her.
A faint, glacial touch settled on his blood-caked hand, stopping the blade where it rested. Elara’s fingers curled weakly over his, guiding the dagger away from his chest. Njáll let it fall with a soft thud onto the dirt.
Her distant golden eyes finally settled on his face.
Tears blurred his vision. Njáll blinked them away, not wanting to miss one fleeting moment with her.
Fingers squeezed his hand, with barely any strength in her hold. Her face twisted as she managed a single word, her voice a barely audible whisper.
“Don’t.”
A violent cough drained the last sliver of color from her, foam bubbling at the corners of her mouth.
“They need you.”
Njáll jerked his head in a defiant thrust, knowing if she was lucid, she’d pinch his chin and glare at him.
How he hoped that fire of hers followed them into the afterlife. Fresh tears spilled from his eyes, his grip tightening, needing her closer.
“And I need you,” he hissed, caressing the hinge of her jaw. “I cannot face this life without my kona, my Dróttning, my love. Do not command this of me, Elara.”
Sorrow flashed in her weary gaze, her breathing shallow and rasping. Those gold eyes fixed on the slight stream of blood sliding down his chest from where the dagger bit into his skin before she pushed it away.
“Your duty is to the living, Jarl. Mine is to you. I will wait for you. Do not rush to join me.”
Each time her lips moved, they carved deeper into his chest.
“My duty has only ever been you. Elara. Please. Please. Do not command this of me. Do not leave me.”
He buried his face in her hair, the finality of her words shattering him. He kissed her forehead, tasting the salt of his own tears.
Every fiber inside him screamed, begging her to be selfish, to be the demanding kona who ordered him to his knees and told him to stay by her side.
To command him to choose her.
But of course, that wasn’t his little flame.
Grass and rocks dug into his shins.
He rocked back, searching her gaze, offering her one last chance to save him from this burden. The burden of a life without her.
His nails lightly stroked her jaw, memorizing the pattern of freckles on the bridge of her nose.
“Say the word, little flame. Command me to follow. Tell me to join you. Don’t leave me. I’m not finished loving you yet.”
She smiled then, a faint, heartbreaking curve of her lips that carried so much love with it.
“You cannot follow me, my love.”
Her voice grew quiet, fading out with the wind. The golden light in her eyes rapidly receded.
Those words would haunt him for the rest of his life. Words that severed their beautiful bond.
“Don’t bury me. Spread my ashes among the breeze. Find my father, tell Papa I loved him. Momma, Edmund, and I will wait for him.”
Restrained sobs shook his body and he collapsed, his shoulders rounding inward.
Whimpering, she lifted an icy hand, her fingers brushing the tears from his cheek. His hand covered hers, holding it there.
“I will always love you,” she whispered, her final vow a soft, breathy sigh against his skin.