Chapter 37 Alarik
Alarik
It was dark outside when Alarik finally left his war room.
A headache bloomed at the base of his skull.
He had been out of sorts all afternoon, having left his conversation with Wren only to run straight into Lief.
The steward was like a wolf with a bone, intent on finalizing every inane, last-minute wedding detail he could come up with on the spot.
Alarik had almost taken a cue from Tor and flattened the steward with his fist when an unexpected avalanche pulled him outside. He had stood on the front steps of the palace, frowning up at the new fissures in his mountains.
Somewhere within, the beast was growing impatient.
He could hear it more keenly now, feel the ripples of its frustration like a brisk, biting wind.
He was going to have to do something about it, before the mountains caved in and fate intervened.
It would take careful planning, and more soldiers than he could spare right now.
Not while Vask was still breathing down his neck.
Alarik had been standing on the front steps when Elias arrived. The spymaster hopped out of his sled sporting a stark frown that demanded urgent attention.
They had gone at once to the war room, where Elias relayed his scouts’ grim tidings from the north.
Queen Regna was furious. Having failed to kidnap the Gevran wrangler and losing the Spear in her attempt, she was regrouping, joining her remaining forces with soldiers from Ryberg.
In one moon’s time, she was going to storm right through the Blackspires and take Gevra while its army was still on its knees.
Without the backing of Halgard, Alarik’s kingdom would fall.
If he didn’t secure his borders, he would lose everything.
His alliance – and the marriage that begot it – was more important than ever. And yet, no matter how he tried to keep his mind on the advancing tides of war, Alarik couldn’t stop thinking about Greta.
He had to talk to her. To tell her he was sorry. Not for the kiss – no. The kiss was the best thing that had happened to him in years – but for what would come next.
After leaving the war room, he bid goodbye to his cousin, before heading down to the lower floors of the palace.
Standing in front of Greta’s bedchamber, he nervously fixed his collar, swiped a hand through the unruly strands of his hair and knocked.
A moment later, the door creaked open. His wrangler was dressed for bed, wearing a pair of soft navy pyjamas with her copper hair falling in loose tresses down her back. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were red.
His stomach twisted. ‘Have you been crying?’
‘What are you doing here?’ she said at the same time.
‘I wanted to see you,’ said Alarik.
‘It took you long enough,’ she said, a barb in her voice.
He deserved that.
‘I was giving you and your brother some bonding time. I didn’t want to ruin your reunion by getting murdered by him.’
Her nose scrunched as she considered his excuse.
He said again, ‘Have you been crying, Greta?’
She snorted, then turned around, leaving the door ajar.
He took that as an invitation to follow her, slipping inside and closing it after him.
He looked around, taking in her meagre little chamber.
And hated it at once. The bed was too narrow, there was no natural light, and the walls were damp. It was a wonder she hadn’t gotten sick.
She quickly tidied up her desk, shuffling her letters into a pile, then moved to perch against it. ‘Did you come down here to judge my lodgings or do you want to say something?’
Another barb. His wrangler was all bite tonight.
He sighed as he leaned against the wall. ‘If you want me to go, I can—’
‘No, don’t go,’ she said, her bravado faltering. Betraying a glimpse of her true emotions – hurt, and a hint of lingering desire. ‘Stay. We can talk.’
He nodded slowly, not quite sure where to begin. ‘I’m sorry about today,’ he said, completely ineptly.
‘Which part?’
Again, he was taken aback at her boldness. Not that he didn’t deserve it. She was just different tonight. A little sharper, colder.
‘The aftermath,’ he said, because even though the kiss had complicated matters, he could not bring himself to regret it, to deny that crucial taste of happiness.
‘Not the kiss, then.’
He thought she looked relieved.
‘Not the kiss,’ he said. ‘Not even a little bit.’
‘All right.’ She huffed a mirthless laugh, then hiccuped. She pressed her lips together, but her body jolted, betraying the next one.
Her eyes rounded in surprise.
Alarik frowned, taking a measured step closer. Moving into the delicious heat of her body, and the heady scent of her hair, her skin. Jasmine and … He sniffed.
Frostfizz?
‘Greta Iversen,’ he said, arching a brow. ‘Are you drunk?’
‘No!’ She shook her head violently. ‘No.’ Another hiccup wracked her slight frame. ‘Maybe.’ She groaned into her hands, then peeked at him through her fingers. ‘Only a little.’
Alarik laughed. So, she hadn’t been crying over him.
She had been drinking with her brother and Wren, passing the afternoon with a bottle of frostfizz.
The realization loosened the knot in his chest. ‘Well, that explains Lief’s tantrum earlier.
He went blue in the face, swearing someone was stealing from the crate of wedding frostfizz. ’
Greta froze.
Alarik cursed himself.
There it was, the ice bear in the room, the unsaid thing they could no longer avoid.
His wedding to Princess Elva was hurtling towards them like a mountain sled, and Alarik could do nothing to stop it.
He searched for something to say, anything to soften the unintentional blow, but words deserted him.
It was Greta who spoke, dropping her hands from her face and taking a steadying breath. ‘You’re getting married the day after tomorrow.’
‘Yes,’ he said, quietly.
She nodded, not quite looking at him. ‘Of course.’
That of course burned through Alarik’s chest. ‘I have to.’
‘I know.’
‘If there was any other way—’
‘Please don’t,’ she said, finally raising her gaze. Her eyes were so blue, like the sky after a blizzard. ‘Don’t explain. I understand.’
Another twist of his stomach. He hated the strange finality of this moment, how it felt like an ending he wasn’t ready for.
She curled her arms around herself. ‘It doesn’t matter anyway. I’ll be leaving in a few days.’
A terrible coldness trickled through him. ‘What?’
‘Tor and Wren offered me a place at Eana,’ she said, with unnerving coolness, as though she was simply giving him today’s training report. ‘I’ll be going back with them after your wedding.’
Panic gripped Alarik by the throat, the words springing from him in a rush. ‘You can’t leave. We’re at war.’
‘Your beasts are trained. They will answer to you.’
‘No.’
Her brows lifted. ‘No?’
‘You’re staying here, Iversen.’ His tone was clipped. That of a king, commanding his soldier. Not a man begging his lover not to desert him. ‘I don’t release you.’
She pushed off the desk. He could practically see the beast in her rising to the surface, ready to tear into him. ‘You don’t have to, Your Majesty,’ she said, through her teeth. ‘I release myself from this place. I release myself from this hell.’
‘Hell?’ he reeled. ‘Since when has this been hell for you?’
‘Since you kissed me back!’ she snapped. ‘Since you made me feel like I meant something to you!’
‘You do mean something to me!’ he snapped back. ‘Freezing hell, Greta. You mean everything.’
She balled her fists. ‘And yet you have the nerve to come to my room at midnight to remind me of your wedding to someone else!’
Alarik recoiled, her words slamming into him. They were harder than her brother’s punch, burrowing much deeper. Because they were true. There was nothing he could say to make it better.
His shoulders sagged, the fight leaving him all at once. ‘You can’t go,’ he said, not bothering to hide his desperation.
‘Why not?’
‘Because the beasts will miss you,’ he said, his voice ragged. He was messing this up. He was messing this up and he couldn’t seem to stop. ‘Because I will miss you.’
Her eyes flashed, and he thought for a moment she was going to hit him. Or yell at him. But the fight went out of her, too, and she slumped on to her bed.
He came to his knees, his hands sliding up her legs, like he was afraid she might float away from him. That’s what it felt like – this moment – the beginning of goodbye. ‘You don’t have to go to war again,’ he said. ‘You don’t have to fight.’
‘This isn’t about war, Alarik.’
‘What can I do to make you stay?’
She looked down at him. ‘The one thing I would never ask of you. The one thing you could never give me.’
Because he was already giving it to Princess Elva. To Halgard. And despite everything, she understood that. Greta was too selfless, too good, to expect him to walk away from his promise.
For her, he could be selfless, too. He had to be selfless. His love for her demanded it of him. Even as it shredded his heart to ruins.
‘If you want to go back with Tor, I won’t stop you.’ His words were slow and pained, dragged up from the centre of his chest. ‘But if you choose to remain here, I’ll give you every freedom you desire. Your own hours, your own rules. Anything, Greta. Anything.’
There was a long breath of silence.
Her smile turned rueful. ‘Let me think about it.’
‘All right.’ It was better than no. Better than farewell.
He stood up, and she rose from the bed. They hovered apart from each other, neither one quite sure what to do now.
‘I don’t want to go to your wedding.’
‘Fine,’ he said, quickly. He would rather it that way anyway. If he had to see her in the congregation, he might just object to the union himself.
‘We can talk after,’ she went on. ‘When I’ve made my decision.’
‘Fine,’ he said again, his throat painfully dry. He was nervous, he realized. He hadn’t been this nervous in years. ‘Just don’t do anything rash.’
‘What, like kiss you?’ A smile danced across her lips. Alarik didn’t know if it was her spirit or the frostfizz that made her say it, but now he couldn’t stop thinking about it.
He wanted to do it again.
And again and again and again—
‘Stop looking at me like that.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like you want to devour me.’
‘Then I better stop looking at you entirely.’
Her smile dissolved. ‘We should stop looking at each other.’
The silence stretched, the heat between them palpable.
Alarik’s thoughts were rioting, his heart slamming against his ribcage.
What if he stayed here with her? What if he gave his crown to Anika, along with the heaving weight of his ailing kingdom, and shirked off his father’s legacy for good?
What if he got on his knees and asked the fates for the bride he truly wanted? What if—
‘Don’t lose yourself to what ifs.’ Greta was suddenly before him, blinking up at him with those knowing blue eyes.
There was such sadness in them, he wondered if he had been speaking his thoughts aloud, or if perhaps she had already spiralled through the same questions. ‘You’ll only torture us both.’
He dipped his chin, their noses almost brushing. She was close enough to kiss. But if he dared, this time he might never stop.
She stepped backwards and held out her hand. ‘Friends, then.’
‘Friends.’ He hated the word, instantly rebelling against the pathetic consolation of it. But he took her hand anyway, her callouses sliding against his own. ‘Goodnight, Greta.’
‘Goodnight, Alarik.’
He left then, the imprint of her hand still warming his palm, and yet as he replayed her final melancholic goodnight in his mind, he couldn’t help but think it sounded like goodbye.