Chapter 9
SHAW
Imust have lost all common sense bringing her back here and taking off her clothes. Falling for a woman, sleeping with a woman, is an idea I have long banished. I take a deep breath and grip the forge, letting the fire remind me of my task and purpose.
The Maiden should not excite me the way she does. The feel of her skin on my hand will drive me to many sleepless nights, as if I haven’t been experiencing them already. I chose this torture by offering her a bath, I know because I can’t stop the feeling that I need her.
Rasha comes out of the makeshift bedroom, looking divine in my shirt and pants. I knew those were the only clothes back there when I brought her here. Fuck. I should have taken Aslaug two nights ago to avoid letting her lead her to the tomb, but some pulls are unavoidable.
“You can wash. I won’t run off,” she says, the slightest grin lifting her lips.
“I will before I sleep. I want to show you something to make up for being…” she adjusts the shirt over her curves, and I lose my train of thought.
“Over protective,” she finishes.
“Yes. Shall we try to trust each other?” I ask, knowing I am looking at the shadow of her full breasts. Rasha clears her throat, and I break from the trance. Taking a small smelting cup, I add it to the kiln and ask, “Have you ever melted silver or gold?”
“No,” she answers.
“It won’t take long. They are soft metals that come from the Ivalo River that runs inside the mountain. The ore of the gods.”
“And they contain magic?”
“It depends on what you believe.” Seeing the color come back to her cheeks makes me feel better about bringing her here, so I pull out something I’ve never shown anyone. “I’ve made each link of this chain.”
When I lay the delicate chain, slighting bigger than a necklace, over her hands, it dawns on me she is the first person beside myself who has felt the links with her own fingertips. She twists the chain in the light of the fire, gazing at the reflections of silver and gold in each tiny oval piece.
“It’s beautiful, but it’s not finished,” she points out, holding the ends in bewilderment.
“Hold it while I get a few things,” I say, needing to remove myself from the idea that she could forge the last links with me, and maybe then this nightmare will finally be over?
Is it worth taking the chance? She does have a fearlessness I haven’t seen in eons.
In the bedroom, I shuffle my things from under the cot and bring out the honeyed wine and little bag of precious metals.
“I know this is more than a trinket you’ve made, but I am going to guess you’re not willing to share its purpose?
” she asks, dropping the chain link by link into my palm.
Explaining that I’ve crafted each link with my lifebond to act as a reminder of my penance is not something I planned to divulge.
Slipping the weightless chain in my trouser pocket, I give her a handful of silver and gold nuggets to examine.
“That seems overly kind of you to not pry,” I reply, and her smile knocks the air from my lungs.
“You offered your tub, and I might want another bath, so put it on the list of things we owe each other for. And I don’t want to push when I have another agenda,” she says, coming to the side of the kiln where I line up tools and gloves.
“What’s your other agenda? I am not looking for Harald to accuse me of touching you.” I can’t help but chuckle at my lie when I already touched her, and I’ll dream of touching her again tonight.
“Can you teach me how to smith? How did you learn? How is the map more valuable than the ore? Or were you better at hiding the gold and silver?” Back to the rapid fire questions means she’s warmed up from the fjord and feeling comfortable next to me.
The urge to keep her curiosity alive lights a fire within my soul.
“Well, I have a skill for mining, and I learned to smith to make a living. Drop the ore in the smaller cup that’s in the fire, won’t you?
” I ask, and she does as instructed. “And Bjorn thinks what he took is more valuable, yes.” Staying close to the heat of the forge, I can’t help my need to be close to her again.
So I come up behind her with the long rod to secure the lid on top of the smelting cup.
We watch the black iron grow hotter than a normal fire, turning a deep shade of orange as the heat fuels the ore to melt along with my restraint.
“Have a drink?” I ask. She agrees, and we settle near the forge on a bench with the bottle of honeyed wine. She takes the first sip and scrunches her nose as she swallows.
“It’s strong,” she sputters, wiping the glossy liquid from her lower lip.
“I make it, so don’t run around telling your friends,” I add, bringing up a blanket over our legs.
“They find you very interesting. That’s for sure. Those girls will be after you at the Hunt, so you shouldn’t fear your bed staying cold.”
“Tell me, what do they say?” I take a mouthful of wine and pass the bottle back to her.
“You live alone for one, which I find very admirable.” Her blue eyes watch my lips, and I know she’s trying hard to sound casual.
“Why?”
She drinks again, settling against the blanket. “Because I was raised in the mountains by my parents without a clan, and there are days I wish I could live alone in the forest again.”
“It’s not for the faint of heart. I have been alone for a long time,” I answer, realizing there is much I don’t know about her. But having her open up with that nostalgia coloring her memories makes me want to know everything.
“You have Aslaug.” Her leg slides against mine. I tell myself she’s cold, and the bench is narrow.
“I do. Let’s check the cup.” I move, and she jumps up with me. The excitement we seem to be sharing is nice for a change. When I came to help build the Aske Stronghold, most women were relegated to cooking, not learning to smith.
“Put the gloves on.” I point to an extra pair for her to slide her hands into. “I know simple jewelry isn’t exciting to a fierce hunter, but would you like to make something with me?” I heave the heavy pole off the kiln, and she follows my lead, taking the long tongs to remove the lid.
“Is it good practice to make arrowheads?” she asks, and I refrain from smiling at her persistence. I bet the next question will be if she can make arrows for Skadi’s bow.
“It is good practice for anything you’d want to make in the future. Please, if you will place the mold on the floor in the middle of the room.” I keep giving instructions that she follows without fail, and I pour the molten metals in the clay mold carefully, not wasting a drop.
“So now we wait for it to get hard?” she asks with a sleepy laugh, taking off the gloves and reaching for the wine.
“Making jokes like that means you are tired and tipsy, but yes it hardens.” She giggles again. “Should I take you back to your room?” I ask, but she opens the blanket, and I sit close, letting our bodies relish in the heat.
“How about you tell me about Aslaug and the gods, since I’m tipsy and won’t take anything you say seriously?” Her gaze wanders down my chest in a way that lays me bare.
Giving into my desire, I put my arm around her shoulders, and she leans her head into my chest. I take the wine out of her hands and set the half drunk bottle on the floor, wrapping her up in the blanket.
“Comfortable?” I ask, and she has the sweetest audacity to snuggle in.
“Should I be afraid of you instead?”
“No, Rasha. You never have to fear me,” I whisper against her red hair.
Feeling each link in my pocket with my other hand, I remember all the years I have avoided setting things right.
My atonement is hammered and sculpted in one long lifetime of loss.
Her breathing becomes methodic, and I shift my shoulder to see her eyes have closed.
Listening to her calm heartbeat, a thought creeps in like a pit revealed after water is wiped from a quenched blade.
Has she ever felt safe enough to sleep so soundly?
I continue talking to lull her to actual sleep. “Since you’ll probably wander out in the snow to look for Aslaug, I’ll tell you that I have been separated from my family for many, many years because I made a choice that killed someone.”
Cuddled in my ribcage, sleeping off her adventure, her body becomes heavy against mine, and I know she won’t remember any of this.
I tell her the story of how in one moment I lost my family and my seat.
Cast into the Mortal Realm, alone to suffer a worse fate than a quick death.
Aslaug was my mother’s last gift to protect and remind me that I can earn my redemption, one link at a time.
Rasha is exquisite in a way I don’t deserve.
As I gather her up behind the knees, she grabs my tunic while mumbling something I don’t try to understand.
The night is more than half over, so bringing her to her room is easy.
The courtyard is empty, and I open the locked door without a sound.
Tucking her into her bed, I see the mess Aslaug made with the window, clawing through the wood to release the latch that I showed Harald’s men how to make a year ago.
At least the crazy cat didn’t shatter the glass. While Rasha sleeps, I bolt the latch back to the shredded window frame, knowing it won’t stay permanently, and add logs to her fire so she doesn’t wake up freezing.
The cold air sucks the romantic fog out from under me, and I jog down the staircase to return to the forge.
The crucible sits unopened in the middle of the room where we left it.
She was so busy chatting and questioning, she didn’t ask what type of mold I used, and although I would have been honest, it might be nice to surprise her.
I feel ridiculous for thinking this way when Harald has laid claim to her, and I am only a blacksmith looking to get home.
Wishing Aslaug was here to listen, I find the right pry bar to open the lid.
Smithing iron or precious metals takes patience, which I have a lot of since I have lived in the mountains for many centuries.
I grumble at how torn I am between wanting to tell Rasha the truth and knowing she’ll think I am crazy or trying to get between her legs.
Slowly loosening the lid to not crack the mold or jostle the metal, I vow to give her a few days to come back to the forge if she chooses.
Once the lid is off, I use my bare hands to loosen the clay.
The gloves are purely for show, and over time, I’ve gotten used to putting on all the proper protective gear to not raise eyebrows.
Brushing away the hardened clay with my fingers, I see the shape of a bracelet come into view. Still soft, it is the perfect temperature to engrave, and once the metal solidifies fully with the winter’s frigid air, it will be set until it is reheated.
Closing the kiln quickly, I bring everything into the bedroom and set up the bench to begin.
I have no set pattern in mind, using the tiny instruments I created myself to etch the delicate motif into the silver and gold.
Before long, the strokes of the sharp tools create the shape of many antlers interwoven in scroll work that reminds me of home.
Different curves and lines are revealed as I picture Rasha’s body and how strong she is.
How strong I will need her to be in the coming months.
This bracelet is for her. Turning it over, I examine the hollow pocket inside the band that is exactly the same size as the unfinished chain I carry.