Chapter 19 Nóatún #2
“No,” Njord agreed, all composed. “You’re my prisoner. You’re my thrall. You’ll do as I tell you.”
He could feel a small spark—not unlike the one he’d created in the steaming hut in Sveinn’s camp—sizzle at his fingertips, and he wanted nothing more than to hurl it at Njord. But he controlled himself.
Njord gave him an unsettling smile, as if he knew about Thori’s inner struggle, as if he could feel how Thori’s thunder fought against the confines of its prison.
But if he indeed felt Thori’s power raging, he was completely unperturbed by it.
He opened the door to his sleeping chamber, and Thori grudgingly trailed after him.
The first thing he noticed was the huge bed, carved from driftwood and large enough to accommodate four men.
It had a canopy draped with sea-green silk and was carved over and over with waves and ships and sea serpents.
But Thori was overwhelmed by the notion of how conveniently one could chain a person to these sturdy pillars, how easily the wrists of a pleasure slave could be tied to the headboard, and how a naked body would contrast against the dark blue sheets.
A shiver of something ran through his body, hot and excited.
Hastily, Thori turned to the balcony. Massive doors of polished glass stood open to reveal a curved terrace that jutted out from the cliff face like the prow of a ship.
The view was breathtaking; the entire harbor spread below, dotted with ships.
Beyond stretched the endless expanse of the sea, glimmering in the sun.
Heavy curtains of midnight-blue wool could be drawn across the glass doors, but now they hung open, allowing the salt breeze to carry the distant sounds of the harbor into the chamber.
Everything about Njord’s living quarters was beautiful.
Serene and breathtaking. And if he’d been in a different position, Thori would’ve loved to just spend some time up here.
As it was, he imagined how it would feel to share this space with Njord not as his guest but as his thrall.
A possession. A commodity. Would Njord make him sleep on the rug next to his bed like a dog if he failed to behave?
It looked soft enough. Certainly better than a drafty dungeon. Thori could endure it.
While he was busy taking in the room, Njord had moved to a large chest next to his bed, pulling out some clothes.
“You’ll attend me when I hold court later. You can wash up here, and then you’ll change.”
Thori still wore the simple tunic and trousers Njord had given him days ago, practical garments that were clean but hardly fine.
“Attend you?” he echoed, wrongfooted and confused.
“Did you think I’d simply lock you away?
” Njord held up a tunic made of deep green silk, inspecting it.
“You’re the son of Odin, the Prince of Asgard.
Your presence at my side sends a message about my power and reach.
You’ll sit beside my throne when I hold court, accompany me to meals, and be seen throughout the fortress. ”
The casual way he spoke of displaying Thori like a trophy reignited his anger tenfold.
“And if I refuse?”
“Then you’ll do it anyway, but in chains and with considerably less comfort.” Njord’s voice remained level, but there was no doubt he meant every word. “I’d prefer not to humiliate you unnecessarily, but I will if you force my hand.”
They stared at each other for a long moment, and Thori felt the weight of his situation settle on his shoulders.
He was trapped here, dependent on Njord’s mercy, with no allies and no means of escape.
The smart thing would be to comply, to play whatever role Njord intended for him until an opportunity presented itself. Only Thori found it hard to act wisely.
“Fine,” he snarled, voice tight with suppressed fury. “I’ll play your pretty pet. But you better remember that you brought a warrior into your home.”
Something flickered across Njord’s face too quickly for Thori to identify.
“Spare me your threats, little godling. I expect you to be obedient.”
He tossed the green tunic to Thori, who caught it reflexively. The silk was incredibly soft, exactly the kind of garment his mother would say suited him well.
“Change,” Njord commanded. “The ting will convene in an hour, and I want you properly dressed.”
Thori wanted to refuse, to throw the expensive tunic back in Njord’s face and damn the consequences.
But the memory of Svanhild’s cruel treatment was still fresh, and he found himself reluctantly grateful for Njord’s relative kindness.
And wasn’t it his plan to play along with Njord’s demands until there was an opportunity to escape?
With stiff movements, Thori stripped off his travel clothes.
He was all too aware of Njord watching him while he stomped over to a washing basin to get presentable.
The green tunic fit perfectly, clinging to his shoulders and chest in a way that was undeniably flattering.
Matching trousers followed, made of a dark, flowing fabric, along with soft leather boots that reached to his knees.
“Better,” Njord said once Thori was finished.
He approached with a golden chain in his hands, and Thori tensed.
“Relax,” Njord whispered, as one would to a skittish horse. “It won’t hurt.”
He attached the chain to Thori’s collar.
“This marks you as mine, just like the collar. No one in the fortress will harm you as long as you wear it.”
The haughty words should have infuriated Thori, but they sent an unwelcome shiver down his spine. He covered his reaction with scorn.
“How thoughtful of you. I guess you don’t like your property being damaged.”
Njord’s hand moved to rest lightly on the back of Thori’s neck, making his breath catch. The touch was warm, almost gentle, but it left no doubt about who held the power between them.
“Mind your tongue,” he said. “I’ve been patient with your defiance because you’ve been ill, but my people are watching now. I won’t have them think I can’t control an Asgardian princeling.”
Thori didn’t deign him with an answer, but he inclined his head slightly, almost against his will. There was something about Njord’s quiet authority that was hard to refuse.
“Good,” Njord said, hand lingering for a moment longer before dropping away. “Come now, it’s time you learned how justice is dispensed in my realm.”