Chapter 23 To Discipline a God
twenty-three
To discipline a god
Njord
What was he doing?
The whole day he’d kept himself busy, thinking about defending the fortress against both traitors within and attackers from outside, and not about the way Thori of the thunder had kissed him and called him master, in a tone that sounded like trust and genuine devotion rather than mockery.
Now he was running out of things to take care of, but instead of returning to his chambers, his feet carried him to the quarters he had assigned to Skalmold. The rooms were designed to accommodate a vala, looking out over the courtyard and even offering a small, secluded garden.
He found Skalmold and Andora right there among the henbane, yarrow, and meadowsweet, right next to Hrothgar’s corpse, which was wrapped in a linen cloth.
“See, I told you he’d come,” Skalmold said to Andora, and the girl’s eyes widened with excitement. “I need your help with this one, if you don’t mind.”
For a vala supposed to serve him, Skalmold was awfully presumptuous, like the powerful ones of her kind tended to be.
Like Perhonen. Like Ahti. His sister’s absence was like physical pain, and if he felt this way, how awful must it be for Talvi and Rune with both their mothers gone? He needed to bring them back. Soon.
“What do you require my assistance with?”
Skalmold gestured to a steep black cliff jutting from the fortress wall above them, nothing more than a narrow ledge above the sea.
“I need to bring him up there.”
“Why?”
Did she plan to conduct her ritual up there? What madness.
“Liminal place. If I am to talk to Hrothgar’s narrow mind in death, I have to meet him somewhere. Unless you want me to ride to the halls of Hel herself?”
“Can’t you find a place to question his spirit where one wrong move doesn’t mean certain death?”
“And where would be the fun in that?”
Skalmold’s grin was sharp as a blade. Andora giggled behind her hand, and Njord remembered why he’d once enjoyed the company of volur despite their insufferable arrogance.
“Fine. But you’re not carrying him up there alone.”
“Certainly. That’s why we waited for you.”
The climb up the steep cliff face was treacherous enough without a corpse to worry about.
Njord scaled the black rock first, securing a rope at the top, so Skalmold and Andora could haul up Hrothgar’s wrapped body.
The bundle swayed in the salty wind, and for a breathless moment, Njord thought the dead vala would plunge into the depths.
He reached for the corpse with the power of his wind to steady the swaying bundle, and finally, he hurled Hrothgar’s remains onto the questionable safety of the cliff’s edge.
Andora and Skalmold climbed up next, both secured by the rope Njord had attached to the rocks. By the time they reached the ledge, the sun had painted the western sky in colors of pink and orange, and the screams of the skuas drowned out the distant sounds of the fortress below.
“This will do,” Skalmold said, adjusting the body with its head pointing seaward.
She began arranging items from her pouch. First, she laid out her staff, gleaming in the last sunbeams, bone-carved runes, and bowls with dried herbs. Andora watched with fascination as the vala worked, her youthful face bright with curiosity.
“This is going to take some time, Shipbreaker,” Skalmold said. “I won’t start the ritual before the moon rises.”
“Do you plan to stay up here until then?”
Skalmold nodded.
“I need to prepare myself for the ritual, and Andora is going to assist me.” Something shrewd and amused flashed in Skalmold’s eyes. “How about you return to your thrall and send me some of the seier the two of you are going to create?”
It wasn’t even a far-fetched assumption.
Most men would use their thralls to serve their needs, and if they could humiliate an enemy warrior in the same way, they’d gladly do that too.
Njord should revel in Thori’s suffering, but the idea of making Thori serve him against his will didn’t sit right with him.
“I’m not sure if I—”
“Don’t worry. I have an inkling you’re going to have some seier to spare, but that may be just the scattered thoughts of an old vala.”
A strange sense of foreboding washed over Njord, not unlike the first time he wandered up to Skalmold’s mountain cave. What had her runes shown her about his fate?
“What aren’t you telling me?”
Skalmold’s eyes were wide, shining with an inner light.
“When the time comes, you’ll know what to do.”
Njord’s throat was tight as he nodded, and suddenly he felt an urgent need to be near Thori.
“Send for me if you need anything,” he said before starting his descent, leaving the women to their grim business.
He had to stand by his word.
Beeswax candles and the hearth’s merry fire bathed his chambers in soft light and cast dancing shadows on the walls.
Thori sat on a rug by the fire playing a game of hnefatafl against himself, still wearing the cream-colored tunic Njord had chosen for him to wear in the morning.
The fabric caught the candlelight, making Thori’s skin glow like burnished gold.
“You had a busy day,” Thori said without looking up.
Njord smiled at the petulant undertone in Thori’s voice. When had the thunder god’s antics become so endearing?
“I had duties to attend to.” He closed the door to the main chamber. “But I’m here now.”
Thori finally looked up, defiance sparkling in his eyes, mixed with something feverish and needy that made Njord’s pulse quicken.
“You said you would punish me for my rashness at the council.”
The words sounded steady enough, but Thori’s body was thrumming with tension like a wolf crouched to spring.
“I did.” Njord moved closer. “Stand up.”
Rising gracefully to his feet, Thori obeyed, radiant like his lightning. What a cruel joke played by all the norns and higher powers that the blasted Odinsson, of all people, had to be the most beautiful thing Njord had ever seen.
“Strip.”
For a heartbeat, he thought Thori might refuse, as his eyes flashed with princely pride. But then Thori’s hands moved to the fastenings of his shirt, his fingers working with deliberate slowness. Teasing. Almost…seductive.
The silk whispered as it fell away, pooling at Thori’s feet like spilled water. In the flickering light of the candles, the fading cuts and old scars marring his skin shone like chains of silver, and when he bent to remove his breeches, his hair fell in his face in the most precious way.
“By the tides, you’re gorgeous,” Njord murmured, the words escaping before he could stop himself.
Thori looked up sharply, color spreading across his cheekbones.
“Don’t mock me.”
The edge in Thori’s voice astounded Njord. Surely the Prince of Asgard knew how gorgeous he was. Surely everyone in Odin’s realm fell over themselves to compliment him and please him.
“I’m not mocking you,” Njord said firmly, marveling at the flush that spread down Thori’s chest. He sat down on the edge of his bed and patted his thigh. “Come here.”
“You can’t seriously mean to—”
“Come. Here.”
Something in his tone must have reached through Thori’s stubborn embarrassment, because he stumbled forward, only his indignant expression betraying his defiance.
When he was close enough, Njord pulled him down across his lap, guiding him so that his torso rested on the bed while his hips lay across Njord’s thighs.
“This is a poor joke,” Thori growled, but his body relaxed into the vulnerable position.
They both knew Njord’s solution was a gentle punishment for a rebellious thrall. That Njord could have thought of a million treatments more cruel or humiliating.
“Your behavior demands punishment,” Njord reminded him, resting a calming hand on the small of Thori’s back. “You attacked a warrior in my hall. One of my trusted advisors. Eldur could’ve been hurt.”
“I had my thunder under control.” With his back to Njord, some of Thori’s usual snappiness returned. “And he deserved it.”
Having the proud Price of Asgard lying naked on his lap, snarking back at him, felt oddly endearing. It also made him want to put Thori in his place. Badly.
“Be that as it may, it wasn’t your choice to make. You belong to me, elskan. Your thunder, your fury are mine to command.”
Njord traced the enticing curve of Thori’s ass as if under a spell, reveling in the responding shiver.
“Then punish me if you must. I won’t ask you to go easy on me.”
“As you wish.”
The initial blow was measured. Njord was testing the waters, trying to gauge how Thori would react, how much pain he could handle.
Thori gasped, a soft sound born more of surprise than actual pain.
Good. Njord waited for a heartbeat, letting the tension build, before delivering another smack, harder this time, leaving a faint pink mark on Thori’s soft skin. Beautiful.
“Count,” he ordered.
“What?”
“The punishment for your insolence is twenty blows. You’ll count them for me.”
By the waves, what was he doing? This was no proper punishment, way too soft, way too lenient.
But marking Thori’s skin with his own hands, even if only for a moment, was too tempting to pass up.
Njord delivered the next blow before he could change his mind.
After all, he couldn’t let Thori get away completely unscathed.
“One,” Thori gasped.
Njord set a slow rhythm, his need to savor this moment overwhelming.
Each strike he placed carefully, each pause he calculated to let the sting build into warmth, and as Thori’s breathing grew ragged, his hips shifted against Njord’s thighs.
Norns, Thori was as caught up in this game as he was, and that knowledge filled Njord with a calm serenity he hadn’t known for decades.
He delivered another sharp slap, pulling a breathy sound from Thori, almost a moan.
“Twelve.”
The joy of making Thori squirm was far too powerful.
“Good boy,” Njord murmured, tracing the red marks his strikes had left.