Chapter 28 The Prince of Asgard
twenty-eight
The Prince of Asgard
Njord
He stood on his balcony, looking out across the ocean at the storm clouds gathering in the distance.
For a month, the weather around Nóatún had been abysmal.
Usually, the climate on the coast stayed mild even during the winter months, but this year the snow kept hammering down on Nóatún’s black cliffs and the ocean threatened to freeze.
Gylfa had chastised him for the weatherly escapades several times already, demanding he make it stop.
As if it were so simple. As if Njord could bring himself to care.
The Bog Mother was asleep again in her eternal tomb, Sveinn dead, and Svanhild running. Ahti and Vellamo were back in Saeborg, much to Talvi’s delight, who’d just won the throne of the Frostland realm for his beloved Jotunn husband.
A month had passed since the Bog Mother’s defeat, since Thori had fled along with Frigga and Odin, and Njord’s first impulse had been to sail to Asgard and demand the return of the god of thunder.
But he’d restrained his anger, because as much as he wanted him back, he couldn’t bring himself to force Thori to return to Vanaheim against his will.
But oh, how Nóatún felt hollow without him.
The fortress was his again, peaceful and orderly, exactly as it should be. Exactly as he’d wanted it before Thori of the thunder had stumbled into his life, prideful even in chains.
Another storm was building with black clouds on the horizon, the third this week, and he hadn’t summoned a single one of them. His powers were acting up, beyond his control, responding to emotions he refused to examine too closely.
Behind him, someone cleared their throat.
Njord didn’t turn.
“My lord,” Gylfa said gently. “A delegation from Asgard has arrived. They’re waiting in the great hall.”
Njord glared at the raven banners of the three longships anchored in the harbor. As far as Ahti’s spies could fathom, Frigga sat on Asgard’s throne, but Odin was still ill, and the power of the AEsir diminished. No wonder they wanted to negotiate.
“Tell them I’m occupied,” Njord growled.
“I’ve already told them that. Twice. But they’re insistent.”
“I don’t care how persistent they are. I want to be alone.” As if anything mattered when Thori was gone. “Send them away.”
“My Lord Njord—”
“I said send them away!”
Thunder rumbled overhead. The storm clouds darkened, and heavy snowflakes began to fall. Gylfa sighed deeply.
“They brought gifts,” she said placatingly. “Many crates and boxes. They say it’s a tribute from Asgard, compensation for—”
“I don’t want their tribute. I don’t want anything from them.”
Not true. But what he wanted was impossible. Thori had chosen duty and freedom over him, and why shouldn’t he? Why should he choose the captor who’d collared him? Why should he choose the enemy who’d made him a thrall?
“Tell them to take their tribute and leave. I’m done with Asgard.”
“Very well, my lord.”
He listened to Gylfa’s retreating footsteps, staying on the balcony for another few minutes. But he couldn’t hide up here forever. Grumbling, he made his way back to his chambers. He slammed the door shut with more force than necessary and stopped short.
His living chamber was filled with boxes. Dozens of them, stacked carefully in front of his fireplace. Andora and several servants were still arranging them, handling the gifts with reverent care.
“Andora, what’s this supposed to mean?” Njord snarled.
Andora blushed but stood her ground.
“The Asgardians brought gifts for you, my lord. Lady Freyja herself had them selected.”
Njord snorted.
“Get out. All of you. Now.”
The young servants scrambled to obey, practically fleeing from his chambers. Andora was the last to leave, pausing at the door to cast him a worried glance he decided to ignore. The door closed behind her with a soft click, leaving him alone with Asgard’s stupid presents.
Njord stared at the boxes with rising fury. Did Frigga really think his forgiveness could be bought? Did she think gold and weapons and whatever other treasures she’d sent would make up for what Asgard had cost him?
He should burn it all.
He should throw every single box into the sea and watch the waves swallow Asgard’s pathetic attempt to—
A thump came from his bedroom, and Njord looked up to find the door half-open and the trail of packages leading there.
Njord bristled. The sound had been too loud, too heavy to be a box settling. Someone was in there.
His hand went to his belt, closing around the hilt of his dagger as he moved silently toward the doorway. Norns, if this was some Asgardian assassin he’d let them taste his wrath.
Throwing the door open, he stomped into his sleeping chamber, ready for violence. But the scene that unfolded in front of him made Njord freeze in his tracks.
Someone was sitting on the rug, next to a particularly large overturned crate.
Norns.
Thori shook his hair from his eyes, longer now after weeks of growing it out again and falling almost to his shoulders. He looked up at Njord, a soft smile on his lips, and shifted until he was kneeling properly.
“My Lord Njord.”
Thori bowed his head, and Njord spotted the collar around his neck, the golden bracelet he’d bought for him gleaming around his wrist. And his clothes—
Whales and waves.
Thori was shirtless, wearing only trousers of soft blue silk. Njord’s colors and nothing else. He looked stunning. He’d put the collar back on, and he’d dressed as though he belonged to Njord.
“My lord,” Thori said, not looking up. “I apologize for the unannounced appearance.”
“Norns, what are you doing?”
Now, Thori did glance up as if unsure for a second, before he seemed to remember that he was planning to act all seductive. It was equal parts ridiculous and endearing.
“I told you, I accept your punishment. I wasn’t planning to run from your justice.”
“So you came back after weeks and weeks of no word? To do what, exactly?”
Thori lifted his chin, flushing a pretty pink.
“To offer myself to you. As your thrall. As your sworn warrior. As whatever you want me to be. I’ll serve you in any way you demand if you’ll have me.”
Desperate hope bloomed in Njord’s chest, but he couldn’t allow himself to be fooled.
This could only be a trap. Asgard’s golden prince on his knees, offering submission.
It couldn’t be real. Because if Thori really wanted to return to him of his own free will, he could’ve done so weeks ago.
So, what were the Asgardians playing at?
“Did Frigga send you?” Njord asked, his tone more angry than he would’ve liked. “What kind of scheme is this?”
“No!” Thori said quickly, sounding almost panicked. “Mother doesn’t know, and Father…he’s still ill. Freyja helped me to come here.”
“And why would the heir to Asgard’s throne come here to pay his debts? I thought the AEsir were above simple honor?”
“I would’ve come sooner, my lord,” Thori said, edging closer, as if he wanted to reach for Njord but thought better of it at the last second. “But I needed to get something for you first.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I brought something for you,” Thori said quickly, as if afraid Njord would send him away before he could finish.
“I needed to. But don’t think I liked being away from you.
I couldn’t—I couldn’t stop thinking about you.
Every day since I left, all I could think about was you.
About sleeping next to you and sharing my thunder with you. To be yours.”
He sounded so vulnerable. So sincere. But it couldn’t be.
“Thori,” Njord breathed.
“I would’ve come sooner,” Thori said again, reaching for a wooden box the size of a large helmet. “But I had to make a journey first. To the northern mountains of Asgard.”
Carefully, he nudged the box toward Njord.
“For you.”
“What is it?” Njord asked, still with this grumpy tone in his voice he didn’t like himself.
But he couldn’t help it.
“Open it, master.”
Gods, Thori knew exactly how to wrap him around his little finger. This had to be a cruel joke, or more likely a trap. But Njord couldn’t deny Thori anything, and he couldn’t resist. So, he opened the box to find something wrapped in silks and furs.
A helmet, Njord thought again. Why is Thori bringing me a helmet?
Carefully, he pushed the furs aside, and his breath caught. This wasn’t a helmet. It was an egg, large and pale blue-white and covered in delicate crystalline patterns that caught the light like frost. An ice dragon’s egg.
“Jokull came to me in a dream. She showed me where to find this and asked me to bring it to you. I know it can never replace her, nothing could, but—”
Njord sank to his knees, pulling the egg against his chest, and pulling Thori close too. He needed to touch, needed to feel that this was real and not some figment of his imagination.
“You fetched this for me?”
Thori pressed closer, melting into Njord’s embrace easily.
“Well, the mountain giants weren’t thrilled, but Mjolnir and I convinced them to give it up.”
“Who’s Mjolnir?” Njord asked irritably, his mind filling with the images of young warriors trying to impress Thori.
But Thori only chuckled.
“The hammer I snatched from the Bog Mother’s chariot. A named weapon made by the Svartalfar. It really complements my fighting style.”
The hammer, of course, was a gift intended for Thori at his birth but never delivered. And now that Njord was looking properly, he could see fading bruises on Thori’s shoulders and arms, dark marks speaking of hard-won battles.
“You fought against the mountain giants?” Njord asked slowly. “Alone?”
Thori shrugged, all warrior’s pride and princely nonchalance.
“I couldn’t risk anyone learning about the egg.”
A warm and molten feeling spread through Njord’s chest, burning away the hollow ache that had plagued him for weeks. Thori had ventured into the desolate mountains of Asgard. Had battled giants. Had risked his life to bring Njord the egg Jokull had told him to fetch.