Finaan
Chapter two
Shadow of a Bond
“You’re wrong, Fhord.”
The asshole glares at me from the other side of the tent as his jaw snaps shut.
His eyes spark the shade of green that corpses wear when their road to Helheim meanders, giving their wounds ample time to fester before they reach the stasis of Hel’s realm.
Sifa, by far the better half in their pairing, reaches across the table they’re sitting at, resting her slim hand on his arm.
Fhord turns to look at her, his shoulders relaxing a bit.
Thank the gods—well, every god except that bitch Hel—that they rarely leave the other’s side. I’d probably be searching for a way back to Helheim if Sifa weren’t here to keep him in check.
“I know it doesn’t make sense,” I tell him in a calmer voice as I glance down at the simple but sturdy rug stretched between us, then back up at them.
They’re a handsome couple, as much a contrast in their appearances as they are in their personalities.
Where Sifa is dark, with beautiful umber skin, curly black hair and brown eyes that glow with her bright soul, Fhord’s lighter skin and green eyes flash with an intensity that radiates from him, driving everything he does.
“My dragon is alive somewhere,” I continue. “I felt the spark in our bond when you and the others brought us back from Helheim. You wouldn’t give up your dragon if you were in my boots. How can you expect me to give up Panta?”
The prickly male’s eyes shift, revealing a pity I don’t want at my mention of that accursed place.
I suck in a deep breath, shoving memories of Helheim aside.
I can’t … I won’t … let my thoughts get lost in that abyss again.
It’s been two months since the Vanatians harnessed their magic to drag me and the other lost elves back from that nightmare.
We’d been in Hel’s realm for centuries, and I’d given up, convinced we’d rot there forever.
Well, not rot. Nothing changes in that place except the number of corpses, as others make the journey and join the damned.
We spent that entire time without food or water because our bodies required none.
I’d forgotten what it felt like to hunger, turning to Sifa for help hours after we arrived because a cavern opened up in my gut and I had no idea how to close it.
But Fhord and I are talking about a different kind of emptiness—one that seems impossible to fill and is even harder to ignore.
“It can’t be her, Finaan.” Sifa’s voice is soft, persuasive, the half-plea, half-demand she uses to convince others to do what she needs.
Not that she has to resort to it very often.
Everyone adores her. They comply because of who she is, not how she asks.
“The dragons would have been found if they were still alive. But in all these centuries, nobody in any world has heard a hint about them.”
She would know. Sifa’s only been in Vanaheim for a decade, drawn here from Midgard on the heels of the war between gods and jotnar known as Ragnarok.
A confluence of magic pulled her to the world that birthed her mate and dragon.
She was born in the elves’ homeland álfheimr and had lived hundreds of years walking the other worlds—even Asgard—before being sucked into this one.
Freyr, the god who the elves consider their father, claimed Sifa as his child after her parents were killed, giving her access to most of the knowledge held by the gods.
She should know if the dragons had appeared in another of the worlds.
But she’s wrong. I smirk because I can’t be mad at her, despite her suggestion that I ignore my need to find Panta. “You’re good. You know that, right?” I ask, letting our friendship gentle my tone.
She smirks back, dark eyes glittering at me as she nods once. “Fhord’s right,” she continues. “The dragons are gone. You need to let her go, focus on building your life now that you’re back in Vanatia.”
Moving my gaze to Fhord, I exhale slowly.
I’ve grown to like him, pissy and demanding as he may be.
He’s a good male and a great leader. “I can’t,” I tell them at last. “And you wouldn’t either, if it were Astarot or Tindera.
Even if it means going back to Helheim, I don’t have a choice.
If there’s any chance Panta still lives… ”
A shout from outside ends my tirade. “Don’t tell me what to do!” spears into our midst, followed by an indignant shriek.
We snap our heads up to stare in the direction of the elf whose voice I know too well.
We’re all struggling to adapt, but it’s been harder for Svend.
He misses Helheim—a fact that curdles my stomach whenever it pierces my thoughts.
He insists that the stagnancy there, which he charitably calls stillness, settled his soul.
I spin on my heel and yank the tent’s flap open, stopping short on the doorstep to stare at Svend on his back, trapped beneath the claws of Sifa’s enormous red and black dragon Astarot. The fire beast is barely holding back his flames, angry about something the stubborn fool did.
We’ve all been pissed at Svend more than once, so I can’t blame him.
“Let him go, Astarot,” Sifa whispers, but her dragon spins his head to glare at her, sparks flickering from his nose. “We’ll take care of it.”
The testy red beast watches her for a moment, then turns back to the elf trapped in his claws.
He growls one more time as Svend visibly trembles and lifts his claw to slam it down right next to the male’s head.
Flinging out his wings, he takes two quick steps forward, his hind claw nearly scalping the terrified elf.
And then he’s winging away from us, the gust of air from his powerful strokes nearly pushing me backward through the doorway.
“What the fuck was that about?” I demand as I stride forward and extend my arm to Svend.
He doesn’t move for a moment, staring at me with wide eyes and a deep scowl.
His face looks like it can’t decide whether he’s terrified or outraged, and I have to hold back the laugh that would only make this worse.
I like Svend. I want him to find a place here.
I just need him to calm the fuck down as we all try to help him adjust.
Finally, he gives a jerky nod and lifts his arm to clasp mine.
When he’s on his feet again, he spins to look at Sifa, dropping his chin while his gaze holds hers.
His eyes water, and for a moment, I feel sorry for him.
But then I remember he’s being a pain in all of our asses and push that shit aside.
“I spoke ill of you, suggesting you and your mate were controlling the dragons more cruelly than Nerthus did when she ruled this land. He … did not appreciate the comparison.”
“Yeah, that would piss me off,” I interject with a quick glance at Sifa.
Nerthus—that bitch they all call the Dróttning—worked with Hel to send us to Helheim and hide our dragons somewhere.
I thought they were dead, my connection to Panta completely gone while I was trapped in Hel’s realm, but now I’m convinced they’re alive somewhere.
“You know what she did, right?” I demand of Svend. I’ve been these elves’ leader since our earliest days in Helheim, so I’m the one who needs to keep this little shit in check. “You’ve heard their stories. You realize how much everyone in Vanatia suffered under Nerthus’s rule.”
He nods his head, glancing down. But his shoulders are still stiff, stubborn elf that he is.
“Nerthus didn’t stop when she sent us to Helheim,” I remind him.
“She took control of Vanatia and its dragons, manipulating them for centuries as she governed every part of their lives. That bitch chose who would ride every dragon in this land, denying them their fate-chosen bonds. When they didn’t comply, she tortured them mercilessly.
I’d want to kill you too if I were Astarot, for suggesting that his rider is worse than Nerthus. ”
“But that’s not why my dragon’s angry, is it?
” Sifa rumbles the question and I feel it in my bones.
The subtle push of her mind against mine reminds me that she is very good at wielding her talent.
Nothing inside me moved, but as her will shot out to frighten Svend, the ripple of her power convinced me that the world shook with her words.
“Astarot’s still too enraged to tell me what you did, but a few words are not what angered him. ”
Now, the stubborn elf casts his gaze down, perhaps in remorse but more likely in an attempt to compose himself before he admits whatever he’s holding back.
He exhales, jerking his head from one side to the other and then back again.
“I may have asked another elf what Nerthus used to control the dragons.” He pauses again and I wonder whether he’s weighing the risks of disclosing the rest or holding it back.
Finally, Svend huffs out another breath—quick and full of frustration—before looking directly at Sifa.
“I need to go back,” he tells her, his voice cracking on the last word.
“I don’t belong here now. Helheim is my home.
Your dragon heard me suggest that one of the beasts could carry me there, if I found a way to coerce it. ”
I spin my head to look at Sifa, because I’d be throwing my blade at Svend for that heresy.
She’s a good elf, though. Much more forgiving than me.
She smirks, cocking her head to the side.
“Yeah, that would piss him off. The dragons are sensitive about her. How she controlled them. What she did to them.” Her voice drops with the last few words, vibrating with the rage that probably never will go away.
I didn’t see how the bitch controlled these majestic beasts, but I’ve heard enough to understand. Some may never recover from the trauma.