Chapter 27 Svenn
We make camp at the edge of a valley as the sun bleeds into the horizon.
The others are too exhausted to risk the descent in darkness. The slope below us disappears into shadow, steep and treacherous. I'm not foolish enough to force them down after the punishing pace we've maintained all day. They need rest, even if I don't.
Garrett builds a fire, careful to keep it small and contained. Drawing attention out here would be dangerous. My three companions eat their dried meat in silence. The journey has worn them down.
Nothing stirs around us but the crack and pop of the fire and the distant wind howling through the valley below. The sound is lonely and mournful.
Hrolf produces a flask from somewhere deep in his pack and takes a long swig before offering it around. A rare grin crosses his weathered face, the first genuine smile I've seen from him.
"Darvan ale," he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Had to bribe my guard with a horseshoe for his daughter's pony to get this beauty smuggled in."
Garrett takes the flask and eyes it suspiciously for a moment before drinking. He starts coughing immediately, doubling over. His eyes water and his face flushes red.
“By Kvatosh,” he rasps, thrusting the flask back to Hrolf as if it burned him. “That’s not ale. Isn’t that what you use to clean your anvil?”
Hrolf cracks a wider smile, clearly pleased with the reaction. He passes the flask to Aelfric.
The one-eyed knight takes a pull without hesitation. His face remains impassive, giving nothing away. He nods once in approval before handing it back. "Not bad."
Garrett stares at him in disbelief. "You're insane. That stuff could scour rust off armor."
The flask makes another round. I decline when it's offered.
Alcohol does nothing for me anymore and the taste reminds me of things I'd rather forget. The conversation dies after that. We sit in silence for a while, watching the fire burn lower.
I stare into the embers, seeing Rhianelle's face in the dancing light. I can't stop thinking about her.
Her heart has slowed again. I can barely hear it through my connection with Coinneach, the faintest whisper of life still clinging on.
"The fae healer can be… difficult," Hrolf says at last, breaking the silence. "Prickly. Arrogant."
A corner of his mouth shifts slightly.
"But I have seen his work. He's never failed. Not once, in all the time I've known him."
Garrett exhales sharply. "Why would a fae help someone from Aelfheim?" he asks, voicing the thought none of them want to. "We're at war with his people. Why risk himself for an elf?"
For the first time all night Hrolf almost smiles. "Because he owes me a blood debt."
The answer doesn’t ease anyone. Garrett opens his mouth like he wants to ask more, then thinks better of it. Hrolf takes another swallow and says nothing else.
"I'll take first watch," Aelfric volunteers, already moving to position himself with a view of the approaches.
"Let me," I say. "I won't be sleeping anyway."
I stand and step away from the fire, leaving its warmth behind.
Hrolf fixes me with a hard look. "You're no good to her dead on your feet, son. You need rest."
How can I close my eyes when every breath she takes might be her last? Rhianelle could be calling for me right now and I'm not there. She could be scared, alone, wondering where I am.
"I'll rest." The lie comes without effort.
"We move at first light," Garrett mutters, banking the fire down. "Cover as much ground as we can."
I settle at the camp's edge, my back against a twisted tree. The bark feels warm despite the night air, pulsing with slow life. Everything in the fae-wilds has its own heartbeat.
Hrolf's snores rise within minutes, deep and rumbling. The dwarf can sleep anywhere. A useful skill for someone who spent his life in rebellion and war.
Garrett shifts positions a few times before finally settling. His breathing evens out. Even Aelfric on watch starts to sag after an hour. His head nods forward before he jerks it back up. He fights it for a while but eventually his chin drops to his chest.
Exhaustion has claimed them all.
I remain awake, listening for Rhianelle's heartbeat across the impossible distance.
Svenn.
My name carries, whispered by the wind. I lift my head, searching the darkness beyond the firelight.
Nothing moves. It's just shadows and mist.
But I know I heard it. A voice, thin as spider silk.
The sound shifts into a melody, threading through the night air.
It starts soft, barely audible over the crackling fire. A lullaby sung in a strange language that I somehow understand. The notes pull at something deep in my chest. It hooks into my ribs, drawing me forward.
The others don't stir. Hrolf's snores continue uninterrupted. Garrett rolls over, muttering something in his sleep. Even Aelfric, who should wake at any unusual sound, remains slumped against his tree.
The song calls only to me.
I rise without waking them. My feet move of their own accord, drawn by the haunting melody. It's beautiful, promising answers if I follow.
The mist parts before me like a curtain. I step past the camp's boundary and into the forest beyond. The trees here are different from those we passed during the day. Their branches twist, forming archways and tunnels.
The lullaby beckons me deeper. I follow because I have no choice. Because something in my bones recognizes the call and cannot refuse it.
I keep walking until I reach a clearing bathed in moonlight.
She's waiting for me there.
An old woman with a cane. She looks so ancient she seems carved from the earth itself. Her back is bent with the weight of eons and her fingers are gnarled like old roots. Yet her eyes are sharp and knowing, bright as stars.
"You took your time," she mutters in a voice older than the space between stars. "I wondered when you would hear my call."
My hand goes to where my sword would be if I'd brought it. I left my weapons at camp, I realize. I walked unarmed into a fae forest following strange music.
I'm a fool.
But I have never relied on steel to kill.
"Who are you?" My throat tightens around the words.
Her fingers rest lightly on the head of her cane. "Somewhere in your soul, you recognize what I am."
Yes.
Deep in my primal awareness, I recognize what she is.
"You're one of them," I say slowly. "One of the Un."
"Clever boy." Her smile widens, pleased. "Yes. I am one of the patrons your wife serves so faithfully. One of the forces that shaped this world before the elven gods were even conceived."
She straightens slightly, though her eyes never leave mine.
“I’m Elli,” she says.
The air tightens around us, as though the world inhales and forgets to exhale. The faint rustle of leaves dies. Even the distant hum of crickets fades, as if the insects know better than to make noise when that name is spoken aloud.
It stirs something in my memory. Tales told around fires, legends whispered in dark places in my human days.
Thor, the mighty Thunder-bearer himself challenged her, certain of his divine strength. She put his arm to the table without effort. I look at the old lady before me. "You arm-wrestled a god."
"And won," Elli says, with the faintest chuckle. "He was prideful. I am inevitable."
"Have you come to kill me like your kin tried?" I remember Mal and the thing on his shoulder. The Un who wanted me dead, who saw me as an obstacle to whatever designs they had for Rhianelle.
"Kill you?" She seems genuinely amused and chuckles. "Oh, child. I care nothing for you. Your life or death means less than nothing to me. I'm here for the girl."
Everything in me goes cold and sharp. Every monster in my soul rises to the surface, ready to defend what's ours.
"If you harm her—" I start, shadows gathering around my hands.
Elli interrupts with another cackle. "Harm her? Harm our little Rhianelle? In an age where gods starve on disbelief, where the old powers fade because mortals no longer remember our names, she is one who still worships. She remembers us when all others forget. We adore her."
The affection in her voice is somehow more unsettling than threats would be.
"Because of that we've been arranging things for her. Smoothing her path. Weaving possibilities into her future," Elli continues.
"Arranging?" My voice drops dangerously low. "What have you done to her?"
"Let me show you something, vampire." Elli raises one gnarled finger and the air shimmers around us.
The veil between worlds thins and peels away. Beneath the surface I can see them.
Countless strings stretch through the air like a spider's web made of light. They connect everything and everyone, weaving an infinite tapestry that extends in all directions. Some threads glow bright, pulsing with vitality while others are fraying, ready to snap.
"Do you know what these are?" Elli asks, those ancient eyes studying my reaction.
"Threads of fate," I say, watching light travel their lengths. "Weavings of destiny."
She nods approvingly. "Very good. Most mortals can't see them at all. But you're not entirely mortal anymore, are you? The curse that made you opened your eyes to things they shouldn't see."
Elli gestures and the threads shift, rearranging themselves to show patterns I can almost understand.
"We usually leave them alone," she says evenly. "Let mortals stumble through their destinies blind. But for those we favor, we intervene."
"Then save her," I demand. "If you can weave fate, weave one where she survives."
"We create possibilities, not certainties." Her expression is almost pitying. "We can't force outcomes but only arrange circumstances. Whether those circumstances lead to salvation or damnation depends on the choices made."
The fuck does that mean? They can manipulate fate itself but they can't heal her? Then what good are they?