Chapter 12
His vision spun as the pain in his side gripped him, his eyes unable to find purchase on any fixed spot.
Smoke billowed in the distance.
Dark clouds loomed overhead.
Trees faded in and out of focus.
Noren’s hands were covered in blood.
And the scent of it would have driven him to his knees if he hadn’t already collapsed.
Her blood.
Westley lunged towards Solveig, who lay beside him, barely breathing. He covered the wound on her side with unsteady hands, trying to keep pressure on it as blood pooled around them. His chest shuddered at his inability to staunch the bleeding. Her agony sliced through him.
“What did you do?” he roared at Noren. He would’ve taken a swing at his friend if his body wasn’t still reeling and his hands weren’t trying to keep her blood where it belonged.
Noren’s voice came out shaky, doubt shadowing his features. “She was going to kill you.”
“No, she wasn’t!”
“Yes, I was,” came Solveig’s weak agreement.
“Be quiet,” Westley snapped, not taking his eyes off his friend, lest he try to stab Solveig again.
“I knew she wouldn’t die,” Noren insisted.
“You have no idea what kind of injuries she can survive.”
“I have a good enough idea. I was in the cave too, West.”
Hooves crashed through the treeline as Helle came charging in, not stopping to pay Njord any mind, before headbutting Westley out of the way. He was knocked back, landing hard on his ass, his hands falling away from Solveig.
The ground beneath her soaked up her blood as if it was an offering.
Westley attempted to scramble towards her, but Helle snuffed in warning, halting him with the fury in her demeanour. Westley raised his hands—hands covered in Solveig’s blood, the scent stinging his nostrils—in a show of surrender.
When the horse was satisfied Westley was not a threat, she lay down beside Solveig, her silent protector.
The huffing sound of Conalle running, faintly out of breath, his arms full of bandages, breached the taut silence.
“I figured someone might get stabbed so I brought supplies,” he said before the scene in front of him fully registered. “Solveig!” The Fae lord rounded on Westley. “You actually stabbed her!”
“I didn’t stab her,” he said, rushing back to Solveig’s side.
Helle narrowed her eyes in warning. He slowed his movements to assure her that he meant no harm. Solveig’s breathing was shallow, purple shadows blooming under her closed eyes. Even her hair lacked its usual lustre.
Too fast. It was happening too fast.
“Solveig, can you hear me?” Westley barely recognized his voice, the roaring in his ears too loud.
“Who stabbed her then?” Conalle asked, taking in the bloodied dagger lying on the ground at Noren’s feet. “No . . .” he whispered, looking up with hurt in his eyes. “Why?”
“She was going to kill West,” Noren swore, though he didn’t sound as confident as before.
“Why would she want to do that?!” Conalle cried.
“Connie . . .” Solveig’s weak voice came from the ground. The lord rushed over, kneeling at her other side. Westley scoffed when the hooved beast didn’t bat an eyelash at Conalle. He clasped her weak hand.
“Shhh, don’t speak,” Conalle crooned.
“You . . . can’t . . . trust . . .” Her voice trailed off as she drifted back into unconsciousness.
“Westley, please tell me what’s going on.” Conalle had turned frantic, his hands fluttering over Solveig in a useless attempt to fix a problem he knew nothing about.
“She’s not healing,” Westley muttered under his breath.
In the cave, she’d healed. In the chasm, she’d healed them both. But not now.
Conalle made a face as though Westley had lost his mind. He wasn’t far off.
“Of course she’s not healing! She’s been stabbed!”
“Why is she not healing?” Westley asked, more to himself than anyone else.
He carefully lifted Solveig’s tunic, inspecting the injury. Veins stretched in black tendrils from the wound as blood continued to spill onto the ground, soaking into his pants. If his heart was beating normally, it would have stopped.
“West . . .” Noren tried to speak, but Westley cut him off with a snarl.
“Did you use a poisoned blade?” His mouth tasted of violence.
“West . . .”
“Did you?!”
“She was going to kill you,” Noren insisted with a hard swallow.
A guttural roar burst from Westley’s chest as he lunged at Noren, tackling him to the ground. Noren barely had time to right himself before Westley pummelled him again.
Rage and helplessness drove him past seeing any reason.
The two Fae fought like animals, Westley’s ferocity overcoming any twin pain he felt as Solveig lay dying. With Noren rolling on the ground trying to recover, helplessness overcame him as he felt the lifeforce seep out of her.
His soul began to ache.
Conalle turned his attention from the tousling males to Solveig and began to clean and wrap her wounds. Helle loomed over him as if expecting him to be able to do something for her rider.
Rolling Solveig onto her side, Conalle assessed the injury fully. The gasp he tried to hold back hissed through his teeth at the sight, his stomach roiling.
“Hang in there, Sol,” he whispered when her eyes fluttered.
“Helle . . .” she muttered. The horse nudged Solveig’s outstretched hand with her nose before turning her wordless stare on Conalle.
“I’m not a healer, what am I supposed to do?”
Helle snorted and continued to stare.
“If you have any bright ideas, please share.”
The horse jerked her head and let out a small whinny.
“I don’t want her to die either, but the poison is spreading quickly.”
Helle leaned her head closer to Solveig, smelling her. She whinnied again at Conalle, who stared blankly at the animal, the sounds of Noren and Westley’s fight escalating in the background.
“I don’t speak horse!” Conalle cursed under his breath.
Helle huffed, nudging Solveig and then the grass in an obvious attempt to get him to understand. Conalle looked between the witch and the ground, puzzling out what the horse was trying to tell him.
“Talking to a horse . . .” he muttered. His head snapped up to meet Helle’s stare. “Mortals use healing plants!” Helle gave a jerk of her head.
“West!” Conalle yelled. But the prince didn’t look up from where he had Noren pinned on the ground, his hands battered and bruised, matching the discolouration forming on Noren’s face.
“Westley Erikson, Solveig will die if you do not get your perfect ass over here right now,” Conalle ordered. That made Westley turn, earning him a punch to the jaw from Noren. The prince scrambled to his feet, dropping Noren in the mud in his rush to get to her.
“Can you save her?” he asked, out of breath.
“You can save her.”
When Westley didn’t respond, Conalle glared down at him. “If you stop fooling around and pay attention. It’s been much longer since I took a healing class, and I cannot remember. What plants do mortals use to heal themselves with?”
The answer came automatically, hidden knowledge he didn’t realize he still had. “Watercress and chervil.”
“Okay, good. Now, please, kindly scrape Noren off the ground and go find me some of those. And hurry.”
Westley leaned over Solveig, stroking the back of his hand down the side of her face. His heart clenched when no current, no shock of magic, came from her cold, clammy skin. The absence was chilling.
“Hang on, Solveig. Please.”
Westley tore himself from her side, ready to get on his hands and knees and beg for her to live if he had to. He yanked his friend up by the shirt.
“You will stay and guard her with your life. If anything happens to her, you are responsible. And if she dies”—Westley pulled him closer, the rough fabric tearing under his tight grip—“you will pay for every drop of blood you made her spill.”
“Don’t you think it would be better if he accompanied you?” Conalle asked.
“I don’t trust him enough to put her life in his hands,” Westley said coldly.
He whistled for Njord, quickly mounted, and took off towards the river. The trees seemed to lean away from his rage, from his despair. But he could not lose hope—he could not lose her. His eyes stung with unshed tears.
What had he done?
This whole time, she had known that he’d captured her. He tried and failed to wrap his mind around that fact. Had she truly forgiven him, or had it all been an act?
Her nightmares hadn’t been an act, and he was the cause of them.
His heart stuttered, pain lancing through him. Westley clutched his chest, jaw clenched tight as an unseen weight fell upon him.
Her heart. He felt her heart seize.
No, no, no, no, no.
Prince? Solveig’s voice filtered into his thoughts, quiet and weak.
I’m here.
I was going to kill you.
Shut up. No you weren’t.
Yes I was.
I’m not arguing with you about this.
A weak chuckle was her reply, and tears escaped Westley’s eyes. He urged Njord on faster, reaching the water’s edge—he had barely stopped before leaping down, beginning his search for the plant. Thankfully, watercress was abundant, the round leafy green burgeoning from the water.
Noren was right to stop me, she insisted.
He gets a free pass and I don’t? he asked, trying to lighten the mood.
She didn’t hesitate to answer. Yes.
Why?
Because he was never anything more than what he was.
What does that mean? He wanted to keep her alert. Her voice lacked her usual power.
It means I never expected him to be more.
I was more? This was not how he wanted to have this conversation. He wanted to sit her down beside a fire maybe, the flames dancing with her hair, masking the heat that swelled within him whenever she was near.
He wanted to hear her scream and rage at him. Hel, he’d have her unsheathe her swords and challenge him. He’d have her accuse him in front of the queens of Asgard.
Not like this.
You are more, Westley. I—
He couldn’t swallow past the rising panic in his throat. Don’t you dare say goodbye. You’d better be alive when I get back.
I don’t think I—
Promise me.
There was no reply.
Gods damn it, Solveig, promise me! His shouting was loud even in his own head, like the walls of his mind couldn’t fathom the emptiness she’d leave in her wake.
I can’t . . . was her soft reply, the voice in his head breaking along with his heart.
Solveig!
Then nothing. His mind became a shell without her presence invading it.
Westley’s pockets were loaded with watercress as he searched the forest for the leafy green chervil. He was going to be sick as he continued to call out to Solveig with no reply.
He prayed, he screamed, he raged at the gods until finally he came across a small cropping of the healing plant. It would have to be enough.
Njord was ready for him when he threw himself on the saddle and raced like the raging sea.
A storm blew in, the wind pushing him forward, giving him hope that he wouldn’t be too late.