Chapter 14
Conalle led Solveig a short way through the forest to a nearby tent. As they walked, he told her how he’d already searched the ruins of camp for anything salvageable and had come upon an almost perfectly intact residence.
When they arrived at the tent, her footsteps faltered.
Smoke still rose from the wreckage of the Southern Wilds camp, the scent of burning bodies enveloping her, stinging her nose. Fresh tears rolled down her face as she mourned the loss of Laeknir and her shieldmaidens—the loss of trust, not only in those closest to her but in herself.
She’d failed them all.
Conalle led her inside the abandoned tent where, to their luck, there was water in the wash basin. He guided her to a wooden chair and helped strip off her boots and tunic, his gentleness so at odds with the violence that lay outside the canvas walls.
He removed the rest of her torn and blood-soaked clothes until she wore nothing but her undergarments. Solveig winced when she assessed her abdomen, her wound still working to heal itself.
Conalle watched in fascination but said nothing, turning away so she could remove her underwear, and began rooting around for more supplies.
Adrenaline from the day’s events—not to mention nearly dying—had left her body weary, so she let Conalle care for her. He assisted her washing, scrubbing the places on her back she couldn’t reach.
“Sorry,” Conalle muttered softly when she flinched as the cold water burned her skin.
He dipped her head back into the basin, giving him better access to wash out her hair before drying it with a towel and wordlessly braiding it back for her.
The kindness was too much for her to bear, and when he was finished, she slumped forward, letting broken sobs release from the barrier in her chest.
Conalle knelt in front of her, wrapping a threadbare towel around her shoulders and bringing her shivering body into his warmth, cradling her to his chest, the length of his blond beard tickling the top of her head.
He stroked her hair as she wept, exhausted and spent.
Solveig never had a brother, but she imagined this is what it would feel like—to be loved so freely.
To have an unwavering, strong, silent support.
She thought about Laeknir and how he had held her hand while patiently waiting out her silence when she’d escaped the cave.
His head rolling on the ground flashed through her mind as a new wave of tears streamed down her clean cheeks.
“It’s awful, Solveig. So awful. You let it out,” Conalle whispered.
Solveig didn’t know how long they stayed there, but eventually her tears dried and her heart felt a little lighter. She sniffed and Conalle handed her a cloth for her to wipe her nose.
“Thank you.” She kept her voice quiet. Though there was no one around to hear her, the eeriness of the burned camp demanded respect.
Conalle gave her a small smile. “Can’t have you running back to your prince with a nose full of snot.”
She rolled her eyes. “Way to ruin the moment, Connie.”
He chuckled and helped her sit back on the chair, leaving her to go find some clean clothes.
“Do you want to fill me in on what’s been happening?” he asked, speaking from the other room. There was no anger in his voice, only curiosity.
Conalle had known Solveig for centuries and knew better than to take her secrecy personally. Out of necessity, she had always kept her cards close to her chest.
Solveig sighed and began her tale. She didn’t stop when Conalle came back with his arms full of clothing, helping her dress in soft linens.
The boots he’d found were too small. Conalle tried without much luck to clean the dirt and mud caked on her own pair. They would have to do.
Words spilled out of her like dawn breaking, gradually coming to terms with the story herself. She told him everything except the return of her magic, skirting around that topic as they found her a sturdy overcoat.
Pain lanced through her, gripping her by the throat as she relived the moments before she’d executed Laeknir.
She didn’t dwell too long on that particular memory, moving quickly to the council tent when Ragnvald revealed his intentions.
She had to get to Asgard to warn her mothers that he was amassing power and had betrayed them all.
Ragnvald’s thinly veiled threat—that he would see the queens in Asgard soon—was what worried her most. Solveig didn’t know what else he had up his sleeve, what his end goal was, but his desire to see Vanaheim fall and possibly take Asgard from her mothers, she could only surmise that conquering two realms wouldn’t suffice.
He likely wished to gather as much power as possible.
But for what? Solveig didn’t trust a letter not to fall into the wrong hands. There was no one she could trust to relay this information.
Not when the betrayals were stacking up.
Much to her surprise, Conalle didn’t interrupt a single time. He listened without comment, with hardly any expression until she reached the moment before Noren stabbed her. When her blade had been at the prince’s throat.
“I was going to kill him, Conalle,” she confessed. “I was so focused on him that I didn’t hear Noren sneak up behind us. If he hadn’t stopped me, I would have killed them both,” Solveig finished.
“And no one would blame you if you had,” Conalle said, no judgement in his voice. “But you would’ve regretted it.”
Solveig sighed. “I hate that you’re right.”
He beamed, levity loosening the lines that had begun to crease his normally jovial face. “I will treasure those words forever.”
They stood outside the tent, eyes adjusting to the dark. Solveig hadn’t realized how much time had passed. The sky was black, well into the deep hours of the night. Trees loomed, the surrounding forest ominous against the glowing embers still burning as the camp smouldered.
Silence rang in her ears. No voices, no sounds. Nothing from the vast dwelling that had been teeming with life only yesterday. Not even animals lurked, warned away by the smoke that billowed around them. The earlier rain had caused a vortex of thick black clouds.
Conalle laid a hand on her shoulder as they stared out into the darkness together. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry this happened. If I had known Idavoll was behind this, I could have warned Asgard, I could’ve stopped—”
“You couldn’t have stopped it. This was Hel. And I will not stop until Fenrir himself rises from the dead to tear Ragnvald limb from limb.”
Her hair blew across her face, the vow settling into the shadows of the night.
She stood tall, letting rage fuel her magic.
The storm picked up, swirling around her as she inhaled her new purpose, her soul humming with the weight of it. Thunder boomed above and power filled her as a wicked smile curled her lips.
“So it begins,” she whispered to the skies.
Conalle leaned into her. “Chills, Solveig. Chills all over my body.”
He was deadly serious, and she noticed the pebbling of his skin when she turned. She laughed and shook her head, feeling the air calm around her.
So it begins.