Chapter 81
Solveig helped Westley sit up.
He groaned and leaned forward, bracing his head between his knees. His whole body trembled as she stroked his back, helping him through the worst of the shock.
When he lifted his head he stared at his hands, turning them over and back again.
“Where’s the blood?” he whispered, his voice shaky.
“What blood?”
“There was blood . . . I could have sworn there was blood.”
“There isn’t any blood.” When it didn’t seem like he could believe his eyes, she took his face in her hands and forced him to look at her.
“West, you’re okay. You’re alive.”
At those words, his eyes cleared. He reached out to brush his fingertips lightly across her face.
“You’re really here.”
“I am,” she said, holding his hand firmly to her face so he could feel her.
“I thought you were dead. I thought I was dead.”
“Well, we’re in Hel, so that’s always a possibility. But at least we died together,” she joked, trying to get a smile out of him. It worked, his lips quirking.
“Since when are you optimistic?”
“Since we fucking slayed Jormungandr.”
“Hel yeah we did.”
“Remind me to yell at you later for being stupid enough to drain yourself like that,” she chastised.
“Why are you always scolding me while I’m on my deathbed? That’s not very mate-like of you.” This was more like it. Solveig tried not to let her relief show.
“Always?”
“I saved your pretty ass when we collided with the rock wall in the chasm—”
“That you threw us into—”
“That I threw us into. Still doesn’t change the fact that you rebuked me for dying.”
“So twice then?”
He got distracted by her lips. “Hm?”
“Two times I’ve berated you for dying, and that equals always?”
“If you don’t scold me the next time we get into a life-and-death situation, then I won’t be able to say ‘always.’”
Solveig rolled her eyes.
“There’s my general,” he said, cupping her face with both hands.
She reared her head back before their lips could meet. “The next time?”
“You don’t think we’re going to start a war without encountering any more brushes with death, do you?”
“We did not start this war. Your dear old grandfather did.”
It was his turn to roll his eyes. “Speaking of that bastard, is he here?”
“I’m not sure. But if you’re okay to stand, we need to get going.”
“I just need one more thing.”
He pulled her face back to his and kissed her fiercely. Her relief at finding him, at him being alive finally escaped as his mouth met hers. That consolation bled through their bond and in return she felt his love surge towards her like a wave, mixing with his relief at her relative safety.
Their bond.
“Did you feel that?” she asked, her eyes widening.
“Our magic likes it when we kiss. Maybe we should . . .” He let the sentence trail off with a waggle of his eyebrows. Solveig snorted.
“You know that’s not going to happen, first and foremost because we’re in literal Hel right now. Completing our mating bond wouldn’t exactly help maintain cover.”
“Why not? I can be quiet,” he said, bringing her mouth close to his.
“I don’t want to be quiet,” she whispered, dropping the tenor of her voice. His eyes darkened. “When we mate, West, I want to be able to scream.”
“I fucking adore you,” he said, resting his forehead against hers as she chuckled softly.
Solveig breathed him in for a few moments before sighing and pulling away. “We have to go.”
Westley nodded and they got to their feet. Solveig supported him when his legs still shook from the effects of the lake.
She wanted to ask, but not here—not while he was still clearly haunted by what happened. It was in his eyes, in the hollow planes of his face. She wouldn’t push, not yet.
They made their way back up the steep hill. Solveig told him about the spirits and the beings of her people and how they’d led her to him.
He didn’t look angry at the revelation, only nodded. She asked if he remembered anything after he fell into the water, but he just said he saw her light and then woke up in the cavern.
When they reached the top of the hill, they were both heaving from the exertion. Solveig caught most of her breath first.
“So, where to?” he asked, still huffing.
“The deepest part of Hel.”
“Fantastic. How do we get there?”
“To be honest, I’m not sure.”
Solveig kept her eyes focused ahead of them, wondering if her people would be there and if they were a danger to Westley. She couldn’t tell if they’d sent her to the lake to watch him die or to save him. She looked around but saw no signs of the spirits.
“Do we just start wandering around Hel until you recognize something?” Westley asked.
“Do you have a better idea?”
“I really hate it when you ask me that.”
Solveig didn’t like it any more than he did—not having a direction to go, no faster way to cover ground than walking. She missed Helle and wondered if she and Njord had gotten to Asgard safely. It made no difference, she knew, but she sent a prayer to the gods anyway.
Just in case.
Solveig lost track of how far they walked. Her frantic energy over losing time only heightened the farther they went.
Laeknir had told her that time moved differently in Hel, but it was another thing to feel it. She hadn’t been there long enough last time to notice.
The world above had probably not finished the cycle of a day, and yet to her and Westley, it felt like weeks.
Not needing to eat or stop for food was odd at first, but they quickly became accustomed to it.
Their minds grew hazy, and they worked methodically, covering every inch of ground they could, searching for some faint spot of recognition in Solveig’s memories. They barely spoke, silently helping each other climb over dry, crumbling rocks.
Spirits kept them company but never answered their questions or requests for directions.
Monotony drove them both wild, but unless they wanted to lose the war before it began, they could not give up.
They had no idea what was happening or how much time had really passed in the world above. Their only comfort was the fact that there was no huge influx of spirits, so the war had most definitely not started and ended without them.
At least she hoped.
An indeterminable amount of time later, they faced a fork in the road. Solveig was sure they were in the middle of the realm, unable to see the ocean. Despite the ground they’d covered, land went on as far as they could see. Bone-deep exhaustion settled in her body.
“We should go left,” Solveig said.
“Your gut?” he asked.
Solveig confirmed with a hard nod.
“Well, that’s all we have to go on, so let’s go left.” He turned towards the left path and started walking but she remained frozen, unable to take that first step. Westley returned to stand in front of her.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know,” she said so quietly she could barely hear herself.
She’d sensed the thrumming of her magic for some time now, and it was getting stronger. If she turned to the left, she was certain they would find what they were looking for and, to the right, only darkness. It made sense to turn left, but she couldn’t bring herself to actually move.
Westley’s hands came up to grip her arms—she could barely feel their warmth. “What can I do?”
“I feel . . . strange.”
“Strange how?” he asked, concern rising.
“Most certain death that way”—she pointed right—“but most certain pain this way”—she pointed left.
“We can handle pain, Solveig,” he reassured her. Still her feet would not move. “Talk to me,” he insisted, grip tightening.
She laid a hand on her heart and then on his. “Do you feel your magic?”
“No, but I feel yours.”
She nodded. “I feel it lingering there, but I can’t hold it. Something tells me I’ll be able to hold it if we go left.”
“Then let’s go left.”
Panic flashed through her.
“But why? Why go left? If the pain and torment is going to be so bad that my magic comes alive . . . I don’t . . . I don’t know if I can go through that again.”
Westley’s heartbreak bled through their bond.
“So we go right and die.” It was not a question.
“Would that be the worst thing?” she breathed, finally voicing her darkest thoughts.
She heard Westley’s hard swallow as he cleared his throat before speaking. He took her face in his hands so gently it broke her heart. His eyes held her pain, her suffering, her fear.
“If you want to die, I will walk with you hand in hand. We’ll go together, because I’ll be damned if you go without me.
” He brought her face closer. “But do I think that would be the worst thing? Yes I do, because though the world does not deserve you or how much you’ve given of yourself, you deserve to live.
“You deserve to find peace and joy and more heartache, because that’s what living is. The world needs your light, your power, and you are not done yet. Do you hear me? We are not done.”
Solveig closed her eyes as the tears fell, despair trapping her. Though she knew that this was Hel, that this was the effect it had on the living—she had felt it before—and she couldn’t see a way out.
“Besides, I’m sure I’ll stay in Hel, and the halls of Valhalla will welcome you with open arms.”
She disagreed. If anyone deserved to be in Hel, it was her. Valhalla did seem like such a peaceful place. But resting there without Westley? It would still be Hel.
“I would burn Valhalla down if they did not let you in,” she said, closing her eyes.
Westley laughed, rubbing the tears from her face with his thumbs. “I know you’re tired, but you have to remember what you’re fighting for. A better world, a chance to do better and be better. The people who love you do not deserve to mourn your death so soon.”
She thought of her mothers, the females she knew intimately and who the world thought they were. This would break them.
Gerrie and Conalle, it would break them too—they were her family, like siblings, and she would take a piece of them with her. She couldn’t take anything from them.
She looked at Westley and knew his soul, his beautifully imperfect soul. He deserved to live too, and she knew he wouldn’t if she died. Just as she wouldn’t survive without him.
“So we go left,” she breathed. Her power surged and Westley’s joined, the wave of magic reaching his eyes.
“We go left.” His voice was strong, and she used that to centre herself.
They turned left, Solveig’s magic swirling under her skin with each step. Westley took her hand, offering his strength any way he could.
The path wound upwards in a slow ascent. The air grew colder as they made their way.
Solveig had expected to see the black crystals getting larger and denser, the place where they kept her father. Instead, the crystal shapes thinned out until they came upon a small hut settled on the mossy edge of a tall cliff, overlooking the thick mists and fog of the ocean and world beyond.
Smoke billowed from the chimney, and as they approached the cottage, a blond woman opened the door, her smile the brightest spot they’d seen since entering Hel.
The woman froze when she noticed them.
Her mouth moved, but they couldn’t make out the sound. She looked at them with sadness and understanding, only breaking their stare when she turned back, her arm reaching inside the door.
A large hand gripped hers, and then he walked out of the house, first looking at the woman and then to Solveig and Westley.
She couldn’t breathe.
The tall, broad male stared as if measuring her reaction. He took half a step in front of the woman, but she wouldn’t have it, returning to his side. He reached a large arm to rub a hand over his bald head, his beard moving as he gave a soundless order to the woman.
She shook her head, and he glared down at her. The woman stood firm, and he visibly sighed in defeat. Solveig watched this as if removed from her body.
The pair came towards Solveig and Westley, who still hadn’t moved from their spot. The couple’s steps were hesitant as the dead approached the living, stopping a few feet away.
“Solveig,” the too-familiar, gruff voice addressed her. “It’s good to see you.”
Solveig blinked as if she could banish him like a nightmare. But there he stood—tall and shimmering like the dead did.
He was real.
“Laeknir,” she breathed, falling to her knees.