Chapter 52
The fresh scent of mint fills my nostrils as I slam the door behind me.
Victory! It’s hard to believe. Doubting Ari had been a waste of energy. The man can wield a blade. He could have downed two bastard Njords. Let him bleed, the fucker who hurt my friend. A dead piece of shit is better than a live one. If his blood is on my hands, let it be so.
The carpet of twilight lies across the valley, deepening shadows that dance around every tree, every blade of grass. It invites my mind to reflect. All I had hoped for, delivered. My back is straight. Freya has blessed me.
But where is Eidunn? Where have I not searched? I hope she has heard the good news—that the weight on her shoulders has been lifted. No longer must she carry sadness, gritting her teeth in silence.
The world is harsh, people are cold, but there is hope. Njord is dead.
I swap my basket of herbs and linen to my other hand, smiling at the folk around me.
Some return shy smiles, some look dead serious.
I care not. I am here to perform my duty.
To heal the wounded. If they are angry about Njord’s death, let them get over it.
I care not how supporters of abusive men would judge me.
I tap three times on the door. No response. The poor man is probably sleeping after all the excitement. If my own body was tense, I can only imagine what Ari has been through. I push the door open and step in.
My eyes instantly land on a man’s scarred back and bare buttocks. I barely manage to cover my eyes as he turns around.
“Oh my, I… I’m sorry,” I splutter.
“Odin, Kilda,” he says. “Let me put some pants on.”
I shake my head as I turn to the wall, fighting my impulse to peek at the naked skald who defended Eidunn’s honor.
“No pants. I’m here to tend your wound. But please… do cover yourself.”
“No pants?”
“No pants.”
He grunts. I hear him shift weight to his good leg. He practically shakes the house with every step.
“How is your leg?” I ask.
“Oh, just great. Nothing like a bleeding gash to be reminded of one’s mortality.”
“You fought bravely,” I say, pride swelling in my chest. I hope his wound is on the surface, so he doesn’t end up with a permanent limp.
“I am decent,” he says.
I spin, unable to suppress the grin on my face.
Ari lets himself fall back on the bed. He has tied a linen shirt around his groin.
It covers him, yes, but it doesn’t stop me from stealing a peek at him or my imagination from running wild.
His bare chest and stomach make a trickle of heat flow through my body.
“I brou…” my breath gets caught in my throat. “I brought herbs and bandages.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“Ridiculous!” I dismiss his words with a wave of my arm. “You’ll catch the rot.”
I lay down my basket next to him and pick a fresh stem of yarrow from it. He raises an eyebrow as I rub the flower juices on my fingers. My hands have been rinsed in my water barrel, but yarrow protects from evil spirits. Groa taught me that.
“You don’t need to—”
“Shush,” I hiss sternly.
I kneel next to him, pushing the linen covering upward.
The smell of Ari’s blood escapes the cloth.
The wound is deep, an ugly gouge that cuts from one side of his thigh to the other.
Applying pressure to the flesh around it lets me get a better look inside.
He groans in reaction. I’ve tended wounds before, but never anything like this.
“I… I’m sorry, Ari,” I say as I rub yarrow flowers on his skin.
“It was meant to be.”
“You’re hurt because of me.”
“Njord cut me.”
“You know what I mean. You seem calm after such a public victory.”
“There is more glory in a good poem than spilling blood.”
“You won,” I state.
“A man is dead,” he replies flatly.
“Well, you helped me. Thank you.”
“I thought it was Eidunn Njord was—”
“You barely know her.”
He snorts.
“I barely know you,” he says.
I look up his body to his eyes—he has a sly smile. Kneeling like this in front of a man sends a tingle down my spine. It’s the same view he had of me when he dried me. It’s intimate. Let’s call it a Volva’s duty.
“We’ve shared experiences,” I say slowly.
“It’s true—you did try to stab me.”
I slap his other thigh, making him laugh.
“Fair enough. How has the wound healed?” I ask as I rip flowers from their stem.
He shows me his palm. There is no scar, no sign of my attack. Very strange—I was sure I slashed him good. I remember seeing his blood by the river.
The yarrow needs crushing. A quick glance around his room shows no mortar and pestle.
His space is well-kept, for a man with no wife.
Some clothes lie on the floor. A bowl holds some brooches and leather straps.
There are barely any items. I have more belongings than him, and I’m a thrall.
I see a frying pan, some jars with herbs and fat.
His blade lies on the table, already washed.
“Do you have a mortar?” I ask.
“I am no Volva.”
“But you are a cook.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. Here I mostly eat at the longhouse.”
“It is,” I say, raising myself. Many men would not find it honorable to be called a cook. They view it as women’s work. “I see your blade is already washed.”
“It will rust otherwise.”
“I’ve never seen one like it.”
“It was a gift. Ancient. It’s from the south. A gladius, they call it.”
“Gladius?”
“Gladius.”
No mortar, so I place the flowers on my tongue and chew.
The bitter flavor spreads around my mouth.
From the south? I’ve heard stories of the great kingdoms to the south and east. Men with many crowns, one for each king they have slain.
Queens with thrones and armies at their command.
Stone castles that humble our longhouses.
I’ve never met anyone who has traveled that far. I speak with herbs in my cheek.
“Who gave it to you?”
“A ruler.”
“A good ruler?”
“A merciless one.”
“Are you loyal to them?”
“I was once… You’re nosier than a five-year-old.”
“Okay, fine. Be mysterious.”
“Says the Volva.”
I sit next to him, bearing a silly grin he doesn’t see.
He’s leaning back with his eyes closed, resting his head against the wall.
I take a private moment to observe his face, his strong jaw and eyebrows.
His forehead—wide, like his shoulders are.
My eyes glide downwards to his stomach as I stuff more yarrow in my mouth.
The impulse to stroke a hand over his chest rips through me. He’s just right there, ready to grab. What would he think of me? Blood pumps in my ears as I control myself. He’s built like an Aesir. Thor would look like this, or even better, Freyr.
My chewing intensifies.
Greedily, I peek down his toned stomach and the two lines that descend from his hips, disappearing beneath the linen cloth. The fabric rests on his shape. A buzz grows in my chest as I imagine slowly sliding my fingers under the cloth to feel him in my grip.
Chomping vigorously, I raise my eyes back to his face.
Horror. One of his eyes is open, observing me. Instantly my cheeks flare. If only I could burn up and disappear in smoke, never to be seen again. His smile grows.
“Is this part of the healing?” he asks.
I raise my gaze to the empty wall, mumbling with a mouth full of flowers.
“Oh… I… uh, yeah. Had to check if you had more wounds.”
His smile expands to show teeth.
“You’re very meticulous.”
“Yeah… oh yeah. Have to be.”
I spit the greenish white oral poultice into my hand. The bitter flavor stings my tongue. A deep breath and I regain control. Let’s move this conversation along.
“This might hurt,” I say.
“Might?”
“Okay, it will hurt.”
I place another load of yarrow in my mouth and chomp down on it. Starting at the edge of the gash, I fill it with flower mush. He grunts and moves his body.
“Stay still,” I mumble through chewing.
He releases a long breath through his nose as I stuff the herb into his wound.
We sit in silence, giving me opportunity to focus on my craft.
Having finished the first portion, I massage the flesh of his leg to make sure the poultice is secure, and to relax the muscle around the cut.
He draws in a sharp breath as I stroke his inner thigh.
My mind wanders again, imagining massaging him upward, and upward, until…
“Let’s see,” I say, shaking my head to clear it. “Almost there.”
I spit out the yarrow and start applying the second load.
“I can feel it tingling,” he says.
“The bitterness will keep spirits away,” I reply, wondering if he feels tingling anywhere else… Like I am.
When his sliced thigh is packed with my spit-covered poultice, I grab a linen bandage and lay it over the cut. I lie next to him, leaning on my elbow as I face him. He seems relaxed, with closed eyes and rhythmic breaths.
“Now I will add pressure,” I whisper carefully, laying my hand over the bandage and pressing lightly.
He releases a sigh and sinks further into comfort.
What a gorgeous man. Have I met anyone more handsome?
Narve was not even close. Vidar is large and imposing, impressive, but…
I catch myself in my thoughts. Vidar. Fuck Vidar.
A proud slave-owner who would leave his subjects open to be abused. I trusted him, I…
Ari opens his eyes and turns to me. He doesn’t speak or grin or anything else.
Just looks into my eyes. Our noses are almost touching.
Being so close to his face, I can see the yellow core around his pupils.
I haven’t noticed them. They expand into a narrow green layer that meets the sky-blue color I have come to know.
We sit in silence. Perfectly still. It feels like he can see right into me.
Like he knows my struggles, understands why I fight.
Why I argue. Maybe even better than I do myself.
I imagine a timeless wisdom within him, a caring thirst, but behind it, there is a glint of sadness. An inner layer no one has access to.
The warmth of his breath brushes against my lips.
He must feel mine too. My eyes close slightly as my face is pulled forward by a force unknown, or maybe it’s just attraction.
My lips are a rock rolling down a hill. Or sinking in a lake.
It must reach the bottom. I tilt my head to the side—Ari tilts his so we can meet.
So we can conjoin. My body purrs as I lean in for a kiss.
A flash of cold under my hand sears my palm, making me pull it back in shock. An image of Sigurd’s hammer flashes in my mind. Ari groans and raises himself as the smell of iron fills my nostrils. What the fuck?
“What was that?” I ask, sitting up, still dazed by our intimate moment.
“Nothing,” he answers, holding his hand over his wound.
“Horseshit.” I grab his arm.
“Must be the yarrow.”
My jaw drops as I yank his hand away from the wound and pull back the bandage. His wound is closed. The poultice is pushed out, merely lying on top of a healed scar. I blink and for a moment—see it all. Flashing before me. A tumbling giant. Blood and bones forming reality. Flesh. Cold flesh.
“What the fuck, Ari?” I say as I stand, stepping back.
“Relax, it’s nothi—”
“Is it magic?”
“I’m a skald, not a wizard.” He sits up, leaning over as he rubs his head.
“So what the fuck is it?”
“It’s… I… you wouldn’t believe me.”
“Try me,” I say with a stern glance.
Could it be dark magic? Should I run? Raise the alarm? Who is he? What is he? This energy is more powerful than anything I have felt as a Volva. It’s ancient.
“I… look… it’s hard to explain.”
“Just say it!”
“You will laugh at me.”
“I’m not amused.”
I’m more terrified. My entire body is shaking. Shuddering waves run down my back. Dark forces exist in this world. I have felt them. The freezing energy released from Ari was like the ring. Like the hammer. Boundless hunger.
Similar, but not the same. This is primordial. Old as time. Older than the Norns.
“I… It’s my blood…”
“Blood? What blood?”
“It’s my ancestors, I think, I—”
“What blood?”
“I…” He sighs. “My blood is Jotnar.”