He left with haste, cradling the last fragments of his pride. But his final truth hung in the air, poisoning any satisfaction she may have felt at that moment. Because despite his cowardice, he was still right. No man wanted her, fearing she would bear an heir with the same hereditary condition plaguing her mother’s family line. And even with the promise of death, the daily struggle of living like she was in a perpetual state of drowning, her loneliness festered deeper than any sickness.
He chose his words with intent to cripple, used them to lash the place she was most vulnerable. They cut deep, hurt worse than she’d ever admit. But she’d never let him see her bleed.
The bitterness veined deep in her heart, stealing the energy she required to work. She locked up and returned to her longhouse on top of the hill overlooking the village of Drakame, taking a stalling glance at the mouth of the channel. Home wasn’t quite the same anymore. Being greeted by the eerie quiet wasn’t the sort of welcome she looked forward to. The rooms were a little bigger without her family, more space to notice their absence. It was like this every time they left, whether to raid or to scout new lands. The jarl never let her join the plunder, his reason was always the same.
“Every warrior who joins the raid must contribute their share. You cannot keep up with us, dóttir. Our enemies are ruthless, and I cannot afford to watch out for you.”He would tell her.
“If I cannot fight for my clan then perhaps I don’t belong here,”she would reply.
His hazel eyes would settle over her, the lines around his lips tighten in a frown.“Being an Ostman is not in what we do, but in who we are. Not all battles are fought with iron and steel, some are fought in our hearts and our mind. You, my dóttir, are perhaps the greatest warrior of us all.”
She smiled, because he never lied to her, and every time he said the words, she believed them a little more.
Ailsa begged to be on that boat leaving the harbor this morning, even knowing how it would end for them—for her. She spoke true to Nikros, she did not fear death. But shedidfear dying alone. She dreaded that extended agony her mother endured, the slow suffocation until her breath was stolen forever.
She could sense it coming, like the winter season teasing its entrance on a fall breeze. It seemed everyday she felt a little worse, the herbs worked a little less, the weight sitting on her chest a little heavier. Fate had its hands around her throat, ready to squeeze the life from her. But as she looked out into the channel, knowing in her bones her family was never coming back, she could only wish it would be mercifully soon.
Her hands slipped to her neck, pulling out the chain tied to her mother’s ring beneath layers of flax and fur. The ring had been passed down for generations just like this home, her mother’s line the original founders of Drakame. Her fingertips caught the rune marks engraved along the thick band, a language long forgotten and impossible to decode.
“Please,” she sighed to the heavens, to the weavers of destiny if they heard the pleas of mortals. Her voice now scratchy from swallowed tears. “Please, just take me soon.”
There were fates worse than death. Lives not worth living if given the choice. And if she had no role left in this world, if the last of her days were to be spent beneath a cold man like Nikros and know happiness only in the form of a sham, then it didn’t truly matter if her life thread was cut now or later.
She gripped the ring a little tighter, letting the runes press lines into the soft skin of her palm. But if therewasa reason to fight, if she still served a purpose in this quiet, water-faced village, somehow claim the title of jarl to protect herself from unwanted vices, then perhaps…
“Perhaps, not yet,” she whispered. Her eyes shut as the sun dipped low, sinking behind the hazy line of the horizon. Her heart still beat, her breath still flowed, and while she lived, so her hope for something more still survived as well. And she swore she heard fate whisper back.
Not yet.
Cold apathy washed over Vali as he watched the sea beyond the isle litter with boats. More men, more fighting, more senseless death at the expense of pure stubbornness. He had killed so many mortals this past week he was starting to feel like a god. The thought made his skin betray a rash of chills.
Vali had sent his demands to the mainland with the last Ostman, a prisoner from the previous battle when his legion had overtaken this smear of land floating in the North Sea. The mortals his men encountered were savage, skilled in their fighting and organized in their approach. They showed no fear when his soldiers docked the ship and raided the coastal kingdom, like the heathens were practically starving for a fight.
But half a century of searching mottled the mind into a mass of desperation, where little else mattered to Vali and his crew besides completing their task. Nearly a thousand days at sea only exacerbated the hunger. They were too close to their objective to grant these men a reprieve. Too close to getting what they came for and goinghome.
His commander approached from the side. Her face hardened as she counted each shield lining the hulls. Seela had a heart big enough for them both, yet he had witnessed the slow fade of her spirit, turning her compassion into something more calloused. “You requested a man and they have brought an army.”
“Did you expect anything less of the heathens?” Vali spoke without breaking his gaze on the boats spilling their crew into the shallows. Had they weapons of formidable strength, they would have been a match to be reckoned with.
“When your dreams called you to this flooded map of a realm, did they tell you of these Ostmen and the resistance we would face?” she asked.
Vali shook his head. The writers of fate had a nasty habit of only providing him with pieces of the picture, or in this case the name of a single man.
Ledger Locharsson
“No,” he answered her. “Would it have made a difference?”
Seela said nothing, but he knew she was already regretting what had to be done. There were always innocent bystanders caught in the crossfire, pawns in a larger game unwittingly used for a greater purpose. Only after a time did she ask in a tight voice, “We’re going to kill them all, aren’t we?”
“If we must,” he said on the tailwind of a sigh. “Do not have pity on the heathens, Commander. If they’re hiding the lost power from us, then they decided their own fates.” The stakes were too steep to falter on the downward slope of death. The reward too great to let anyone stop him now. “Get me a horse and open the gates. I’ll try to parley with their speaker, first. But if Ledger isn’t here, or if he hasn’t brought what I’ve asked of him, be prepared to strike.”
“But Vali, what if—”
“That’s an order, Seela. Do not argue with me on this, or do you forget who I am?” he spat. Even as the words left his lips, he knew he would pay for them.
She scoffed a mirthless laugh. “You know, sometimes I wish you could feel shame like the rest of us,” she whispered so only he could hear. “But then I am grateful your conscious was ripped away long ago. It will make it easier to live with yourself when this is finished.” She turned sharply on a heel to carry out hisorders.
He closed his eyes and swallowed her words, letting them awaken something painful in his throat. Seela knew Vali better than anyone, but what she didn’t know was that hedidfeel shame. In fact, he clung to it like a lifeline, like it was the last thread holding together his morality.