“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?—”
