Sweat clung to his skin and he shed his now sheer tunic, smiling at the throbbing pulse in his body. His warriors watched him, their faces curious as he joined them in the sparring ring.
Fingers flexed on the supple leather of his axe’s hilt, a frantic need thrumming in his veins. Njáll spent much of the day sparring until a trail of exhausted warriors remained in his wake.
Only after no one else dared to face him did Njáll relent, finding his father sprawled by the large firepit in front of the longhouse. The Konungr’s steely silver eyes assessed him, his head tilting ever so slightly.
Njáll was soaked with sweat, his torso smeared with a mix of dirt and dried blood—the only nick any warrior landed on him that day. And only after he’d faced another dozen men before that.
“You bleed, Jarl.”
Njáll spread his hand over his heart, tracing the wound.
“Only took a dozen men to make me bleed, Konungr.” The corner of his father’s lip twitched, warmth melting the icy ring around his irises. It did nothing to ease the flutter of his heart rattling along his ribs. “I have come to speak to you.”
The weight of the words settled on his father’s shoulders, but his demeanor did not shift. Instead, he stood, gesturing toward his private quarters.
Stale woodsmoke clung to the rafters in the longhouse. Logs sputtered in the communal fire, sparks hissing skyward.
His father ducked under a low-hanging beam, and Njáll followed. The space held so many memories. Ones of skinned knees and scraped elbows, but mostly of love.
As much as Njáll prickled when his parents were overly affectionate, it reminded him even a Konungr was afforded happiness, love, and a family.
A viscous feeling tightened in Njáll’s throat.
Ever since he had been old enough to hold a sword, he had prided himself on his resilience. Njáll led fearlessly, but now in front of his father, he felt like a young boy again, desperate for his father’s approval.
“I wish to ask for your blessing to take Elara as my wife,” Njáll said, the words slightly rushed as they tumbled out.
The word wife tasted sweet on his tongue, sounding more like an oath than a contract.
His father did not respond immediately.
Those discerning eyes flickered, and he rubbed a hand over the thick grey hairs on his jaw. Njáll kept his shoulders straight and his chin high, exhaling when his father’s deep voice finally pierced the quiet.
“I am proud of you, son. You have chosen wisely. She possesses strength of spirit and the wisdom of your mother. Your kona will strengthen you. She will bring balance to your life and be a good Dróttning when the time comes.”
A heavy hand landed on his shoulder, his father squeezing the spot. The praise was the strongest confirmation he could have received. It unfurled the worry bubbling in his gut.
“You have my blessing.” The softness in his eyes receded, something sharp pinning Njáll to the spot. “But you are a thief, son. You stole the daughter of a man.” Njáll made to argue, but thought better of it. “Send a rider and ship to find Elara’s father. Offer whatever he requires for her hand.”
His father’s chest rose as he gripped both Njáll’s shoulders, forcing their gazes to lock.
No one instilled fear in Njáll except his father. He was the only person who held any power over the jarl.
“Tell him the truth, son. That his daughter is safe and content. That she is not a captive. That you would lay your life down for hers and one day she will be a Dróttning. He deserves the peace of knowing his daughter’s fate. You honor the gods with such words.”
Something cleaved through him, something precariously close to guilt.
While Elara spoke much of her mother, she rarely said much of her father.
Perhaps the pain of knowing he still lived, but was so far away, was too much.
Copper coated Njáll’s tongue as he bit his lip, bowing his head. He would make it up to Elara; he owed her that and so much more.
“It will be done. Thank you, Pabbi.”
Thirty-Five
Njáll
