That evening he returned to their dwelling. An unnatural silence suffocated the cozy space, and the last dredges of Njáll’s happiness slipped away.
Wood creaked under his hand as he pushed the door open.
Despite the embers glowing in the firepit, a cold frost chilled the air. Breath misted from his parted lips as he shrugged his furs higher on his shoulder.
A metallic odor mingled with the scent of ash, replacing the usual notes of honey and cedar.
Frantically, his eyes scanned their home. His feet gave out from under him when they landed on Elara, lying on the furs, clad in only a thin shift.
Violent tremors racked her tiny frame, her body tightly wound in on itself. The vibrant sun-kissed gold that usually tinged her skin didn’t appear, leaving her cheeks sallow and her face sunken.
“Elara!” Njáll roared, sprinting across the room and dropping to his knees beside the bed.
Wide, unseeing eyes fixed on him, all the color leeched from them.
“They come. They come. They won’t leave me,” she rasped, her voice thin and reedy and far too brittle for his kona.
“Who?” Njáll demanded, unable to quell the commanding lilt.
He reached for her hands, hissing at the icy sting of her skin against his.
“The draugar. They laughed. Showed me Momma. Said her soul drowns in the water. Never let her go. Never. Never.Never.”
Elara babbled, shaking.
A bowl of discarded berries sat near the bed beside an untouched skin of water. Njáll palmed her sweat-slicked forehead, brushing away the tangled nest of scarlet strands.
Another tremor shook her, and Njáll crawled into the furs. He clung to her, dragging her body into his.
Lips pressed against the cold column of her throat.
“Lies, kona. They lie. Your mother feasts in Fólkvangr with Freyja.”
Nothing reached her. His little flame was lost, drifting in a place he couldn’t go.
It unsettled him. He had never felt so useless.
“I can’t find the flame. I can’t breathe. I see her face. I see Momma. Njáll.”
Even in the haze, she called to him.
Njáll choked, hugging and rocking herself softly, whispering the Norse words for love and hope until her body slowly went lax in his limbs.
Blood rushed in his ears. His throat tightened, on the verge of swelling shut until he saw the steady rise and fall of her chest.
Finally, she slept. Color returned to pale skin.
Njáll’s forehead fell to hers as he continued to sway her in sleep. The sound of his heart hammering against his ribs punctuated the tense silence. He’d fought berserkers, hordes of men, wild beasts, but none of it prepared him for this.
For now, she slept.
In the morning, they’d return to the Völva, finding out what caused his kona such distress.
Sighing, he pulled the furs around them, sliding her on top of him.
At some point, he fell asleep, caressing her hair.
A high-pitched, piercing wail ripped Njáll from an uneasy sleep.
