A floor-length cloak clung to his broad frame, the tawny fur around his shoulders highlighting the silver beard framing his jaw.
That harsh, beautiful language flowed from him with such effortless command it was easy to see why his people followed him.
“Hail,” the thunderous crowd cheered when he paused.
Elara jolted; the sudden banging of tankards and unified shouts sent her nerves into overdrive. A tiny hand landed on her upper arm, squeezing gently.
“The noise is a terrible thing when not used to it. Úlfr says a blessing to Odin and Freyja. To good health and to love. He is besotted with his kona,” Astrid whispered, the smile evident in her soft, lilting tone.
Úlfr. Wolf.
Elara recalled her brief conversation with Astra as the room grew silent once more. The man spoke again, the assembled guests captivated by his words. He looked at Njáll, raising a horn of ale.
The clan followed his lead, raising their drinks and chanting again.
“Úlfr salutes the Jarl on a successful raid, securing goods for the clan. Now we are to feast and celebrate,” Astrid said, giggling as Amund dragged her toward the drums.
Soon, the hall filled with the sound of music.
With his parents gone, Bjorn leaned over, offering her a mischievous smile. He raised his mead in mock salute, emptying the drink in one gulp before wiping away the remnants from his beard with the back of his hand.
“Hello, She Who Won’t Share Her Name.”
“And hello to you, Bjorn, Son of Amund.”
Elara smirked, taking a sip of her wine. The tart berries tingled on her tongue, loosening her limbs.
During one particularly rowdy harvest festival, her mother had drunk too much wine, giggling the entire night as her father carried her home. A soft smile touched her lips, the memory warming her almost as much as the wine.
As the musicians began another song, the beat faded into the background. Cold seeped into her fingers, the sharp chill stabbing into the base of her skull. She hissed. Low voices whispered, the sound brushing over her skin, leaving a film behind, tainting her with it.
“Come, little Seiðkona. Happiness is not what he offers. You can find it with us.”
She closed her eyes, her jaw aching from how tightly she clenched it. A flash of dark shadows and glowing white fur played in the recesses of her mind. She fumbled for the cord around her neck, thumbing the smooth surface of Njáll’s rune hanging there.
After seeing how she always carried it with her, he crafted a leather cord into a makeshift necklace so she could always keep it nearby.
A low, rumbling purr resonated in her chest.
Elara blinked, sighing when silken fur brushed her legs under the table. Leaning down, she peeked under the table, eyeing the swath of midnight curled there.
Liquid gold eyes found hers, and the tension in Elara’s body melted away.
The sound of a deep voice called to her from far away, sounding as though she were under the surface of a rolling stream. Bjorn stared at her, the usual mirth in his features missing.
“Sorry. Can you repeat that?” she asked, realizing Bjorn was waiting for a response to a question she hadn’t heard.
“Daydreamer,” he said, grinning and extending his hand. “Let us dance, No Name. You are dressed too prettily to sit there.”
Even with Alruna present, the draugar broke through, their dark voices insistent and cruel.
“You will fail them. All of them.”
“Leave me,” she hissed. “You have no power here!”
“What?” Bjorn asked, his palm waiting in the air between them.
“Nothing. Mumbling to myself. That sounds fun,” she said, sliding her hand into his, refusing to let the draugars’ taunts ruin her evening.
