“Völva,” Njáll said, his timbre brimming with reverence and respect as he bowed his head.
An ancient woman stared at Elara. Not merely aged, but someone carved from the earth itself. Skin the color of weathered bark peeked out from under her shawl, textured like the roots of the nearby pines.
She was tiny, almost swallowed by the dark fox fur skin she wore. Yet, she radiated immense knowledge. Gnarled fingers gripped the hood shielding her face, sliding it down to reveal unnaturally clear eyes, the color of a pale winter’s dawn.
A faint crackle followed the woman’s deliberate steps.
“Forgive the intrusion, Völva. I have brought my kona to you.”
Kona?
Her gaze snapped to Njáll’s, a faint smile curling into place. Elara made a mental note to ask him later what kona meant.
The woman froze, her gaze sliding past Njáll and landing on Elara. Those knowing eyes pinned her to the spot. The Völva did not blink, stripping past all earthly vestiges, leaving Elara exposed.
Elara’s heart galloped under the woman’s piercing stare.
Despite how she tried to hide it, Elara trembled.
After what felt like an eternity, a serene smile revealed teeth stained by dark herbs. A harsh voice laced with rough breaths flowed from her as she spoke.
“I wondered when you would find me,” she said, the heavily accented words barely discernible. “The scent of seiðr clings to the wind when you move. Come, little one. Sit by the fire. You shake like a leaf in the wind, yet you carry the strength of winter ice.”
With the request that sounded more like a demand, Elara finally moved, exhaling when Njáll’s hand found the small of her back. Njáll ducked as they moved inside, avoiding the low hanging beam.
Dozens of tallow candles lined the walls, casting a yellow glow along the lichen stone surrounding them.
Elara’s legs curled under her as she sat on a bearskin fur by the fire. Njáll curled around her protectively from behind as the Völva slowly lowered herself onto a stool opposite them, the wood groaning beneath her.
A gravelly whisper rasped over the stone.
“Your gift pours from you, child. Untamed and brimming with light. Your seiðr commands you. More formidable than anything I have ever witnessed. You must learn to control it.”
Sweat coated her palms, and Elara brushed them on her wool dress. The beads in her braids jingled as she shook her head, trying to comprehend what this woman said.
It splintered the last dregs of her resistance, leaving her a broken thing in its wake. Elara withdrew, not knowing who she was anymore—questioning if she had ever known herself at all.
Sensing her drifting, Njáll took her hand, his thumb stroking her knuckles. Soft lips brushed the underside of her jaw, thawing the shards of ice encasing her heart.
“I am here, little flame. Do not retreat.”
Lips twitched with amusement as the Völva watched the exchange, her shoulders falling with a quiet hum.
“Good. Your mate knows his duty. She needs an anchor, Jarl. Freyja has entrusted you to protect her chosen.”
Her grip on Njáll’s hand squeezed tighter, and the scruff of his jaw burrowed into her smooth cheek.
“Whatever she needs, I will provide,” Njáll said, unwavering devotion seeping from his steely confession.
The Völva nodded; her eyes glittered as she leaned closer. Sparks sputtered from the fire, punctuating the silence.
“The veil thins as your power grows, child. The draugar are becoming desperate, thirsting for a taste of the lives they no longer have. They are like starving hounds, begging for scraps from their master’s table. And their master, Hel, may set them loose from their chains to wreak havoc on this world.”
Her heart tumbled, a sickening knot clenching in her stomach. Heat withdrew from her fingers, leaving them numb. Instinctively, Elara fell back into Njáll’s hard body.
Everything suddenly felt too fragile. And somehow, she was the cause. The hunger of the dead feasted because she gave them a bridge to cross.
“Unleashed emotions feed the seiðr. Your grief. Your love. Your acceptance. It emboldens your gift. Do not fear what Freyja has given you.”
