Gaunt skin stretched over his skeletal frame, tight along his high cheekbones and hollow jaw. Nothing more than tattered furs and grease-stained wool clung to him, the garments patched too many times to count.
Matted hair rested on top of his head, looking like a wild thicket. Dark, sunken eyes found hers, their bloodshot veins on the verge of bursting.
Her heart twisted, making a sharp pain sting beneath her breastbone.
“Please. Help me,” he croaked.
A long, gnarled hand reached out toward her as the man trembled with unsteady steps. Mud and scars marred the thin skin around his knuckles. Elara stayed rooted to the spot. He moved like a ghost who had forgotten it had died.
Soon, a small crowd surrounded them. Mothers with their children, warriors with pinched brows, and elders who whispered in furious Norse.
“Please,” he said again, a wet, hacking cough racking his body. “It has been too many winters. I can’t… I won’t… I need…”
No one moved to assist him.
No food. No clothing. No nothing.
How could they be so cruel?
Fine.
She’d do it herself.
“Wait here. I can get bread,” Elara said, her soft voice thick with pity. “I can get?—“
“Stop!”
The deep voice thundered, making stones shudder on the packed earth. Long, flaming braids flared behind her as she spun, her breath catching. Njáll descended toward her, the veins in his throat thrumming.
Sweat slicked down his bare chest, catching the morning light. He moved with lethal—terrifying—precision; his eyes narrowed into thin, serpent-like slits.
“Back away from him,” Njáll commanded, his voice the only thing to be heard in the thick silence.
“Njáll, look at him,” Elara growled, gesturing to the haunting figure barely standing upright between them. “He needs food and water and h?—“
“Enough,” he snapped, canines flashing in his grimace.
In a blur, he moved behind the man, something cold and violent sliding onto his features. A shiver chased the gooseflesh skittering down her arms.
Elara hugged herself, eyes darting around.
A calm indifference settled over the dozens of people now surrounding the scene. As though this were a regular occurrence. Elara spotted the Konungr and the Dróttning standing stoically in the distance.
“Heitinn,” Njáll spat, the Norse word landing like a curse.
Before Elara could gasp, Njáll buried his fingers in the man’s matted hair, tangling at the base of his scalp. A pained hiss slipped through the sickly man’s yellowing teeth, his face pinched as Njáll grunted, forcing him to his knees.
The stranger didn’t fight. Njáll tipped his head back, forcing his unseeing gaze toward the sun.
A braid slid over Njáll’s shoulder as he mumbled something in Norse that sounded too close to a judgement.
In one fluid motion, Njáll reached for the dagger in his belt.
An invisible hand closed around her throat, squeezing until she gasped. She struggled to suck in a breath, refusing to believe the scene playing out before her. Her mouth moved, but no noise came.
Again, she tried, this time her voice slicing through the silence.
“No!” Elara screamed, the inhuman sound tearing from her throat. “Njáll, don’t!”
