Elara enjoyed the company.
No one else bothered them, leaving her alone with their queen.
“Drink this,” the woman said, her English accent unmistakable as she handed Elara a wooden mug filled with warm broth.
Soft skin brushed against hers as Elara took the mug, hunching under the weight of the furs. Warm, salty liquid slid down her throat. Elara sighed, closing her eyes and letting the steam soothe the dull pain constricting around her middle.
“Thank you, Dróttning.”
Long mahogany curls entwined with silver spilled over the woman’s shoulders.
“Not here. Here, you call me Brielle.”
A bit of the tension in Elara’s limbs melted away at the words.
“I can’t go back,” Elara mumbled, running her finger over the rim of the mug. “I can’t stay with him. Not tonight.”
She wondered if she’d ever be able to share his furs with him again. But the lie tasted like ash in her mouth.
A slight smile slid along the Dróttning’s pink lips as she pulled up a stool, settling onto it beside Elara.
“Then you won’t. You’ll stay here. There is room for you in our quarters. I will lay out some furs for you. You can stay as long as you wish.”
Brielle gazed at her with a tenderness that reminded her of her own mother. Elara tried to swallow the thickening lump in her throat, but failed. Fingers glided over her cheeks as Brielle pushed a lock of hair behind her ear, gently cupping her face.
A disheartened chuckle strained Elara’s cracked voice. The image of her sleeping on the floor of the Konungr’s home like some wayward child was almost comical enough to thin the shadow looming over her like a storm cloud.
“I don’t think the Konungr would be pleased to have some stranger in his home.”
Brielle scoffed, sipping mulled wine.
“This is my home and I have who I wish. The Konungr will do as I say orhecan leave. You do not need to worry about him and his sensibilities. He will be fine.”
Elara shifted, adjusting the fur with one hand and holding the broth with the other. Brielle’s flippant attitude made her relax further, even if she could still smell the tang of fresh blood. She wondered if it would ever fade completely or if the memory would be permanently etched there.
Not a Dane, but English, like her. Brielle didn’t fear her husband—the Konungr. If anything, Elara guessed he was frightened ofher—wolf or not.
“How long have you lived among the Danes? How did you handle the…” Elara’s voice trailed off, struggling to put sound to her thoughts.
“The violence?” Brielle finished for her, handing her wine in place of the broth.
Nodding, Elara took a long gulp of the berry drink, hissing at the slight burn. Nails tapped against her wooden goblet, and Brielle closed her eyes for a long pause.
When she opened them again, two almond eyes flecked with gold stared back at her. Brielle’s hand fell to her thigh, lying gently in place.
“It hadn’t been easy at first. I was raised as a healer. I watched Leif slit the throat of a man who challenged his rule. I watched him tear flesh from bone as a wolf and not lose a wink of sleep for it. I often wondered if I was too soft for this life.”
The heavy bearskin slid off her shoulders, pooling on the ground as Elara sat up straighter. Sparks sputtered in the fire, the wood crackling to punctuate the poignant moment. Brielle faced Elara fully, with so much knowledge lingering in the creases framing her eyes.
“It all seems so senseless,” Elara whispered.
“It’s not senseless to the Norse. Growing up, you and I were taught to fear death. To stave it off for as long as possible. To pray in churches. To lament our sins. But this world, these people,” she gestured around her, “they do not fear the end. They revel in it. In the glory that comes with it. They see it as a beginning, not an end. The value of life in this world is different than you’re used to. And it took me a long time to learn that.”
For a moment, her heart thrummed faster, making blood rush in her ears.
To her, death had always been terrifying.
It had stolen so much from her. Her brother. Her mother.
