I am so gods-awful pathetic.
“Are you okay, Sifa?” Joralf’s voice floats toward me, concern in every word.
“I should be asking you that,” I snort. “I’m not the one who got carved up yesterday. Are you okay?”
“I’ve been better,” Joralf responds with a shallow laugh. “It’s always a bad day of torture when they take my cock from me. Although it really does get bigger with each new growth.” This laugh is more genuine. “Bjorn will be a satisfied elf when I return to him.”
“That he will,” I concur, my voice light with relief that he can joke about yesterday’s events. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do anything to help you,” I add after a few moments.
“You were there with me, my friend,” Joralf responds, his voice eternally kind. “You helped me more than you know.” When he speaks again, his tone is tentative. “What did he tell you?”
“You didn’t hear?”
“No. He hid his words well.”
“He claims he can help me get out.” I don’t try to hide the scorn in my voice.
“Do you believe him? That he’ll help you escape?”
My eyes fill with tears, the ache of betrayal spiraling through me again. “I want to, but I don’t know if I can.”
“Perhaps you’ll know when the time comes.” His voice is soft.
My heart swells as I realize Joralf’s trying to comfort me, when I should be the one comforting him.
We fall into a silence that lasts a long time. I want to talk to Joralf, help him find peace with what just happened, but he’s been through this before. He sounds better than me right now. And I need to think about Fhord and everything he told me. I need to decide whether to trust him and open my mind to Astarot if I can—and maybe Fhord and the Dróttning—when the time comes.
I let my mind take me where it will. It focuses on Fhord, dragging me through all my memories of him and the time we spent together. His face when we met and he tried to push me away, anger and threats exploding from his delicious lips. His gentle words when he woke me from a nightmare—and then the bare skin and tattoos I’d been desperate to see without realizing it. His eyes staring at me with an emotion I couldn’t deny after I killed the men who’d tried to attack us.
His kiss, which always felt like a starving man desperate for the food and water he’d been denied. Like I was the most important being in the world and he would never let me go.
What if he was telling the truth, and he did what he felt he needed to do to protect us? To protect me? What would I have done in his shoes?
I want to believe him. What we experienced felt genuine. The emotions felt real.
But he left me to be tortured. Every time I think I might be close to accepting what he told me, this simple fact creeps back in. If he cared for me the way he claims, he wouldn’t have let me suffer. He would have moved Valhalla and Helheim to protect me.
Food comes and I eat, wishing there was some way to share with Joralf. But he’s too far away to pass anything, and they’ve given me nothing I could throw. I swallow it all, too buried by guilt to enjoy it.
Finally, hours after Fhord came to me, I fall into a restless sleep. And again, Fhord occupies my thoughts, my mind vacillating between dreams of finally being with him and nightmares of losing him. In each one, though, a feeling washes over me as I wake—a need so deep it has no bottom—before sleep drags me back down.
It’s Joralf’s voice that wakes me this time. His whispers wriggle into my dreams and drag me from Fhord’s arms. “Sifa, something’s happening.”
Shaking my head, I try to focus on his words. I can’t feel anything except a bone-deep sorrow at losing Fhord’s touch.
“Sifa, you need to wake up.” There’s fear in his voice now, but I can’t tell if he dreads what I’ll find when I wake or me missing it.
The pulse that rolls through me destroys all the exhaustion and despair that had been sucking me back into sleep. It’s a warning or a call. I’m not sure which. But it’s desperate to get my attention.
“Sifa, wake up. Please.” Now Joralf is exhausted. Whatever he did drained reserves he needs to heal.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, finally paying attention to the world around me.
“I can feel them.” Joralf’s voice is low, as though he fears being heard. He’s never tried to hide his words from the guards before. “They’re close, searching for you.”
This is what Fhord told me to expect, I realize. I’m still terrified that he really did betray me, and this is a ploy. But I can’t let this chance pass me by. I take the risk I didn’t think I would, releasing part of my shield to search for my dragon. And for Fhord.
When I find Astarot racing beside Fhord toward the Nest, a warmth spills into my soul. Somehow, my bond with my dragon is stronger than the manacle. Even this metal around my neck—the Dróttning’s chain on my psyche—can’t suppress our connection. I can sense the truth of Fhord’s words through Astarot. They’ve come to free me. I need to trust them for this to work.
