Chapter fourteen
Finaan
He's a Mess
Idon’ttrytoholdback the smile that splits my cheeks as I watch Wregen walk away.
He’s a mess, and I’m starting to understand why. The mate bond connects me to him and Wrath, even without accepting it. My magic can’t read their power the way it can with others, but I stillfeeltheir conflict. I sense echoes of the hunger that drove Wrath to do horrific things centuries ago. It’s easier to sympathize with Wregen knowing his reasons for choosing Hel and binding themselves to her chaos and evil.
He’s still a bastard, and after three centuries, that won’t change. He’ll drag me to Helheim if he can. If I refuse to fuck him, he’ll eventually take what he thinks is his due.
Well, he’ll try. I won’t make it easy.
Still, I might hate him a little less.
“Why is he so mean?” the squirrel yells, sitting atop Ruxi like he belongs there.
The dragon sniffs at me and tosses their nose back, a clear invitation to join Ratatoskr if I’d like.
“I’ve only ever ridden Panta,” I tell them with a grimace I intend to be a smile, but which I’m sure comes out as astrange twist of the lips. “I know you’re her draikani, and she’d probably want me to ride you, but I’m not ready yet.”
Ruxi sniffs again and I sense the deep compassion that Panta must adore. My dragon’s a do-gooder—always trying to fix things or other beings, even those that want to be broken. Sometimes opposites attract, but sometimes your perfect mate shares the traits that make you special. I can already tell that Ruxi and Panta are more alike than different. It settles my soul a bit more to realize how deeply loved Panta has been while we’ve been apart.
“Will you carry me?” Svend asks in a soft voice. I’ve heard him subservient too many times, but this tone carries a respect he’s never expressed toward Wregen.
The purple beast watches him for a few moments before dropping their chin, their gaze holding mine the whole time. They’re allowing this for me, I realize. I still don’t know why, but I do like Svend. He needs friends if he’s ever going to break free of Wregen, and I suspect that Ruxi will be a devoted ally.
“But,” the little rodent squeals as Svend climbs up to sit behind him, “why is he so mean?”
“What should we call you?” I ask instead of answering his question. He’ll figure Wregen out, or he won’t, but I’ve wasted enough time thinking about him and Wrath. Turning to follow the sound of the asshole’s steps, I start walking, trusting the others to follow.
“I’ve told you my name,” the squirrel responds with a haughty sniff. “Ratatoskr.”
“That’s a mouthful,” I point out. “Surely you have a nickname. If you’ve been scampering up and down the tree of life for thousands of years, someone must have called you something else.”
He snorts, an oddly elfish sound. But this isn’t the snort laugh I hear so often among other elves. This is disbelief, tinged with the smallest speck of sadness. “I had little company in the time I served the gods,” he says in a voice that’s so much smaller than any he’s used before, it draws a tear to my eye. “Hræsvelgr and Níðhöggr were my only companions and they wanted only to hear the news I carried them from the other.”
“Neither called you anything except Ratatoskr?” I demand. He’s hiding something. I’m not sure what, but if he’s going to travel with us, he can’t keep secrets about the gods and their vassals.
The squirrel is quiet for a long time, trickles of internal conflict whispering from him. Finally, he puffs out another breath—which I already recognize as the “tell” that he’s struggling with something emotionally—and whispers, “Rat. Hræsvelgr called me rat, declaring me too foul and dirty for even him to eat. Níðhöggr never called me anything. He gave me the words to relay to Hræsvelgr. Nothing more.”
“You didn’t like it?” I whisper, not quite sure if I want to push him in something that caused so much pain.
He hears me though, spewing a reply full of anger. “I didn’t care what they called me, and I was glad to be ignored. They’re vicious beasts, both of them, and I’m lucky I survived their attention.”
“Can I call you Ratty?” I wonder, trying to drag his thoughts away from the beasts he spent thousands of years scurrying between.
“Would you want to be called Ratty?” he mutters, almost under his breath.
“Rata?” I suggest, putting the emphasis on the last syllable. It sounds majestic, and I like it.
“Rata,” he repeats, his tone speculative. “Rata,” he murmurs, almost to himself.
“It’s heroic,” I add, “perfect for a squirrel who devoted his life to serving the gods.”
I almost can feel him sitting up straighter on Ruxi’s back.
“I prefer Ratty,” Svend interjects before Rata can say anything. “I mean, you are a rodent, and I’m sure Wregen would like that better too.”
