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Leif continued, “He was spouting off about all the magic they have. About how we stole it. Something about Oliver being of some old blood of magic thieves.” Later, he would ask himself why in hell’s name he’d offered up that bit of information, when Ragnar didn’t deserve it; he’d blame his lapse on pack, on alpha and a shown throat.
Ragnar turned to him, finally, wetting cracked lips. “Ah. You’re beginning to see it – to see what I saw.”
“And what’s that?”
Ragnar leaned forward, collar pressing against his throat so that his hair swung forward to curtain his face, and his voice sounded rough. “Whatever we think we know about our people. Our land. Our past…they know more. And I don’t know about you, my prince, but I’ve never been able to outsmart anyone who knows more than me.”
The words tickled unpleasantly down the back of his neck.
But.
He huffed a loud breath through his nostrils. “Well, then. I suppose we’ll have to do what you always do. Fight dirty.”
~*~
They fed Ragnar down in the dungeons, same as they would any prisoner. Erik could be prone to fits of temper – beheaded Sel general as a prime example – but he didn’t believe in cruelty for cruelty’s sake. It was a mindset that had never sat well with their Úlfheðnar cousins. Leif had agreed with Erik…had. Since his turning, he’d known ugly urges toward violence. He hadn’t acted upon them – in fact, he’d gone out of his way to push back against them.
Like now, as he fished a hunk of smoked ham from his cloak pocket and tossed it to Ragnar.
The other wolf caught it, eyes brightening, and brought it to his nose for a deep, appreciative inhale before he took a messy bite, fangs growing long and slicing through the tender meat.
They served food to prisoners, yes, but it was usually porridge and less than fresh bread. Leif had taken to slipping meat and fruit into his pockets and bringing them down on his visits.
He thought of them as visits, now, rather than interrogations, as he had originally.
It was all growing so muddy.
Ragnar devoured his treat and licked the pepper and grease from his fingers, after. “Does Erik know you bring me things?” he asked, light and more like himself than he had when they were talking of magic and invading enemies.
“What do you think?”
“Heh.” He grinned. “Look at you. Not trying to be the favorite nephew anymore, are you?”
Leif sighed. Playing into the provoking bastard’s games only made him worse.
Without anyone to banter with, and belly full, Ragnar subsided back against the wall, scratching idly at his beard. “Tell me something?”
“Hm?” He meant it as a hum, but it had a lupine grumble to it, which caused Ragnar to flick a quick smile before his expression shifted to an enquiring one.
“You said Erik gave me to you. That I’m to be your slave.”
“That’s right.” The idea still made Leif’s belly squirm.
Ragnar cocked his head. “Then how can I serve you, my alpha, if I’m locked up in the dark down here?”
A reasonable question, one Leif had been pondering for the past month. What good was a war prize chained to a wall for the rest of his days?
Erik had been the one to suggest they proceed by the old ways, but it had been Náli who’d offered the solution for such an approach. A pure silver, magicked torq, he’d said, would fit around Ragnar’s throat and prevent him from shifting to his wolf form, as well as mark him as Leif’s property to every Northerner. Once it had been applied, Leif could, in theory, bring him into his household and, as a strong alpha wolf himself, never need to worry that Ragnar could overpower him.
A tidy fix. But, still, Leif had hesitated to proceed, uncertain, Ragnar’s betrayal fresh in his mind.
Even as he brought him food, and worried over him, and sat here for hours, his wolf taking comfort in the presence of another of his kind.
Gods.
Leif took a deep breath. “I’ll talk to Náli, then.”
Ragnar grinned nastily. “Your little necromancer going to leash me?”
“Yes,” Leif said. “And if you don’t mind me, I’ll cut your throat.” A beat passed. Leif swore he could hear the leap of Ragnar’s pulse as his expression slowly smoothed. A low, wolfish chuff. Then: “Yes, alpha.”
