Filed to story: A Fate Inked In Blood Free
So much could go wrong in the dark.
Then Bodil called out a greeting, responses filtering through the wind into my ears. I lifted my head and saw faint shadows moving in the dark. We’d reached the camp.
But there was no fire.
I staggered to a stop and Bjorn stormed past me. “What is wrong with you,” he snarled at a shadow I could only assume was Snorri. “You left us alone on the trail and now you wish to watch her succumb to frostbite? She will fight poorly if deprived of fingers and toes. Light a cursed fire or I will.”
“You will do no such thing.” Snorri’s voice was steady and unmoved, and as I moved closer it was to find him sitting on a rock, furs wrapped around his body. “Gnut has scouts. All it would take is one of them seeing a fire on the mountaintop and our advantage will be lost.”
Bjorn’s hands balled into fists, and I thought for a heartbeat that he’d strike his father. Yet he only said, “I don’t understand why you risk Freya the way you do. You say she is of value, that she will make you a king, and yet you make no effort to protect her, only to prevent others from stealing her.”
“The gods protect her.” Snorri tilted his head. “You’ve seen evidence of it time and again, Bjorn, yet still you don’t believe: They will not let her fall.”
“They let her fall today.”
“So she might survive what no one else could,” Snorri answered. “Steinunn will sing of her exploits and her stories will move through Skaland like wildfire and people will have no choice but to believe Saga’s words. They will come in droves to follow her into battle, and they will swear oaths to me as their king. To interfere with the gods by sheltering Freya would be to deny her that fate, and in doing so, alter my own for the worse.”
“So you will throw her to the wolves time and again, certain the gods will spare her life?”
“It is her destiny.”
“No matter how much suffering it causes her? She is your wife. Don’t you care about the pain she’s enduring tonight?”
Snorri sat unmoving in the darkness. “I think, my son, that you care enough for both of us.”
My stomach dropped and if my hands and feet weren’t already frozen, they’d have turned to ice. Despite all my efforts to keep my distance from Bjorn, Snorri sensed what I was so desperate to hide. I clenched my teeth, fear for what consequences would come from this overwhelming my physical discomfort. I forced my frozen hand to my sword beneath the fur cloak even as I saw Bjorn’s bare fingers flex.
What would he do if Snorri confronted him? What would I do?
I held my breath, praying I had the strength in me to fight if I needed to. But Snorri only gave a sharp shake of his head. “You don’t think like a jarl, Bjorn. You fixate on the hardship you see in front of you and think not for the countless others whose lives depend on this jarldom for protection. If Skaland unites beneath me as its king, it will grow stronger and more prosperous, but this will only happen if Freya continues to please the gods. The gods want you to protect her, but do not let your softness jeopardize her destiny.”
It took a moment for his words to settle, my heart still pumping at a violent pace as I slowly realized that Snorri hadn’t been accusing Bjorn of forbidden sentiment but of softness. Which should have been a relief, but instead my temper flared and I snapped, “Might I find the comfort of food and blankets, husband, or is it your opinion that the gods would favor a fool who sits naked in the north wind?”
“Do what you will.”
Even in the darkness, I felt Snorri’s irritation. Knew that he wished I would remain silent. If he wanted that, he’d need to cut out my tongue. “The people of Skaland will unite beneath the rule of the one who controls my fate.” I smiled into the darkness, but it was all teeth. “So control it.”
The silence was broken only by the vicious howl of the wind, no one speaking. No one even seeming to breathe as they waited to see how their jarl would respond to the challenge.
For it had been one, I realized. Not a slip of my tongue, either, but my heart voicing a question that had been growing from the moment I’d learned the seer’s prophecy. Bjorn’s mother had not named Snorri as the one who must control my fate, which meant it could be anyone. He controlled me using a farce of a marriage, threats against my family, and oaths bound by magic, and where that had once seemed like more than enough to keep me under his thumb, now…now I wondered if the gods might have something else in mind.
As if sensing his power over me slipping, Snorri said, “Save your spirit for the battle to come, Freya, and remind yourself of the cost of failure.” Then he jerked his chin to Bjorn. “Get her fed and warmed, but no fucking fire.”
“If she’s without feet come morning, blame yourself,” Bjorn answered, motioning for me to follow.
I walked slowly, feeling the impact of each step in my legs rather than my feet, and unease chased away the glow of defiance. The gods had already seen fit to cripple my hand. What was to stop them from taking a few toes with frostbite to further test my will, and thus my worthiness? I considered what I might look like by the time Skaland had its king, scarred and bent, parts of me ceasing to function if they weren’t lost entirely, and my eyes stung. Like a tool used until its blade dulls and its haft breaks, then left to molder in the corner, having served its purpose.
Visions filled my head. Of myself in the future, having achieved all that was set for me, and now forgotten in the corner of the king’s great hall. Old and worn. Surrounded, yet alone. A tear escaped my eye, and I didn’t bother wiping it away.
Dimly, I was aware of Bjorn conferring with Bodil. Of one of them taking my hand and leading me behind a piece of canvas that had been stretched between two trees to block the wind. Of my shield being removed before I was lowered to the ground.
The light from the sun had faded entirely, the thick clouds blocking the moon and the stars, casting the world in darkness so that all I could see were the visions in my head.
Stop, I silently pleaded, begging my mind to quit torturing me, but I might as well have spat into the wind for all the good my pleas accomplished. My body was heavy, no longer shivering, as though the effort were too great. Each breath felt like an act of will.
“Freya?”
I heard Bjorn say my name, but he sounded distant, as though a vast canyon separated us, growing wider with every one of my labored heartbeats.
“Freya, are you all right? Freya? Freya, look at me!”
The muscles in my neck didn’t want to obey, pain lancing through my body as I turned toward his voice. “I…” My mouth was so dry. Too dry to form words.
He cursed, then I felt the heavy cloak pulled from my body. I started to moan a protest as the cold bit into my shoulders, then my body moved and I was enveloped in warmth. Realizing I was wrapped in Bjorn’s arms, I tried to pull away but his grip around my waist was implacable. And as he drew the cloak over us, my will to resist disappeared.
“See to her feet,” he said, and my legs shifted as Bodil pulled off my frozen boots and leg wrappings, a shocked gasp exiting her lips. “Those are cold!”
From the pressure on my legs, I suspected my feet were in her armpits, but I couldn’t feel anything. “My toes…”
“Will be fine.” Bjorn’s breath brushed my ear. “You’ve god’s blood in your veins.”
The rapid pound of his heart against my back belied his words, but instead of my fear rising, I drifted, sound and sensation moving in and out of focus. Is this the end? I idly wondered. Not death in battle but freezing to death on the side of a mountain?