Nena by Ann Boelter (red white royal blue txt) 📗

and tightened his arms around her, pulling her back to the warmth she so desperately needed.

Darkness.

A hollow reed was between her lips, with Jarl dribbling tiny amounts of water into her parched mouth. His face was gaunt with worry.

Darkness.

The senior healer’s face suspended over her, his expression bleak, before he turned to Jarl and shook his head. Dimly she heard Jarl shout something unintelligible, his voice twisted with fury. The healer’s face was yanked from her sight.

Darkness.

Jarl’s voice raised in anger. “We will attack when I say. When—I—say!” Jarl shouted, emphasizing each syllable. “Do not ask me again. Get out! Get out now, Tryggr. And know this—any man who thinks of trying to move her, I will kill him. Any man. Are we clear?”

Darkness.

Jarl cooling her forehead with a damp rag.

Darkness.

Unendurable pain coursing through ever fiber of her body. Nena couldn’t take it—could not stand to be touched. Even the feel of the softest fur against her skin was agony. She longed for the darkness. She longed to die.

Darkness.

The suffering was unbearable; the afterlife beckoned her with sweet relief. The pain would be gone, and she would see her brother, Ruga, and the mother she had barely known. She would ride Nightwing again. They were all near. She could feel them reaching for her—welcoming her. She was ready. She let go.

Something held her fast and pulled her back. Back to the fire. Back to the ice. Back to the pain. Back to Jarl’s haggard face and, one night his voice.

“I will not let you go. You are mine, and no one—not even the gods are going to take you from me,” he whispered, his voice feverish, not from sickness, but from desperation as he held her head and dribbled cool water laced with something bitter into her mouth.

He was mad. Why did he care? Why did he not let her die? No one fought the gods. No one could. And no one dared try.

Then everything went completely black.

Nena awoke to light that did not burn her eyes and a body that did not ache. She took a moment to focus on her surroundings. She was in Jarl’s furs. He sat on a stool at the side of the bed watching her closely. But it was not the same Jarl. This Jarl was bleary-eyed, and his gaunt face was covered with an unkempt ragged short beard. Nena tried to sit up but could not.

“I’ll help you. You’re too weak,” Jarl said, his voice hoarse. He stood and rearranged the furs behind her, then lifted her effortlessly so she could sit upright. “Are you thirsty?” he asked.

She was and she nodded, still confused and disoriented. He brought a small cup and held it to her lips. She tried to gulp the refreshing cool liquid, but after several sips, he pulled it away.

“That’s enough for now. Let’s see how you do with that first,” he said as he sat back down on the stool. “How do you feel? Are you hot? Or cold? In any pain?”

Nena shook her head to each of his questions.

“Good. That’s good.” He ran one hand through his hair, then leaned back and watched her. “How is your stomach with that water?”

“Fine.” She tried to say, but the word came out as a barely audible whisper.

“I have some broth here if you think you can keep it down. Do you want to try?” he asked.

She nodded.

Jarl stood again and went to the table behind him, returning with a small bowl of tepid broth. He knelt down and lifted the spoon to her lips, but she shook her head and tried to reach for the bowl herself.

“Just eat,” he scolded, and pushed her hands away. “You’re too weak to feed yourself, and you’ll never get any stronger if you don’t eat.” He offered her the spoonful again. She took it.

He was right. Her arms felt weak as a baby’s. The tiny effort of lifting them had exhausted her. She finished the bowl, then slid back down in the furs, instantly asleep.

When she next awoke, Jarl was still sitting slouched on the stool, but now Altene stood behind him.

“I will tend to her, my lord. You need to sleep,” Altene said.

Jarl started to protest.

“If anything changes at all, I will awaken you immediately,” Altene reassured him.

Jarl nodded and stretched out across the furs at the foot of the bed. Within seconds he was snoring softly.

“You have survived the Northman’s Curse,” Altene murmured. Her voice was both awed and disappointed. “No others did, though they did not have Jarl attending to their every need.” The resentment in her last words was unmistakable. “There is much talk among the men that you have put some Dor spell on him. He would not eat, not sleep, not speak or listen to reason while you were ill. He even threatened to kill any who tried to remove you.”

“There is no such spell,” Nena croaked.

“You and I know that. I have no idea where they would get such a notion.” Altene smiled, and it was clear to Nena exactly where the notion had come from. “But Jarl’s men are very concerned by it. If he cannot be rid of you on his own, maybe they will be able to convince him—or take matters into their own hands.”

“That would be my wish, too.”

“Perhaps,” Altene said, measuring her.

“Let me go and you shall see.”

“You are too weak to even stand; helping you now would serve no purpose. Besides, Jarl would kill me. Of that, I now have no doubt.”

Over the next few days, Nena’s strength slowly returned. When she could walk without assistance, she was returned to her place at the pole, though her relationship with Jarl was now one of an uneasy truce. He still chained her at night or when he left the tent, but the rest of the time she was free to move about inside. When they ate their meals together, he still allowed her no utensil other than a