If it weren't for a pair of boisterous little birds dueling for a female's attention, Sólveig might have slept until the sun set again that night. Their fight brought them fluttering and squabbling to the back of the cave where she was sleeping soundly on Godric's solid, immobile chest. Her eyes shot open and she stifled a scream as the birds collided in mid-air, just inches from her face. The two feisty males tumbled to the ground, feathers flying, and Sólveig swept at them with her hands.
"Shoo, get out of here you noisy little cretins!" she yelled.
The birds finally realized they weren't alone, and they flew out of the mouth of the cave, one right behind the other. The sounds of their continued rivalry were carried back to her on the summer breeze, and she glanced down at Godric with a smile. Nothing could disturb the slumber of the dead, she mused as she stroked his white cheek.
A glance at the cave's entrance told her it was near mid-day, and she sighed as she realized it was time to return to her family home. What had started as an admittedly insane plot to save a Night Walker from certain doom at the hands of her people had evolved into a sort of kinship between the two. Sólveig had taught the immortal about compassion and the value of trusting others, and in return he had given her something she'd previously found unimaginable: joy. He'd made her smile more times in the last two days than she had in years, and the pleasure he'd brought her last night had been indescribably wonderful. Thinking about the words he'd said to her and the gentle way his fingers had coaxed the desire from her body brought a blush to her tanned face. With a shake she cleared her head of the distracting images. She had to get home soon; her father would have returned from battle and her mother was likely in hysterics at her disappearance.
Sólveig donned her shirt and skirt quietly, slipping her much-used knife into the waist of her undergarments. She cleared the fire pit of its previous remains and stacked a few logs and dry kindling as well as a flint for Godric to use that evening. She didn't know if he would need the light, but she hoped he would appreciate the gesture anyway. The fire was prepped, her belongings gathered, and all she could do now was stare mournfully at the sleeping boy. Tonight would be the last time she'd see him. A sort of dull ache settled in her breast, and she realized this is how she'd felt watching Sigurd walk away from her into that fateful battle three summers ago. Her legs folded underneath her, and she reached out to smooth a bronzed hand through his wild black hair.
"I will not say goodbye yet," she whispered in his ear. "I'll hold you to your promise." A delicate brush of her warm lips across his cool ones punctuated the statement, and then Sólveig made her way out of the cave and into the sunlight.
The journey back to her parents' home took less than an hour, but it was the longest hour of her life. Questions, niggling doubts, began to weave themselves in and around her mind like vines on a tree. Would her parents be angry when she finally walked through the door? She had ventured off to her cave many times before, and in fact had often been gone longer than the two days spent caring for the injured immortal; however, her latest disappearance had occurred on the eve of an important battle, and she was sure her mother would have it out with her when she returned. There was nothing she could do even if they raged at her. She'd taken many a beating from her father for previous departures, and the only lesson they had taught her was that bruises, on skin and heart alike, all healed with time.
She resigned herself to whatever fate might befall her concerning her mother and father, and then she began the arduous process of cataloguing the myriad emotions she felt when her thoughts turned to Godric. It was a fitting name for one as old and powerful as he. The 'strong god' he was, indeed.
The first time she'd seen him he'd looked almost pitiful; pendants melting his alabaster flesh, head hung low, as if he was ashamed he'd been caught by such weak creatures as the men from her village. That first night she had been afraid of him. She was terrified he'd awaken as she hauled his body up the mountain to the cave, kill her, drain her of her precious blood, and leave her corpse in the woods. In reality, he hadn't so much as twitched, so when the sun had made its way above the horizon she'd felt considerably relieved, and had even fallen asleep next to his prone form.
The second evening she'd been wary, but more or less unafraid of the green-eyed boy. Initially he'd deigned only to glare at her in silence as she puttered about the cave, but eventually her curiosity about his kind won him over, and he spoke to her like they were old friends. In a fit of what she assumed was insanity, she'd cut her wrist and let him feed from her. It was a frightening and madly arousing thing, but as she watched him bite his own tongue to heal her slashed wrist, she felt the beginnings of trust forming between them. She had told him about Sigurd's demise, then, and how it had affected her life. She had never spoken about her loss to anyone, really, and his genuine curiosity, combined with his failure to laugh at or demean her for her emotions, had endeared him to her.
Sólveig couldn't help the blush that graced her cheeks when she thought about their time together by the stream. She had only meant to wash herself of the grease and soot from her meal, but as soon as he'd rid himself of his linen pants, all rational thought went out the window. She knew, in some sense, that she was provoking him when she traced the brand that marred his otherwise flawless skin, even as she calmly asked him about his life before he'd been made immortal. It came as no real surprise when he'd moved nearer to her, their hands intertwined, but her knees went weak when he whispered those devilish words into her ear. The rest of the evening had been a blur of passion and ecstasy, and Godric had filled Sólveig with a renewed sense of joy… something she'd thought forever lost after Sigurd's untimely death. It was with this feeling of lightness that she skipped and hopped her way out of the woods and down the rolling hills to her home.
The door was propped open as it usually was, and she poked her head inside to find her mother hunched over in the center of the large room. Warning bells went off in her mind. Where was her father? Cautiously, Sólveig tiptoed into the room, not wanting to startle her obviously weeping mother. She saw the helmet in her hands as she made her way around the older woman, and instantly she knew why her mother wept.
Teary, red-rimmed eyes met wide, disbelieving ones, and her mother let out a cry so mournful it shattered her heart into a thousand pieces.
"Your father is in Valhalla!" she wailed, reaching out to her daughter. Her thick fingers grasped the collar of Sólveig's shirt, and she pulled down roughly, exposing her neck. Two shiny pink dots, the only evidence of her time spent with Godric, glared harshly in the late-afternoon sun. "Your father is dead, child, and you'll be joining him soon." The words were spoken with an air of finality. Sólveig wrenched her shirt away from her mother's hold and turned to leave, but froze when she saw four men in the doorway. The godi, the village chief, and two men brandishing small swords blocked her only means of escape.
"It's true, then," the godi shrieked. "You have brought this ruin upon us!"
Sólveig only shook her head and put her hands out in front of her as if to stop their advance. How had they known? She'd been so sure no one had seen her cut Godric from Yggdrasil. Obviously, someone had.
"Three hundred men died in that battle. You brought the wrath of the gods upon us when you freed our sacrifice. That is treason!" he continued, voice elevating in pitch and volume as he and the two armed men began to circle her. "For this, you will be put to death!" The godi spat at her feet, and, as if this were their signal, the sword-wielding guards grabbed her by her arms. She thought about screaming for her mother to save her, but one look told her all she needed to know. There would be no helping her. Any fight she might have had vanished in that instant.
The guards dragged her out the door of her home, but stopped when they encountered the village chief who stood just outside.
"Bring her to the temple," he said, voice level as he stared, unforgiving, at the top of her bowed head. "We will execute her at sunrise. Make sure you let everyone know the traitor has been caught, and will receive her just punishment on the morrow."
Fear welled up in her chest, and the first notes of panic set in her throat. "Please, no," she whispered.
Her plea went unheeded, and the men at her sides began to haul her bodily in the direction of the temple. The fear was made manifest then, and she screamed her terror to the world. Vainly, she wished that her friend, her immortal lover, might save her from the sword as surely as she'd saved him from the sun.
A/N: And the plot thickens… Sorry for the delay between updates, but I had to write and deliver my first speech in Public Speaking this week. Stupid real life ::sigh:: The next chapter will be out Wednesday, and it should be much longer than this one. Thanks for reading!