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CHAPTER TEN
Spark
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Katnisse did not yield when Róry suggested that she and Peeta cook the evening meal, while he took Katnisse's place with Prim.
"Between the two of us, Prim is the better cook," the shieldmaiden reasoned. "Therefore it is only right that she learn the secrets to his lamb stew."
And so Peeta and Prim set to work, preparing the food while Róry helped Katnisse with the geese. Once they finished collecting the feathers and the down, and set the birds aside for skinning and preserving, the older Eyvindsdottir crooked her finger at Róry to follow her outside.
"You are up to something, Róry Hallvardson," Katnisse accused him, once she was certain Prim and Peeta could not overhear. "Out with it."
"I would never dare hide anything from you, Katnisse," Róry replied, his handsome face open and honest. "I came here today for the same reason I have always come here before. Your sister has my heart, and every so often I must visit it and her."
She narrowed her eyes at him: this younger, leaner, beardless version of Gæl. "Today, you have brought the priest." She could not trust herself to say Peeta's name.
"Only because I was tasked to bring him safely back to the jarl's house," Róry said. "You were the one who made him stay."
An idea presented itself to Katnisse, making her sick to her stomach. "Do not dare ask me for her hand in marriage today," she hissed. "Our mother is not here, and you and Prim are far too young besides. If you think I can be convinced to say yes, because—because you have brought him—"
"You know that it is not unheard of to marry at this age," he interrupted her. "Nevertheless, you have nothing to fear. I wish to wait until after I go on the raids—until I have my own silver with which to pay her bride-price. Perhaps in three years' time, I can come to you and your mother with a proper proposal."
"You speak of raiding as if it were so easy," Katnisse said bitterly. "Do not forget that I am a shieldmaiden. Unlike you, I know firsthand what it is like to be on the battlefield. One moment you are alive, the next moment you are dead."
Róry looked at her with surprise. "Are you saying that Prim and I should not marry, in case I die in the raids?"
"Do you not remember when your own father died? How it broke your mother's heart? Prim is not as strong as Hejsel. She is like our mother, delicate and fragile. If anything happens to you, I will lose Prim too."
"If I die in the raids, or any other way, it will not matter whether Prim and I were married or not. Whatever she will feel, she will feel just the same." Róry placed his hands on the shieldmaiden's shoulders. When had he grown so tall? Katnisse wondered.
"Forgive me, Katnisse, but I must speak freely. You talk as if there is nothing else to life but death. You are so afraid of losing the people you love, that you are afraid to love more than you think you can afford to lose."
"It is a wise policy."
"It is a lie. You can no more limit love, than you can tell your heart to beat only upon your command. You cannot stop yourself from loving. You can only deny yourself—and the people you love—the happiness of it."
Katnisse fell silent, and the image of a certain young Saxon man filled her mind in the space where coherent thoughts were supposed to be. It was becoming an increasingly frequent occurrence.
Finally, she said: "Not too long ago, you were a gangly nine-year-old with a runny nose and breeches trailing halfway down your leg. Now you tower over me, and you lecture me about love."
Róry grinned broadly and swooped down to kiss her forehead, making Katnisse wince. "Dear sister, I am only giving voice to what you already know in your heart to be true."
.
ooo
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To Katnisse, food had always been a necessity, nothing more. Not long ago, she had spent almost every waking moment worrying about it, and for good reason: if the crops failed, or if they did not preserve the meat and the milk properly, her family might not survive the winter. A single misstep could cost them their lives. Even after she became a shieldmaiden, receiving her share of the booty and earning a place at the warriors' table at the harvest feast, food was still so synonymous with hardship that she could not bring herself to enjoy it.
That is, until she tasted Peeta's lamb stew.
"I have never eaten anything better," Katnisse declared, holding her plate out for a second serving after she had inhaled the first.
Prim and Róry were eyeing her nervously. "Slowly, Katnisse," Róry cautioned. "Take your time."
"You should know, Peeta, that Katnisse never eats like this," Prim told the priest as he ladled out more stew. "Eating is a chore for her like everything else. This is a compliment of the highest order."
"Where did you learn to cook this?" the shieldmaiden demanded, even as she wolfed down another mouthful. He could not have learned it from Eyfri. As skilled as the jarl's wife was, Katnisse had not tasted anything like this stew at any of the feasts in recent memory.
"In Panym," the young Saxon replied. "But it was here that I had the opportunity to hone my skills. As it was, Eyfri did not let me cook until just this spring, when her other thralls fell ill."
"The bread he bakes is even better," Róry informed her. "He can make it hearty and dense, or soft and light as a cloud. And whatever kind of bread Peeta makes, when you eat it with the cheese that Margaretha invented… it is a wonder that my family and I are still able to walk."
"Thank you," Peeta said humbly. "I am glad that the food we prepare can give you happiness."
He really was handsome when he blushed.
"I feel like every time I see you, I learn something new about you," Katnisse said. "You cook, you bake, you draw…"
"And you are good at every single one of those things," Prim remarked. "The drawing you made of Katnisse and Unna is beautiful. It makes me wonder what else we do not yet know about you."
Róry's eyes lit up. "I know something you do not know about Peeta."
Peeta looked at him, horrified. "Róry…"
But the thirteen-year-old carried on. "I have spent two months in very close quarters with him, you see, and he would tell me and Margaretha many interesting things about his life in Panym."
"Please do tell," Prim said, smiling.
Róry leaned forward, grinning deviously. "Before Peeta was a priest... he had a sweetheart."
Prim gasped in genuine shock. Katnisse felt as if her heart had dropped like a millstone to the bottom of the sea.
"Is this true?" the older Eyvindsdottir asked, not recognizing her own voice.
"Yes," Peeta said quietly. "You know my story, Katnisse. I told you I was not supposed to be given to the church. It was only when the king's men took my brother away that I was sent in his place."
Katnisse could not stop the words from tumbling out of her mouth. "What was her name?"
"Delly," he answered. "Her name was Delly."
Still Katnisse plied him with questions. What was Delly like? Blonde hair. A plump, womanly figure. How did they meet? Her family owned the farm next to theirs. How did she react to the news that Peeta would be sent to the monastery in Josef's stead? Not very well. They always thought they would marry someday.
"Did you kiss her?" Katnisse dared ask. She was afraid of the answer.
"Katnisse…" Prim said uncertainly.
"Yes," Peeta said, looking Katnisse in the eye. "I did."
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ooo
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He craved her.
It surprised Gæl to discover just how much he wanted Margaretha. Like Thome, Bristl, and the other young men he had grown up with, Gæl had spent many an idle hour at that wrecked ship in the harbor with whichever girl had been willing at the time. Gæl always enjoyed himself—truth be told, the time he spent there was what piqued his interest in ship building, and what prompted him to petition his father for an introduction to Beetee—but none of the girls became anything more than a passing fancy. When Hallvard died, and Gæl took on the responsibilities he had left behind, he did not mind that he had fewer opportunities for such things. Besides, he had his hands full helping raise and provide for Róry, Vik, and Pósy; until he went on the raids, he could not afford a wife and child of his own.
Perhaps as recompense for that part of his past, the gods saw fit for him to fall in love with Katnisse—stoic, no-nonsense Katnisse. He knew his old ways would not work on his best friend, so he went through what he thought were the proper channels: a marriage proposal, a house, a bride-price. After all, Katnisse was nothing if not practical; Gæl assumed she would appreciate his efforts in that regard. And yet she would not be swayed.
So now, faced with the realization that his heart was held captive by his thrall, Gæl was determined to do things differently. After all, by her own admission, Margaretha had never been in love before. He did not want her to run away from him, afraid, when he finally told her. Gæl wanted to win Margaretha's love little by little, the same way she had unknowingly won his: by seeping into his every pore until his entire being was consumed by her.
First he needed her to know that he thought of her as a person, not a prize: that he admired her innate compassion, her perceptive mind, her quiet determination. Everything else could wait until later.
When I free her, Gæl thought, I want Margaretha to know she has the freedom to choose. And when that happens, I want her to choose me over Thome—and over anyone else for that matter—not because I am the only man she has ever known in the past, but because I am the only man with whom she wants a future.
If he could win her heart this way, by wooing her patiently, earnestly, steadily, it was his hope that everything else would follow later.
But right now, oh, how he craved her.
Of course, Gæl had only himself to blame. By virtue of his creative maneuvering of everyone's chores—and Hejsel's tacit approval thereof—he and Margaretha had more cause to spend time together in the days after the harvest feast and Peeta's departure. They developed an easy companionship, and soon Gæl found himself challenging Margaretha on purpose just so he could draw out that fierce side of her that refused to give way when she knew she was in the right.
When Margaretha told Gæl one day, out of the blue, that her dreams the night before had been in Norse, he knew he had gained her trust, and he knew she had come to regard the North as her home. It made him even more determined to prove himself worthy of that trust.
But the desire was always there: pooling, growing in his belly, waiting for a spark to ignite the flame.
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ooo
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Though he tried his best to avoid it—and generally succeeded—there were times that he could not help but reveal, ever so slightly, how much he wanted her.
The time, of course, when he ran into the house out of the pouring rain, the time she had fallen right into his arms in what he hoped would soon be their bedroom.
It had all happened so fast. One moment, he was outside, letting the rain soak him to the bone, thinking about his father the way he always did in a thunderstorm.
"Do not be afraid, my son," Hallvard said to Gæl when the little boy hid his face in his father's shirt.
"But the thunder is so loud, and the lightning destroys everything it strikes," young Gæl whispered, sniffling.
Hallvard stroked the riotous mass of dark hair on his son's head. "What is thunder? It is the rage of Thor as he strikes down the jotuns and the trolls. What is lightning? It is the sparks flying from Sindri's anvil as he forges the finest weapons in Asgard. It is the flashing hooves of the goats drawing Thor's cart into battle; his shining hammer Mjolnir flying across the sky. Be brave, and be glad, for in the storm you bear witness to the power of the gods."
The next moment, Gæl was sitting down on the sleeping platform, Margaretha's fingertips trailing fire across his bare skin.
He had been unable to see, unable to move his arms, as she undressed him. Not knowing exactly what she was doing, or what she was about to do, only heightened the sensation. He forced himself to make conversation, to distract himself from the way she made him feel, but even his light-hearted banter hinted at something more.
"Would you rather that I went shirtless?" he asked at one point, trying to sound indignant. In his mind she was pushing him down onto his back and covering his hungry mouth with hers.
"I am not going to help you with your breeches," she snapped later on, when at last she had freed him from the shirt that bound him. "So do not even think about it."
It was all he could think about.
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ooo
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Or the time, more recently, when Gæl questioned Margaretha's knowledge of fire-starting—a basic skill she had learned from Peeta long ago.
"You are using the wrong striking-stone for that fire-steel," Gæl told her, rummaging around their household implements. The rains had gone, the skies had cleared, and the days were growing shorter and colder.
"It lights the fire just the same," Margaretha pointed out. "What is the difference?"
Gæl found what he was looking for and held it up for her to see. "This striking-stone was made especially for that fire-steel. See the groove that runs down the middle? It is exactly the right size, and as time passes they come to fit each other better still. Without each other, they can light a fire, but they are not whole."
Margaretha snatched it out of his hands. "I did not know you were so pedantic about fire-steels and striking-stones."
"If you were not taught how to use the correct striking-stone, what is my assurance that you know how to use a fire-steel at all?" Gæl wanted to know.
"Perhaps the fact that I have been starting fires for months without mishap?" she countered hotly. "It was one of the very first things Peeta taught me."
He shook his head gravely. "This will not do. I shall have to teach you all over again."
And that was how Gæl came to be wrapped around Margaretha from behind, his chin hovering just above her sweetly scented shoulder, his hands guiding hers as she struck the fire-steel and the striking-stone together.
Her back was rigid against him at first, and her fingers stiff underneath his, but the fire-starting lesson gave her something else to focus on and soon he felt her relax. "This is exactly the same as Peeta's technique," she said stubbornly as the sparks flew into a small nest of flax that served as tinder. "Just… taught differently."
Gæl let go of her hands so that he could lift the flax. He blew gently on the embers until they burst into flames, causing Margaretha to lean further back into his chest and clutch at his thigh.
It would be easy, so easy, to turn his head and kiss her right then, to lift her hair and press his lips to the base of her throat where her lifeblood pulsed underneath the skin. To allow the flax to fall away, forgotten, and let the house catch fire while they made love among the flames.
Wait, he told himself. Everything else can wait.
"I am not like Peeta," Gæl said, shaking his head to clear the visions from his mind. "I think by now that should have been clear."
Did she grasp what he was trying to say? Gæl held his breath, waiting for her to turn around and slap him in the face, waiting for her to stand up and run, the way she did on the day of the thunderstorm.
But Margaretha did not answer. They watched in silence as the fire they built together grew.
It was not until Pósy came in later to look for her dolls that Margaretha pulled away.
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ooo
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Gæl had always been in her dreams.
Margaretha remembered when she first came to Tolv: how she sought freedom from captivity, or at least respite from exhaustion, in her sleep. But instead of memories of the mother and father she loved, or of the gentle life she had taken for granted in Panym, there had been nothing but shadows of Gæl floating in and out of her subconscious, his eyes dark with displeasure, his posture unbending and uncompromising.
Perhaps it was Peeta's words echoing in her mind, or her envy at the happiness Finn and Anni found in each other, or the fact that Gæl had become an altogether more agreeable person after apologizing for the cheese incident and even more so after the harvest feast, but lately her dreams had been changing. Now there was a shape and flow to them; stories were told and words were spoken. But the one constant was Gæl.
And because they were growing closer by the day, Margaretha nearly told him about it. It was only at the last second that she caught herself and instead told him that in her dreams, she was speaking Norse.
It was true, of course. Margaretha could not pinpoint when, exactly, the change had taken place. All she knew was that one day she realized with a start that her thoughts, her dreams, even her nighttime conversations with Peeta when he was still living with them, were all in the language that had once seemed so foreign to her.
This much, she could reveal to Gæl without hesitation.
Margaretha did not tell Gæl that in her dreams, he had confessed that he loved her, and she had confessed that she loved him back.
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ooo
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Someone was calling her name.
Margaretha opened her eyes to find Pósy kneeling by her side, shaking her shoulder. "Pósy?" she said sleepily. "What is going on?"
The dark-haired girl had a smile so wide, her little face could barely contain it. "They are here, Margaretha. Come look."
"Who?"
Pósy leaned in, as if to whisper a secret. "The merry dancers. Hurry, hurry, before they get away."
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ooo
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It was like stepping into the most delicious, most wondrous dream. Curtains of green and purple light undulated across the pitch black of the night sky, bathing the world in an ethereal glow. Ribbons of color twisted and curled above her and around her all at once, fading into the darkness one moment and then flickering back to life the next.
Pósy ran past her, straight to Gæl, whereupon she jumped and flew into her brother's arms. A little further away, Róry and Vik were galloping across the field, howling in glee.
Margaretha pulled her cloak tighter around her body. "I have never seen anything like this," she said to Hejsel, her breath coming out in white puffs of steam. "What is happening?"
"They are called the northern lights," the older woman said, smiling wistfully at her children gamboling about. "They appear from late autumn to early spring, but only on the clearest and darkest of nights. In the past few years I have seen them very rarely, so to see them so brightly tonight is quite a pleasant surprise."
"They are so beautiful, I cannot believe they are real," Margaretha said in awe. "What causes them?"
"Sometimes we tell the children they are women dancing merrily in the sky," Hejsel said. "The people to the East say they are fires, sparked by the tail of a fox flying across the night. The explanation I prefer is that they are the gleaming lights of Valhalla, reflecting off the shields of the valkyries as they return with the spirits of warriors who died valiantly in battle."
Gæl walked over to the women, Pósy dangling upside down from his arms and giggling uncontrollably. "I have caught a naughty little girl," he said. "She is not allowed to leap about with the merry dancers."
Pósy pulled herself right side up and wriggled out of his grasp. "Then I will dance with Margaretha instead!" she proclaimed, sticking her tongue out at him as she grabbed the thrall's hands.
Margaretha laughed in delight as she skipped and twirled in concert with Pósy. They danced right up to Róry and Vik and, linking hands with the boys, began prancing around in a circle.
Hejsel entwined her arm with Gæl's and rested her head on his shoulder. "The children love Margaretha dearly," she observed. "I am glad she is part of our household. Do you not agree, my son?"
Instead of answering, Gæl looked at his mother and grinned in a mischievous way she had not seen since Hallvard was alive. "Let us join them."
Hejsel barely had time to register what he meant before he started walking, tugging her behind him, to where the children were.
"Gæl is not allowed to dance with us!" Pósy whined.
"I am not Gæl," her eldest brother said in the deepest voice he could muster. "I am… the tickle monster!"
He bared his teeth and lunged forward, attacking Vik with his fingers.
"Stop stop stop stop!" Vik half-yelped, half-laughed as the others fell upon him.
Later, when they were all sprawled on the ground, Róry propped himself up on his elbows and regarded Gæl critically. "Just last winter, you said you were too old for this," he reminded the eldest Hallvardson. "You said I was too old for this."
Gæl responded by grabbing Róry's head and rumpling his hair. "I am never too old to beat you up, you… you stinkfart."
"Boys! Language!" Hejsel's tone was sharp, but there was laughter in her eyes.
After a while, when the six of them were spent and their shrieks had subsided, Margaretha rolled over onto her back to catch her breath. As she gazed upon the lights weaving in and out of the darkness, her heart was filled with an overwhelming sense of… contentment. Belonging. Happiness.
She had never felt lonely in Panym, even though she did not have siblings or cousins, or even a playmate who stayed long enough to become her friend. She had her spying, her mysteries to keep her occupied. It was not until she came to Tolv that she realized how much she had been missing. With Hejsel and her children, it was almost as if she had a family again—one that was bigger and more affectionate than she could ever have imagined.
Gæl loomed above her, blocking her view of the sky. Wordlessly, he held his hand out to her.
Cheeks rosy from the crisp night air, Margaretha accepted. His touch sent a shiver up her spine she was sure had nothing to do with the cold.
Her hand looked so small, so pale in his. Gæl gripped it tightly as he helped her up, lingering for the briefest of moments before letting go.
Hejsel clapped her hands. "I think we have had too much fun tonight. Time to go back to bed."
"I am not sleepy yet," Róry complained. "Can I go to Prim's? It is light enough," he added hopefully.
"No," his mother said firmly. "Go back inside."
When Margaretha turned to leave, however, Hejsel put her hand up to stop her. "Not you, my dear," she said kindly. "You can stay a while longer if you like. After all, it is your first time."
Margaretha nodded gratefully. "Thank you, Hejsel."
Hejsel smiled. "Gæl will keep you company."
"Oh, that is not necessary—" she protested.
"I am happy to stay," Gæl said.
Hejsel herded the children back into the house, Pósy and Vik whispering to each other excitedly.
"Keep warm," Róry said, winking as he sauntered past.
When the door to the house closed, leaving Margaretha and Gæl alone at last, she did not know what to say or do.
It was Gæl who broke the deafening silence. "Do you not have the lights in Panym?"
Margaretha shook her head regretfully. "No. I have never seen anything like them, nor did my parents ever speak of anything so wonderful." She felt sadness wash over her at the memory of Lord Undersee and Lady Magthilde. Mother, Father, I miss you so, she thought. I have done as you asked. I have been brave, and now I am safe. I only wish you were here, watching the lights dance across the sky with me.
"You are in luck," Gæl said. "Tonight was the brightest I have seen them since—" His breath caught in his throat. "Since the year Father died."
"Hejsel told me that the lights are the valkyries, returning to Valhalla with the spirits of fallen warriors," Margaretha said. "Perhaps the valor of the warrior has something to do with the brilliance of the lights."
He gazed at her, his grey eyes softer and yet more intense than she had ever seen. "Is that really what you believe?"
"It is true that I have never met your father," she admitted. "But you can often take the measure of a man by looking at the character of his children." Hearing the words that had just issued from her lips, Margaretha felt her face grow warm.
Gæl cocked an eyebrow in amusement. "His children… including me?"
She scowled. "No, I meant your siblings exclusively. Of course I am also referring to you. Wipe that smirk off your face," she chastised him.
His grin widened, making him look like a little boy.
"For all your positive attributes, you… you are the most stubborn man that ever lived," she declared.
Something changed in his eyes. "That is exactly what my mother says," Gæl said slowly, all traces of mirth gone, "about my father."
"Well," Margaretha said quickly, as if to gloss over the significance of his words, "that only goes to show how much you are like him."
"I am not sorry," he said suddenly, taking a step towards her.
"Sorry about what?" she asked.
Another step. She was finding it hard to breathe; he was so close. Although he was not touching her, she could feel the warmth radiating from his body, smell the scent of the forest that he always had about him.
His fingers burned her skin when he tilted her chin, and she saw the green and purple hues of the northern lights reflected in his silver eyes. "I am not sorry I killed your husband," he told her. "I am not sorry I killed the man who laid claim to you."
His nose brushed hers and it was all Margaretha could do not to melt into his strong arms. "Then you have killed the wrong person," she whispered, her breath swirling and merging with his. "You are the only man who has ever laid claim to me."
"Am I?"
"Yes, you—"
Gæl did not let her finish.
Margaretha had been kissed but once before, a chaste kiss on her wedding day that was over as soon as it had begun. It was nothing like this. Gæl's mouth was hot against hers, sending tremors through her body from her lips all the way down to her core. He was not kissing her so much as tasting her, drinking her, consuming her, making her part of him. When he pulled her close, she arched into him with an urgency she had never before known. How was it possible to feel this way? Weak at the knees, but stronger, braver, more powerful than she could ever dream of being. Drowning and burning, falling and soaring, all at the same time, all because of him.
He is everything.
He is home.
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A/N:
I always thought Everlark would happen first, but Gadge had the benefit of already living together.
A special shoutout to NurseKelly, who asked for a Gæl POV on last chapter's shirtless scene, and who provided valuable feedback on the first kiss.
The last scene has been in my head ever since I saw the northern lights with Mr. DDG :) I imagine Tolv to be around the same latitude as Reykjavík, Trondheim, and Umeå, where one could see the aurora borealis occasionally, given enough solar flare activity and plenty of dark, cloudless nights.
Sami children were taught to behave themselves in the presence of the northern lights (not like this unruly lot, LOL). As for striking-stones, nowadays people just use any old knife with a fire-steel. Gæl just wanted an excuse to get handsy. :P
In Norse lore, Sindri ("spark") is the smith who made Thor's hammer. Although it isn't explicitly stated, it is likely that he was a dwarf.
Next week is going to be very busy for me, so the next Thorsday update will be on July 24. My apologies in advance :( For those who asked/are curious, this story is going to be around 20 chapters long.