A/N: Hey guys! It's still me! I'd been considering changing my username for a while, as the old one kind fell out of vibe with me over the years, and decided to match it to my Tumblr blog for consistency. You can find me over there at the url moonsugar-and-spice :)
Forgive the egregious length of this chapter, there just wasn't a good place to break it up. This is like your holiday gift from your weird aunt who overshares at parties and crams a box full of things you didn't really ask for and sends it. Merry Christmahanakwanzika to you all, I hope that whatever you celebrate is warm and memorable and the best it can be in 2020.
Thin rays of light filtered through dark lashes, eyelids fluttering weakly. From all around drifted the faraway murmur of activity. A cart rattling. An axe chopping. Dogs barking.
Nausea swirled in Ozai's empty stomach. He kept his eyes shut for a long time as consciousness trickled back into him like a dripping tap, his teeth gritting against the bile that threatened to rise up his throat. When he could finally manage it, he cracked open his bleary eyes. Light replaced the darkness and, little by little, vision followed.
He was resting upon a hard bed of furs laid out along a pounded earth floor. Above him, a roof made of thatch, four walls of wattle-and-daub. In the middle of the one-room house, a cookfire had died to embers and smoldered unattended, thin trails of smoke escaping through a hole in the roof.
Even before he searched the room, the void of Katara's absence was suffocating, wrapping its cold fingers around his neck. Life droned callously out of sight, and Ozai had never felt more completely, utterly alone. He tried to sit up on his elbows but nearly vomited and fell back onto the furs, each breath a shallow gasp that felt like new wounds tearing.
He squeezed his stinging eyes shut. Regret washed over him in long, slow waves, each one icy cold and turning his blood to sludge. How he longed to go back and take a different path, but now that was impossible. There was no way back. There was no way to make it right.
Katara was gone.
Ozai felt as if he had lost some part of himself there in the snow, something he hadn't even realized existed, intangible as mist. The knowledge that life would simply go on without her, that time was only stopped for him, wrecked him completely.
There was a grating sound, the murmur of voices suddenly louder, and Ozai cracked his eyes again to see the door open and a broad, bearded, flaxen-haired man filling its frame. He stopped short, ice-blue eyes hardening where they met his. It was clear the man had not expected him to be awake.
Ozai drew a ragged breath of cold, winter air and struggled to sit up.
"Where is she?" His voice was hoarse, his throat raw. "What have you done with her?"
He couldn't bear the thought of her body being thrown away like trash. Katara deserved the dignity of a proper burial at least. It was the only thing left he could give her. The image flashed, tore through his heart anew. Her lifeless form in his arms as he'd watched her die, watched the spark go cold in her eyes, the flush of life drain from her face. How he wished he could tell her now…
The man leered, stone-cold, down at him. Scrutinizing him without expression. A single braid was woven down the middle of his straw-colored beard, long rugged hair half pulled off his face with another thin braid plaited down the length of one side. The cloak he wore was similar to Ozai's, deep stark black offset by a mantle of nut-brown fur, broadening his strong shoulders.
Without loosening his flinty gaze, he turned his head and called out loudly in a language Ozai didn't recognize, a hash of sounds so feral it could have been a war cry. A few moments later, a young woman stepped past him through the door, petite and nearly two heads shorter. Her hair was distinctly darker, a deep shade of auburn, and her eyes an unremarkable green-washed brown. The man ducked inside behind her, letting the door scrape shut at his back, and turned to her.
They spoke, quick and harsh. Ozai couldn't tell how much of the harshness was enmity and how much was just the language.
At length, the woman nodded then came toward Ozai, kneeling down at his side. This time, the words she spoke were familiar but like the neglected hinges of a rusty gate, stilted and brittle.
"My name is Inga. I know you must have many questions. Beruvik says you have words to say."
Faltering, Ozai studied her. "You speak my language?"
"Broken at times, but yes. It is not often I have cause to speak it. How are you feeling?"
The ache in his throat burned. "I want to know what you did with the girl."
She seemed to hesitate briefly, her hazel eyes dropping, then looked over her shoulder. In that coarse tongue she spoke to the man behind her and he blinked once, pressed his lips together, then nodded gravely in response.
Rising, the woman padded to the cookfire and filled a bowl with something hot and steaming, returning to kneel at his side.
"First, you must drink this," she said, holding it out. "It will settle your stomach and give some strength."
Ozai looked down, took a weak sniff. It was a broth of some kind. The smell was thick and steamy and thoroughly unpleasant.
He drank it down without care, listless, his gut suffused with its pungent warmth, and when he was finished, Inga took the mug, set it aside on the floor. Then she took his arm gently in one of her hands, the other resting behind his shoulder.
"Can you stand?"
Ozai gave an unconvincing nod and let the woman help him slowly to his feet. There was a moment when he thought he might see the broth again. Swaying once, she steadied him and when he had gained enough of his bearings, and was certain the contents of his stomach were going to remain inside, she headed for the door, gesturing for him to follow.
Winter light, harsh and pale, blinded him as he stepped out from the hut, reflecting off of stale, trodden snow. Ozai squinted and shielded his eyes, trailing the young woman through the rustic roads of a village, the hulking, stone-faced man close at his back. Children halted their play, passing wagons slowed, heads turned as crystalline blue eyes followed Ozai watchfully, curiously. Two men rode through the streets, saddled on the backs of giant white caribou, and a very large silver-grey dog that looked alarmingly like a wolf perked its keen ears and barked, sniffing the air as Ozai passed.
Following them on, the knot in his throat and chest began to tighten. Yet another stroke of life's cruel irony, that he would survive and not Katara, not the one who deserved it. The grief was a thousand shards of glass wedged between his soul and body, scraping him raw with every breath. There was nothing he wouldn't give now to hold her one last time. To tell her how sorry he was, how very wrong he was, how much she meant to him.
Instead, Ozai tried to brace himself for the punishing way he would find her. Knowing that nothing could prepare him for seeing her like that again, cold and stiff and empty. All her warmth and light snuffed out like a candle in a draft. It would shatter him all over again. But he owed her this one last dignity.
Strange glyphs were carved above some passing doorframes, an alphabet Ozai could not begin to fathom. They passed a forge, the reddish gleam effacing the snow's white light, then a tailor shop, and a potter. From somewhere nearby he caught a whiff of fresh warm bread. He couldn't savor it and the smell turned his stomach.
At another hut, Inga finally slowed to a stop and grated the door open. Swallowing past the strangling lump in his throat, Ozai followed her through, the other man's heavy footfalls thudding as he stepped in after and closed the door behind them.
An old woman was stooped beside a bed of furs, obscuring the quilt-draped body that lied still behind her. At their entrance, her head turned, pale face battered by weather and age, wrinkled beyond recognition. Inga spoke a few words and the creases around her milky blue eyes deepened as she stood and stepped back.
Ozai's heart tumbled down into his stomach and stole his breath clean away, nearly knocking him back. Katara was slowly sitting up. Her sapphire eyes widened as they locked with his, all the layers of shock and relief he felt mirrored on her face. His feet were rooted in place, and at first, he could scarcely breathe, afraid to blink for fear that he might break the spell and find it a dream.
A fraught wisp of her breath carried his name across the air. Everything else felt away and in a matter of seconds he crossed the room, dropping at her side. And for a moment, all he could do was stare, his rapt gaze sweeping over every inch of her body and face, drinking her in. How was this possible? He had watched her die.
His breath stuttered as he cupped a palm to her face, brushing his thumb over her cheek.
"Katara. I thought…" Ozai blinked and shook his head, trying and failing to find words amid the maelstrom of emotions inside. Her exhale was ragged, her ocean eyes shimmering with the tides of unspoken things between them.
Dragging her into his arms, he embraced her tightly, burying his face in her hair. Ozai felt her tear-choked breath on his neck as Katara clung to him tightly in turn.
"I never want to see you like that again," he rasped into that tangled sea of brown and curled his fingers fiercely against her back, holding her as though he might soak her into his skin. As though if he could hold her just a little longer, every hurt, every bad thing, every ghost that haunted him would melt away.
When he finally drew back enough to meet her gaze, Ozai took her face in both his hands. Katara swallowed thickly and pressed a palm over his when Inga cleared her throat.
The interruption sent a firestorm through him and he inched back, grudgingly, and turned to see the other man step forward. He spoke in that crude tongue again, piercing cloud-blue eyes flitting from Inga to Katara and back.
"Forgive the intrude," Inga said. "The man who speaks is Beruvik, a village elder, second to our chieftain. He has questions, as I am sure you do."
Katara's eyes skated to Ozai and back, the confusion on her face tinged with relief. "No one else seemed to understand a word I was saying. How is it that you can?" she asked, echoing his own question.
As the fog of grief and bewilderment gradually lifted, Ozai began to see the woman now with clearer sight. Hair of deep auburn and warm hazel eyes, Inga stood out like a rose in a bed of thistles. She twisted her knuckle and looked over her shoulder at the fortress of a man standing behind her. Flaxen-haired, ice-dagger eyes, arms like tree trunks crossed over his chest.
For a village elder, Beruvik appeared relatively young, only a few years Ozai's senior if he were to guess. A title earned by wisdom and experience, perhaps, and not age alone.
When Inga looked back at them, her lips parted haltingly, as though deliberating a response, when Beruvik spoke again in his gruff manner, though his tone softened just slightly.
"He gives apology for shooting you. The hunters thought they sensed very strong magic on you. They were mistaken, and when they saw the amulet, they rushed you back to the village to give the antidote."
The amulet? Ozai's eyes were drawn to the engraved silver hanging around Katara's neck. She opened her mouth to speak, just as perplexed as he was, when Beruvik cut in with a strew of harsh syllables, gesturing with a large, callused hand.
Solemnly, Inga knelt and grazed a finger lightly along the charm at Katara's chest.
"This… Beruvik demands to know where you got it."
Katara tilted her head, fingers playing apprehensively over the trinket in question. "It… was given to me. Why?"
The copper-haired woman seemed taken aback, as though the words were offensive, eyes narrowing beneath knit brows. "Given? By who?"
The air in the hut seemed to coil in on itself, tightening. With a quiet note of unease, Katara's eyes slid furtively to Ozai and back. "I don't understand. Is something wrong?"
"This amulet belonged to our great warrior chieftain," Inga replied sternly. "Brondolf Thorald. I ask again, how did you come to have it?"
Baffled, Katara quirked a brow and breathed a nervous huff of a laugh. "Brondolf? But… that's who gave this to me. He said his name was Brondolf Thorald. Shoulder-length blond hair and stubble, pale blue eyes, broad build?"
Inga's face blanched as she drew back a fraction. An instant later, she turned to speak over her shoulder, terse and emphatic. Beruvik's crystalline eyes went wide and steely as he responded in kind, the words carving a deeper line between his brows, hardening his jaw. Ozai and Katara could only watch, the dull pinch of unease growing sharper every second, until the woman finally turned back to them.
"Brondolf was the chieftain of Hrathsted who disappeared mysteriously a hundred years ago. No one knows what fate he met. Our people still mourn his passing to Kyngard."
"Kyngard?" asked Katara tentatively.
"Where spirits go after the body's death. He has appeared to you? He has sent you here to us?"
Bewildered, her mouth opened as if to respond, but a keen, careful glance from Ozai stalled her. The Brondolf they had met had seemed very much alive and well. Certainly no older than fifty. And he hadn't sent them here, to these people exactly, but they both knew better than defy whatever superstitions they believed that were keeping them alive. Carefully, Ozai responded.
"Yes. There's something he needs from here, from the Ice Marsh, specifically. That's where we were headed."
"The Ice Marsh?" Her brows peaked, then furrowed, and she muttered a foreign word under her breath. "What does he seek there?"
Beruvik interrupted once again, a thud of his boot as he took a commanding step toward the door. Dutifully, Inga rose.
"He says you must be brought to our chieftain immediately. She will want to speak with you now that you have woken."
Looking back at Katara, their eyes held there, all of the unsaid words haunting the air between them. Reluctantly, he stood and offered her a hand, and she took it, allowing him to pull her to her feet and leaning into his arms while he steadied her.
As they followed their two escorts outside and down the road, Katara hovered close to him and Ozai kept a solid arm at her back, prepared to support her if needed. She was looking around with a growing sense of curiosity when her eyebrows pinched together slightly.
"We had an animal with us. Fern." She hesitated, looking at Inga, as though fearing the answer. "Is she… okay?"
"Your beast is recovering in the stables. She was not well, but is doing better now. Be assured, all your belongings are there also."
Ozai was not expecting the sprout of relief that bloomed out of the knot that was still his stomach, and only in part for their luggage. Somehow, he found himself missing that oafish beast and made a mental note to check in on Fern at the first opportunity.
They arrived before a larger, three-tiered building. The chieftain's longhouse, Inga explained, the seat of power in Hrathsted and its contiguous villages. Beruvik held the door open as they filed inside.
The halls were wreathed in shadows, pale light trickling in through the windows. A fire blazed in a low, open hearth down the center of the hall and they parted around it, Beruvik and Ozai, Inga and Katara, their footsteps a dull echo on the rammed earth floor.
Up ahead, an imposing younger woman was seated upon a throne of wood and stone, the skulls of some animal mounted below either armrest and wooden antlers atop the posts. On a head chain she wore an engraved iron pendant of a wolf's face, half of her golden hair woven back in elaborate braids, the other half tumbling loose around the fur mantle at her shoulders. She sat with one elbow propped up, chin leaning on her fingers, and surveyed them with an impassive expression.
"That is our chieftain," Inga whispered as they approached, "Mjola the Stone Fist."
The silence seemed to shudder, pressing in around him. While the woman undeniably took up space and had a formidable presence that commanded the room, it was not the chieftain who snared his attention, but the dark hooded figure looming behind her.
"The man at her side is Egill," she went on quietly, "her closest advisor and the village oracle."
A chill slithered down his spine and raised the hairs on his neck. To call that thing a man was a stretch, as the figure bore little resemblance to anything truly human. A ghastly, grotesque spectacle – pocked and pitted skin, thick clots of scars webbed over his mutilated face where his eyes and nose had once been. The breaths scraped in and out of his throat through heinously large lips the color of gangrened flesh. It was difficult to discern whether the color was part of the aesthetic or merely an extension of his disfigurement.
From the oracle's neck hung two necklaces, one shorter that fell to his chest with the bronze likeness of an open eye, and a longer wood-beaded necklace, small antlers hanging from the end. In one blotchy hand he clutched a staff crowned with the horned skull of an animal, feathers and fangs dangling like charms from twine just below.
As they arrived at the foot of the dais, Katara shifted, clasping her wrist tightly and Ozai tried not to stare. Not that the man could see, but regardless, Ozai had the skin-crawling sensation that they were being examined closely and that sight was not a problem for him.
Beruvik spoke and the chieftain listened, stoically at first, her penetrating gaze flicking to them once and back. Amid the savage muddle of words, one familiar name caught like a rock in a mudslide and at the mention of Brondolf, Mjola sat up straighter, the figure behind her dragging in a grating breath.
Her full attention, when it landed on them then, felt like the cold, sharp bite of a spear against bare flesh.
She stood up slowly, her cloak falling open to the elaborate leather armor and fitted pants beneath as she descended the dais. A small pink scar split one eyebrow and another, larger, arced across her pale cheekbone. As she came to stand before them, the woman evenly met Ozai eye to eye, her incisive gaze locking first on him and then, for a breath too long, Katara. After another moment, she looked over her shoulder and spoke a few short words.
The oracle skulked forward. His staff ticked a slow cadence along the floor, like the hall's own sluggish heartbeat. Mjola retreated a step as he shuffled past and began to circle the two of them slowly, entirely too close for comfort.
A nightmare outside of dreams, Egill's gangrene-black mouth hung open, hoarse mucousy breaths rattling like a death knell in his throat. Katara failed to suppress a shudder as he leaned inches from the side of her neck, one scabrous hand curling around her shoulder. He moved at a snail's pace, his hand sliding away to dig long fingernails into the middle of Ozai's back, as though reaching into them, combing for any sign of a threat. A humid, guttural rasp behind the shell of his ear set his nerves on edge, ice shooting through his veins. But Ozai didn't flinch, didn't dare move a muscle.
At last, the monstrosity reappeared in front of them. He turned in the chieftain's direction and spoke in a croaking, cracked voice, like dead leaves scraping in the wind. When he was finished, Mjola squared her fur-cloaked shoulders and addressed them directly, this time in a tongue Ozai recognized.
"The oracle does confirm what you say. It is such privilege for Hrathsted to receive the acolytes of Brondolf Thorald." Her words were like stiff leather, hard and precise, not fully run together with use. "We must join in the temple to give praise to the gods. And tonight, we feast in your honor."
Tonight…
No, they couldn't. They were on borrowed time as it was. Already a day lost and only two more before the concoction would wear off. And there would be no second chances.
Ozai opened his mouth to object, as tactfully as possible. Would it be wise to keep Brondolf waiting? He was expecting them back.
But another part of him knew they were in no condition to set out for the Ice Marsh presently, to face down a slaughterslug, or several, and whatever else may be waiting for them, all without Katara's bending. Such an endeavor was nonsense to even consider before they had fully recovered. And he was not willing to put her life at risk a second time. So, he stayed silent.
Without delay, they were ushered, along with the rest of the village, into a temple at the heart of the town, a tall wooden building with a lofty roof. Inside, the walls were bathed in a soft glow and shifting shadows, the stone altar aflame with burning candles. Silver sculptures of various gods and goddesses leered down from upon twelve pedestals that lined the vaulted halls.
As the assembly gathered, Ozai looked around at the people hemming him in. Hair every shade of yellow and gold, blue eyes piercing and pale as ice picks, faces rugged and windburned. Men, women, children. All of them, giants. Some men a head taller than Ozai, husky, with shoulders like twin battering rams.
One man in particular caught his attention. A grizzled, straw-colored beard grew untamed beneath his angled cheekbones and he wore a full bearskin cloak. Not simply the fur – the entire bear, including four clawed feet and a perfectly intact fanged head as a hood. The man exuded an unsettlingly self-assured energy, fearless, of someone confident in his ability to rip you apart with his bare hands. Sensing eyes on him, his hard gaze veered sideward and scrutinized Ozai coolly as he turned back around.
Upon the altar, in an open bronze censer, smoldered a bundled stick of dried cedar leaves next to a single hawk feather. A large copper bowl sat filled with some sort of thick substance, chalky and darkish red. Beside that rested an ornate dagger, runes engraved along its curved blade and ivory hilt, and on either side, a second smaller bowl, this one empty, and a wooden urn.
The oracle approached the altar, staff clicking, trailed by two women and three men, Beruvik included. The elders, Ozai presumed, though their age range was notably diverse.
As the ritual was beginning, Inga explained to them in a reverent whisper some of what they were seeing. In the large copper bowl was ceremonial face paint. In the urn, ashes of the most recently deceased. The candles, she elaborated, were made from human fat of those who had passed on, a way of honoring their dead by reusing parts of their bodies.
Ozai wasn't entirely sure how he felt about that, and he was still deliberating when Egill began to chant. A savage litany of prayers that sounded more like curses in their foreign tongue, and he couldn't hide the grimace that formed on his face. Never before had Ozai heard fouler sounds than the ones coming from the oracle's throat right now. The grunting chants he made reminded him of a feral dog growling only less tamed.
One of the women passed Egill the censer and hawk feather, and then he hobbled toward them. Cedar smoke was wafted liberally over Katara and then Ozai from head to foot while he chanted. Invoking their ancestors, Inga translated quietly, the heroic dead who walked before them. Asking for wisdom as they gathered united to honor and humbly bless their great warrior chieftain, Brondolf Thorald, and his hallowed servants.
Katara tried to hold in a cough, unsuccessfully, and finally the oracle shuffled back to the altar. Egill's hand fumbled blindly along the stone table before landing on the hilt of the dagger, breaths grating past those repulsive lips. Opening the wooden urn, Beruvik transferred some of the ashes to the smaller bowl and placed it down before him. Then, pressing the blade to his wrist, Egill dragged it down and began spilling a stream of blood onto the ashes.
"What is he doing?" Katara gasped.
"The oracle's blood is sacred," replied Inga. "He has lived for hundreds of years and dwells between life and death, between the gods and the world of men. Joined with the ashes, the deceased's spirit will commune on our behalf with Brondolf, our ancestors, and the gods in Kyngard, and aid you onward."
As he bled into the bowl, he grunted some more prayers, an invocation to the spirits of their world, both seen and unseen. Those of land and seas, of feather and scale, to be welcomed and honored by their blessings tonight, as the spirits so shared their blessings with them.
Another elder stanched the bleeding and bandaged the cut while Beruvik poured the blood and ashes into the large copper bowl of ceremonial paint, stirring it well. Ozai's skin tightened ever so slightly.
No. They weren't going to…
Then again, there stood a man wearing a complete fucking bear a few feet away. Gentility was not something these people seemed to possess, nor did that fact trouble them in the slightest.
As he had suspected, Beruvik picked up the copper bowl and the elders started toward the masses.
Ozai braced himself and exhaled tightly, eyes shut, as Beruvik brought three painted fingertips to his face. Trying to think about anything but the traces of that monstrosity's blood and a stranger's cremated ashes being smeared on his skin. The older man adorned him with three dark red stripes down over one brow down to his cheek like claw marks, and two more horizontal streaks, one above the opposite brow and below his eye. He could feel Katara cringing beside him as she watched, dreading the moment when Beruvik turned his attention to her. Three dots were bestowed under each of her eyes, a stripe down her nose, and two more down her chin.
As the elders worked their way around the assembly, Katara turned toward him in a ruffled glance. A short, errant laugh bubbled up her throat and she stymied it with a cough while Egill continued his prayers, now to their gods. Inga interpreted quietly.
"Hear me, mighty gods and goddesses of our world. We bow before you in supplication as we honor your blessings tonight. Enja, goddess of life and death. Ygtris, goddess of fertility. Aella, goddess of war, victory, and prosperty. Iren, goddess of the dawn and sun, and her lover Uhros, god of the night and moon. Grunhera, goddess of earth and harvest. Fjall, goddess of storms and seasons. Ranos, god of vengeance and justice, and his merciful brother Uthar, god of penance and forgiveness. Tusmir, whimsical god of luck and mischief. Gudthos, god of shadows and dreams. And Fasmjir, great goddess of wisdom. May our voices this night be pleasing to you. May the aim of our rite strike its target true, that our blessing will pass freely between our realms from the lips of your humble seer. Guide our praises to bathe our departed chieftain in honor and lead his servants' steps onward."
This time, when the oracle returned to the altar and shouted his final invocation, the people chanted in reply.
"Huld ërk urmúrj koul vüg!"
With this rite, we honor you.
"Väksuk gëdh jervull ìch söldhrï!"
Blessed be your eternal fire.
:.: :.: :.:
Wherever they went, Inga was their shadow, hovering close. Katara and Ozai were never given so much as a moment alone and were observed watchfully by those they passed. But more and more, where there had been a chill in the foreign gazes, a smile had begun to thaw the corners of their eyes. Katara tossed a grin at a little boy who blushed and hid his apple-cheeked smirk in his mother's dress.
While the elders busied themselves with the evening's preparations, Inga showed them around the village. She pointed out some of their important landmarks and greeted villagers along the way. They met their oldest resident, an ancient man called Vilmar, shriveled and hunched, who looked as if a rambunctious puff of wind might blow him over. Gnarled hands clutched his walking stick, but his eyes still twinkled, framed by a pair of thick white eyebrows, as he bowed his head in greeting.
Up ahead was a forge and just in their line of sight, a woman, working away at a blade. At intervals, she took a break to stroke her hand down the back of a falcon that was perched keenly upon her shoulder.
"That woman is Sigrun," said Inga. "The blade she makes is for you."
"For us? Why?" Katara asked.
"It has been fused with the bones of our fallen berserkers, enchanting it with their spirits. This will give it strength in battle if you should need it."
Sigrun stopped to wipe her forehead and looked up as they passed. Inga raised her hand, palm out, and the woman returned it, a crooked smile etching a dimple in one cheek as she scruffed a finger under the bird's neck and returned to work.
While they walked, Katara took the opportunity to ask a question that had been gnawing at her.
"Your people, you don't like magic. Can I ask why exactly?"
Inga gave a soft snort. "Magic can only bring trouble, destruction, evil. It cannot be controlled and those who do not see this are either reckless fools or hungry for power. Magic is corrupting, it turns men into abominations. Look at Barros. Once the brightest fire, now full of decay and corruption. The Barrosi allow dangerous black magic into their bodies and minds and do not think of balance or taming it, or proper controlling of the rampant forces at their fingertips. No, nothing good can come of it."
"Well, people who have magic are born with the power, right?" Katara replied, choosing her words carefully. "It's not like they can help it if they are, like the kind of hair you have or your eye color. So… has anyone in Myrr ever been born with powers?"
The woman hesitated before answering, "Yes."
"And? What then?"
"Sometimes, the gods demand a blood sacrifice. Other times, they are taken to the sacred grove in the black mountains and left as a peace offering."
Katara blinked, gripped with sudden sickness. "You mean, people are just… murdered or left to die? A child, an innocent—?"
"I would not expect óstjünn—" she began, suddenly fierce, but her voice emerged again milder, "erm, an outsider, to understand our ways, the decrees of the old gods."
"But—"
"Katara." Ozai cut in and drew her gaze. With a shrewd, subtle shake of his head he advised her not to press it, and Katara didn't. She held her tongue, but it left her with a cold, greasy feeling in her stomach.
"Would you like to go see your animal now?" asked Inga, changing the subject in a poor attempt to lighten the mood.
But Katara welcomed it. It would be grounding, a few moments with Fern, something sweet and familiar in this pitiless land. The poor girl must be so scared and confused, all alone, wondering if she had been abandoned.
They followed Inga to the stables. But when they arrived, the sight was not at all what she had expected. Fern had cozied up to two of the giant caribou there, whickering and passing funny little sounds back and forth as they arched their necks over the dividing wall. Inga smiled.
"You can see that she has made herself quite comfortable."
Her ears perked at the sound of their voices. When Fern saw the two of them, she skipped to the stable gate in a few jubilant prances. The animal trilled and butted her great head against Ozai's shoulder, then under Katara's hand, nudging affectionately. Leaning against the bristly junction of Fern's neck and shoulder, Katara crooned past the lump in her throat.
"I know, we were scared too. I'm so glad you're okay, girl."
Ozai stroked a hand down the soft length of her snout, the other against the sorrel brawn of her jowls.
"Stupid animal," he hummed, a side of his mouth curling softly.
The last bit of sun was flaring in the rugged horizon when they were led up a hill toward a huge longhouse overlooking the village. The din of raucous voices and the mouthwatering scent of hot, fresh food reached them well before they arrived.
Inside, torches blazed and a fire roared in an ample hearth, sending warmth and light far out into the room. Katara shivered as Inga led them forward. The mounted heads of majestic beasts, both fanged and horned, regarded them from on high, flickers of red catching in their glassy eyes.
A full spit-roasted boar was turning over a cookfire, its skin sizzling and fragrant. Upon an ample buffet table were trays heaped with food. Freshly baked bread, boiled frost scorpion, braised shank of stag, stuffed hare. Some of the wolf dogs prowled about, sniffing the air, only to be run off by a woman with a broom when they came too close. There was a cauldron of piping hot soup, and plentiful vats of libations.
People were standing and talking around a dozen long trestle tables. At their entrance they turned and grew quiet as the chieftain stepped to the front of the crowd, her dark shadow, Egill, close behind. Mjola gave a blessing for the food and drink, the hall resounding with toasts to their great warrior chieftain, Brondolf, and to Katara and Ozai, their exalted guests whom they honored tonight. The two of them shared a secret, disbelieving look as the feasting commenced with a cheer.
While they waited in line for food, Katara spotted the old, wrinkled woman who had tended to her now helping to serve up heaping portions on wooden plates as people passed. She had the look of a woman who had always been old, but not the kind to be pitied with their creaky bones or feeble limbs. Katara was certain this woman could still run an army kitchen if given half a chance.
She ladled some sort of soup into bowls, white wisps etching themselves in the cold air, and Katara's stomach rumbled. She got a bowl of soup and a plate with a sampling of everything, and found a seat at a table between Ozai and Inga.
Breathing deep of the fragrant steam, Katara brought the spoon to her mouth and sipped a bite. It was a briny, pungent broth with pale islands of boiled trout and krill. In a way, it tasted like home.
"I almost forgot what real, hot food tastes like," she sighed, relishing in its savory warmth.
Ozai did not say much, but he seemed to be enjoying it all the same. Following Inga's example, they broke off a chunk of bread and dipped it into the broth.
A man stopped by and handed them each a smoothed, hollowed-out horn filled with a pale gold beverage. Mead, Inga called it. Katara took a sip. It was bubbly, spiced and mildly sweet like honey, with a lingering bitter aftertaste that wasn't entirely unpleasant. She drank some more and placed it in the holder on the table.
"You never explained how it is that you can speak with us," Katara prompted as she scarfed down another bite of brothy bread.
Taking a drink, Inga nodded as she swallowed and put the horn down. In the firelight, her hair reminded Katara of the burnished sunsets over the seas at Ember Island. It was warm and plaited, tumbling over her shoulders like rusty water.
"When I was a very little girl," she began, dabbing her mouth, "no more than five years, my father was accused of some very bad crimes. It was said he conspired with others to assassinate the duke and duchess of Arclais."
"It was said. Do you think he was guilty?"
"No, and he denied it. But our family was exiled to Myrr, and we were not well-equipped for life in the harsh cold. One by one, they died and I was wandering the wastes alone, hours from death, when Beruvik found me on a hunt. He took pity and brought me back here, to Hrathsted, raised me like a daughter. I learned their language and do not often speak my mother tongue anymore except to teach our chieftain."
Katara caught sight of Beruvik then with a doe-eyed little girl, seven, maybe eight years old, hugging his side and scrunching her face at an older boy who Katara guessed to be about twelve or thirteen, picking on her playfully. He was in that awkward phase of trading in some of his boyish features for that of a budding young man. Lanky. All knees and elbows.
They were endearing.
"Are those Beruvik's kids?"
Inga nodded with a sparkle in her brown-green eyes. "The boy is called Leif, a naughty child, full of mischief, but fearless and protective of his sister, Halle. She is shy and quiet, but observant."
The children's hair, like the rest of these people, was stunning. The color of wheat fields in the glow of autumn.
"Do they think of you as an older sister, then?"
"In some ways, yes. In others, a caretaker."
Looking around, Katara asked, "Where is their mother?"
A pause, and Inga's voice went softer.
"Sunniva passed over while giving life to Halle."
"Oh." Katara felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her. "I'm sorry…"
Inga gave an appreciative nod. "She was a kind woman, a mother to me in many ways. Beruvik has never taken another wife."
Like a raincloud passing through, the mood was sufficiently dampened, but a firework of laughter, deep and hearty, went off nearby and turned their heads.
An absolutely stacked man in a bear cloak was playing some sort of board game with three others while eating, reaching over and pretending to throttle one of them, shoving his head before sitting back again.
"Who's that man, there?" Katara asked, lifting a brow.
Inga followed her line of sight.
"Oh." The pink that rose to her cheeks was hard to miss. "His name is Otrygg. Or, as some call him, Otrygg the Flayer."
"What's with the bear?"
"That beast came into our village one day, attacking. Otrygg fought it off to save his beloved dog and killed it with only his bare hands and teeth. It is what earned him the name Flayer."
Katara leaned closer with a slack expression, as though she hadn't quite heard. "He… killed that bear with only his hands?"
"And teeth," Ozai muttered, "mustn't forget that."
She watched as the men bantered and took turns moving their figurines on the board. Sudden as a split of thunder, Otrygg went from laughing one second to erupting in a rage, the board and its pieces flying, and without warning, a fight broke out.
The people around whooped and cheered, entirely unbothered about whether they might kill each other. Fists flew and curses lashed, but almost as quickly the two men shoved apart. Otrygg wiped away the red trickling from his nose, and high on the other man's cheekbone was a spreading bruise where a knuckle had connected. But they returned to clasp each other's forearms in amends like it never happened.
With a nervous chuckle, Katara looked back at Inga who only shrugged.
"It is a regular game of Tafl with Otrygg."
While they finished eating, one of the dogs shambled up to them and sniffed the floor at Ozai's feet, snuffling up his leg to nudge his elbow imploringly with a long silver snout. Its bushy tail started wagging, upright ears perked and hopeful. There was such a noble intelligence in its liquid black eyes that Katara half expected it to simply ask politely.
Ozai gave a soft huff and took the rest of his scraps, holding them out. The dog lapped them up with gusto, sniffing his palm for more and Ozai scruffed it behind the ear, then down its bristly neck, earning him an attempted lick to the face before it lumbered off.
From the flit in the corner of his eye, she knew he felt her staring, and Katara's feeble efforts to hide her pleasure were in vain. He half turned to her in a frown, with a tone that belied his question. "What?"
"Nothing," she sang innocently, the smile spreading across her face as she looked away.
Plates and bowls were emptied, stomachs and spirits full, and Katara was prepared to be led back down to the village and wrap up the evening when a resonant beat filled the air.
At the end of the longhouse, two men and a woman pounded on skin-headed hand drums mapped with strange designs, and soon other instruments joined. Wooden pan flutes, horn pipes, lyres. The most peculiar music Katara had ever heard, but entrancing in its own way. Like waves filling holes in beach sand, the lively sound seemed to rush in and around every person in the room.
In the beating of a heart, the atmosphere was transformed into boisterous revelry with rowdy singing and sagas, stories and poems about adventurers of old. At a particularly rousing verse, their hearty voices would soar, drinking horns and tankards clanking together. Katara may not have understood a word of it, but their spirit was contagious and before long she found herself swept up in the ambiance.
Little could she have guessed that the actual feasting part of the feast was only a small prelude to a night of celebration. The mob reached a hell-raising crescendo, several horns of mead thrown into the air, and like an errant spark taking light in a dry haybarn, the evening ignited into a series of raucous drinking games and tournaments.
First up was what they called strong-arming, to see who could pin their opponent's arm down on the table first. The player's elbow had to remain on the table at all times and the aid of one's opposite hand was forbidden. The loser had to drink, then got to nominate the next challenger, and anyone caught cheating had to drink twice.
"It is not only a battle of strength," Inga was explaining. "It is also about technique, how you place your body, and about reading your opponent, their grip, feeling what you think they will try to do to win."
A young man named Sten came forward along with a woman of similar age, Arvid. A pair of cousins built like oak trees. They sat down opposite each other at a small table, all cocky grins and swagger, each placing one arm down, bent at the elbow, and clasping each other's hand.
At the peal of the gong, their grip clamped tight, jaws clenching, and the longhouse erupted, a thunder of fists pounding a steady beat on the table, the roar of foreign taunts and insults.
Their hands trembled, two sets of teeth gritting in red faces, a seemingly even match. But Arvid curved her hand and angled her shoulder, slowly bending Sten's wrist forward to weaken his grip. He grunted and struggled but at last his arm hit the table.
Sten shoved a finger into her forehead as she gloated and then turned around, calling on Beruvik to take his place.
It was a decidedly shorter round, though the girl did not go down without a fight. In good humor, Arvid ruffled the blond mop belonging to Beruvik's son and made a show of kicking him toward the table. Leif attempted, unsuccessfully, to mask his boyish delight with bravado and sat down across from his father, shaking his gangly arms out.
The gong gave the signal. Beruvik had the decency to feign a struggle for a bit before pinning his son's arm down, giving his shoulder a fatherly squeeze. Leif took it in stride, scanning the crowd and settling on their chieftain with a mischievous grin.
There was a glint in Mjola's eyes, like a shark at the scent of blood, as she stood and seated herself before the burly elder, clasping his hand. The match lasted several minutes, groans hissing through their teeth, necks taut and corded. In the final trembling seconds, Beruvik started gaining, but Mjola made a surprise move of curling her palm inward, stealing his control, and slammed his arm down on the table. She sat back with a rush of breath.
Triumph curled on her lips, as Beruvik shrugged and stood up, saying something that roused a laugh from the crowd.
"He says he let her win," Inga chuckled.
Looking around, his eyes seemed to land on Ozai and he gave a nod.
Heads turned and Ozai stiffened. Katara looked at him.
Leaning over, Inga whispered, "He has chosen you, go on."
"No," he protested.
She stared, as if he had uttered a foreign word. "…What do you mean, no?"
"It means that I'd really rather not."
At Beruvik's growing confusion, Inga spoke in their tongue, and a hush spread through the crowd like a fog, until it was so quiet one could have heard a needle drop. The man's gaze grew sharp as an arrowhead as he stepped toward them and addressed Ozai directly in a tone that left little to doubt.
"You will play, he says."
Katara snorted and pressed her lips together, avoiding the look he slid her from the corner of his eye. The finality of the words rang just shy of a warning and Ozai sighed, stood up in surrender, and made his way over to the table. The room was still quiet, though the air felt charged as he sat down across from Mjola.
A current seemed to pass between their incisive gazes as he leaned into position, elbow bent, torso steadied against the table's edge. She fitted her hand to his and Ozai clasped it, loosely at first, then, at the toll of the gong, vise-tight.
And the din of the games roared back to life.
Eyes ablaze, the mob cheered and hollered as both jaws clenched tight, biceps bulging beneath the layers of their sleeves. Katara watched the struggle with delight. The woman seemed almost to match him for strength, but Ozai had the edge when it came to shoulder girth. He was careful to keep his arm close to his body and his body close to the table. And arduously, he succeeded in dragging Mjola toward him bit by bit, weakening her leverage and gaining an angle to force her shuddering arm down, down. Until, finally, her wrist was pinned beneath his own on the table.
The people went wild, a mixed rave of emotions resounding through the longhouse, fists thundering on tables. Mjola reclaimed her arm from under his, her icicle gaze fixed long and hard on Ozai's, and he held it, as though waiting for something to unfold. Lifting her chin, the chieftain simply rose imposingly and turned, a subtle curl working onto her lips as she cheekily glanced Katara's way and nodded.
Katara sat up straighter with a blink.
"Wh– Me? Come on, that's a set up for failure, there's no way I can beat him."
She looked at Ozai who cocked his head at her with a smirk, and she could almost hear him goading her to come forward. What's the matter? Afraid?
"You have been chosen," Inga said, the amusement tangible in her voice.
Shaking her head, Katara got up and pursed her lips as she approached to stifle the awkward laugh rising in her throat. She slid into the seat, a nervous tingling on her skin at finding herself the center of attention.
Across the table, their eyes locked. The look she found there made her heart skip, flickering gold, like shards of amber catching the sun. Streaks of dark red carved the handsome lines of his face into something stunning and strange. Exotic.
As their hands embraced and shifted into place, his thumb swept softly over the arch of one knuckle and sent a track of goosebumps up her arm. She resolved not to think too hard about it, took a breath to steady herself and, once again, the gong pealed.
His force nearly knocked her out of the chair and she pushed back, arm trembling and gritting her teeth. But the ease of his jawline and that smug expression told her that he wasn't even close to using his full strength yet.
Knowing it was a losing battle either way, Katara wrapped her free hand over his to get an edge, the onlookers hissing and booing as she pulled with all her might. The edge only lasted a few seconds before Ozai easily pinned both of hers down and she slumped over in defeat, laughing, hair spilling across the table as she dropped her forehead onto his arm.
Ozai leaned down and simpered in a low tone. "Cheaters never prosper."
The silky timbre filled her with a molten heat. Katara sat up, her voice drowned by the clamor. "You're lucky I don't have my bending, or you'd be singing a different tune," she teased back, becoming painfully aware of their hands still entwined.
"You drink double for cheating."
"Well, you'll be drinking like a loser in a minute, cause I'm gonna see you go down." Reluctantly, she slid her hand from his and stood, turning to make eye contact with the bear man. "Otrygg."
Ozai sat back and muttered an amused curse under his breath.
Walking back to her seat, Otrygg tossed her a nod as he passed and took his place with cool bravado. The degree of intensity that seethed from that table should have been illegal as the men gripped their hands together. And at the gong's command, the skirmish began.
For a solid ten seconds their muscles bulged and rippled, trembling in what seemed like a total deadlock.
Twenty seconds.
Labored breathing, neck muscles straining. The two men took to their feet to gain leverage, chairs clattering to the ground behind them, and the crowd went louder. Aligning his shoulder with the table's edge, Otrygg shifted his position suddenly and leaned to the left, wrenching down with a growl. It forced Ozai's upper body forward, weakened his purchase. He braced his knee and hip against the table to combat the shift and pulled back, face contorting in a fierce grimace.
Thirty seconds.
With one final jerk, Otrygg tilted Ozai's wrist, impairing his grip, and three trembling seconds later, the back of Ozai's hand was pinned down.
The longhouse erupted with whistles and shouts. Ozai sagged against the table and Otrygg wiped the gleam of sweat from his forehead. As the two caught their breath, he sauntered over with a patronizing grin and rubbed the back of Ozai's shoulder. Ozai straightened quickly, shoving him off, though the faint glint in his eyes betrayed any resentment he might have had. Katara suspected he likely held a measure of respect for Otrygg, despite the sting of defeat.
Before he could step away, the bear man blocked his path and made a playful gesture, as though inviting him for a rematch. Ozai shoved him off again, pointing to another boulder of a man named Kjell, and came back to sit at her side.
Grudgingly, he met her teasing smirk askance as she passed him his horn of mead with far too much satisfaction.
"Drink up," she beamed.
The strong-arming games ended with another explosive brawl between two men that, once again, fizzled out just as quickly. More stories and ballads followed, some with live reenactments. People roared with laughter. There was drunken singing and dancing, drinking horns and tankards clanking, fists pounding on the tables. The energy was electric and Katara felt lit up with it. For all their austerity, these people certainly knew how to have a good time.
Sneaking a glance at Ozai, she watched him observe the buffoonery with a peculiar look spreading over his face, and almost fell over.
He was smiling. The effect of it was more intoxicating than all the mead. There was something different about him tonight from the man who would never have disarmed himself enough to enjoy revelries with strangers, or listened to exotic sagas without disdain. Who would never have hand-fed his scraps to a wolf-dog while scratching its head, or smiled like he might actually mean it. Ozai's smiles had been sour things, as though they had been steeped in vinegar, only serving to act as garnish to his artfully plated expressions. This smile was loose and seemed born of contentment.
Katara let him have the moment privately, left him to his dignity, but her own smile brightened and she felt a heady rush of warmth that had little to do with the alcohol.
A table was cleared for another tournament, a rapid-fire game they called War. The teams were divided into two, men against women, and Katara stood on one side of the table, Ozai on the other. At either end was a pyramid of six tankards full of mead. Upon each turn, the player would first take a drink from their own cup and then try to bounce a small wooden ball into one of their enemy's tankards. If they succeeded, their opponent would have to drink the full contents of that tankard and remove it from the table. The first team to shoot the ball into all six cups and thoroughly slosh their enemy was the winner.
It was a close game. They were down to one tankard each when it came to Ozai's turn, competing against a woman named Thyra. Her shot was so close but pinged just off the rim, and Ozai readied himself with a drink, pulling his shoulders back, rolling the ball between his fingers. With a hawk's-keen gaze, he focused on his enemy's remaining cup while the women heckled and booed, took a deep breath for control, and finally bounced the ball off the table.
It landed in the mead with a splash, the winning shot, and the eruption on both sides was volcanic. The men leapt in victory, exchanging punches to shoulders and brawny chest bumps. Otrygg ran at Ozai like a wild animal and sneak-attacked from the side with a forceful man-hug, knocking him back a few steps, and Beruvik came up alongside and slapped him on the back.
Contrary to everything Katara might have believed possible before this night, Ozai laughed. Not the kind of dry, spiteful laugh she was accustomed to, of a man saddled with a lifetime of pain and hatred, but a rich, sincere laugh of real pleasure. Silver as a fountain down its rocks, the charm of it stealing her breath away, her heart swelling in her chest.
:.: :.: :.:
The night only seemed to get wilder as it wore on. Ozai and Katara managed to stay sober enough, though no one else seemed to notice between the excitement and the mead. People were stumbling over one another, slurring, struggling to keep their balance. Ozai could only compare their singing now, if one could call it that, to the sound of a heavily loaded cart full of dying swans rolling down a hillside.
The two of them had joined a smaller group who'd broken off to play a wooden board game called Tafl, the same one they had seen Otrygg playing earlier. It was four on four, defenders against attackers, with Katara and Ozai sharing a team this time. The object was for one side to capture the king from the other.
It was Katara's turn and while she held the ivory figurine, considering her next move, Ozai looked around the room.
The chieftain had declared this night a feast in their honor, but to merely call it a feast was like calling the Fire Nation palace a house. The energy of it all somehow brought to mind Lu Da and Ozai couldn't help thinking how much the man would enjoy this if he were here. Struck suddenly at just how much he wished he could be, how much he missed that rakish, stout-hearted rogue and his colorful vernacular.
At the sound of good-natured taunts and laughter, his attention was drawn back to the table, Katara purposefully taking her time deliberating. Ozai couldn't resist taking advantage of her distraction to admire her, tracing her profile limned in torchlight, the delicate slope of her nose down to her lips. Filled with the desire to reach out, slide his hand along her jaw, and turn her head toward him so he could kiss her. Instead, committing himself to absorbing this moment, how beautiful she was, how comfortable he felt being with her like this.
How close he had come to losing her forever.
At last, she moved her piece to a roar of displeasure, turning in a stray glance to find him staring. For just the span of a breath, their gazes met, and the air seemed to pulse with something he couldn't fully describe. There was such genuine affection in her eyes, such profound depth of emotion. And as the jeering continued and she turned her head back in a laugh, Katara grazed her hand along his in a delicate touch, her fingers slipping through the valleys between his knuckles. An altogether different feeling was rising in his chest, a sort of humming, like a mountain stream at the thaw of spring.
Ozai had sat upon a throne walled by fire. He had held no lack of lovers in his arms, slept in a bed heaped with lavish spreads embroidered with gold. He had known unstoppable power. But it was not until this moment that he thought he had ever been warm.
Slowly, the night began to unwind as more and more people passed out or stumbled their way home. Though the game was enjoyable, the hour was beginning to catch up with them and they dropped out for the next round, nursing their drinks as they strolled toward a quieter wall of the longhouse. The torches had begun to grow dim, suffusing the room in a soft glow. Ozai spotted Inga tucked into a far corner with Otrygg, blushing coyly as he leaned in and ran a knuckle along her cheek.
At length, they came to sit down along the earthen floor, leaning back against the wall. The music had died and for a while they watched the merriments fade quietly. It was their first moment alone since they had woken up alive, and as the silence filtered in between them, he suddenly found all the words he had longed to say lodged in his throat.
It was Katara who spoke first, her voice soft as a summer night, husky with warmth, or mead.
"Back in that house earlier, before we were interrupted…" she began, slow and cautious, "what were you going to say? I've never seen you look that way before, and you hugged me so tight—" Her eyes flicked down hesitantly before returning again, ripples of golden light glinting off the mead. "But you still haven't said a word about it. I know there hasn't been much time, but all night, it seems whenever you look at me, it's only for a few seconds and then you look away, and I just don't understand. Why?"
The question caught him unprepared with a dart through his stomach. He was still sifting through all the mire of words and feelings, and reflexively, he felt the old habit stir, an easy lie perching itself on his tongue as he sought to buy time. But instead, Ozai choked it back with a heavy sigh, knowing she deserved better from him, and held the first grain of truth on his tongue.
"Because… it's become impossible for me to look at you, to be around you, and not…"
The rest of it snagged in his throat. The night's withering murmurs drifted around them as she waited, still and silent as a held breath.
"Not what?" pressed Katara, hushed.
…fall in love with you.
The ache in his chest was unbearable. Agni, he wanted to tell her… what? That she was beautiful, and beguiling, and better than anything he deserved. That she was strong, and disarmingly real, with more passion for life in a single breath than he had in his entire being. That he was twisted, broken, wrong… But perhaps not so broken that he couldn't pull himself together into some measure of a man for her. That without meaning to, he had begun to rely on her, to look for her, to want her near…
But he didn't know how to do this. And every time their eyes had touched, every time a fleeting moment had arrived and he'd tried to open his mouth to speak it, the moment had been disrupted or the words jumbled up on his tongue and felt all wrong. He needed to tell her. But, for now, he drew them back into his aching chest like an expelled breath, and let them steep a little longer.
Katara exhaled the disappointment and looked down at her mead, running a fingertip along the smooth bone rim of the drinking horn. The deep hurt on her face made his stomach sink, his self-loathing tear through him, and he opened his mouth again in a harried attempt to try—
"I am sorry to intrude," a familiar voice cut in, and they looked up to see Inga standing there, twisting a knuckle awkwardly. Otrygg was now on the other end of the room, in what looked to be stern conversation with Beruvik. "I hope you have found the night pleasing, but as things begin to settle down, I must ask you now. Are you married?"
Katara's eyes pinged off Ozai's and back up in the same breath. Heat rose on his skin, the flush on her cheeks deepening, and with a sheepish little huff, she responded, "No…"
Inga must have read their confusion because she elaborated softly with a knowing smirk.
"I have seen the way you have been looking at each other all night. But you must know it is forbidden for those who have not consecrated themselves to the gods and been washed pure by the eternal fire to have relations outside of vows. I must ask that you take lodging in separate households for the night."
So that was it. Aside from being strangers in this hostile land, it was beginning to make sense now why they had not been let out of her sights. Ozai was tempted to say, Is that all? and offer to consecrate himself to their gods right there, and though he refrained, a part of him could not help itself.
"I imagine, then, you have a steady stream of suddenly very religious teenagers lining up at the altar."
Katara choked on breath, the deep blush on her cheeks mirrored on Inga's face.
Her expression hardened. "To dedicate yourself to the gods is not something taken lightly. The decision is denied before one's sixteenth summer, adulthood. To defy this command is to be sullied in the gods' eyes and invite wrath upon you and our village. The ritual is not done in a single night, but lasts days and ends with a ceremony. Devotion must be proven, you must offer them a gift. Something precious to you. And in returning, you may ask of them one thing. But you must always be careful what you ask for."
"Why?" asked Katara.
"The gods are great, but some are fickle and others, tricksters. The ones who answer are not always the ones you call on. Whatever you ask, you must be willing to pay the price."
"Can't we just stay together?" Ozai pressed. "To sleep? We've not had more than a few minutes alone."
"I'm afraid not."
"Of course we will respect your customs," Katara agreed, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. "We're grateful for your hospitality."
Inga nodded approvingly. "You may lodge with me, and Ozai with either Beruvik or Otrygg."
The woman looked to him, awaiting an answer. He wouldn't have believed it, but Ozai could admit that Otrygg had grown on him a little, for all that he knew him. But the man was a wild card. Jaunty one moment and a feral beast the next, and no less loud, and Ozai knew they needed all the quiet rest they could get before leaving in the morning. So, he agreed on Beruvik and told her as much.
As though summoned, the elder appeared shortly at Inga's side, two half-asleep children in tow. She must have informed him of the arrangement, for he nodded and motioned for the door. Climbing to their feet, there was a brief second when Katara looked at him, a haunted sea of emotion churning in her eyes. But there was no goodnight. No words at all as she turned away and followed Inga out of sight.
Back in Beruvik's house, the coals burned low in the hearth, casting long somnolent shadows across the floor. The walls creaked with every sighing moan of wind and Ozai rested down upon his bed of furs, grateful for the night of warm shelter.
On the opposite side of the room, the flinty man ruffled Leif's shock of blond hair and drew him close, then knelt and hooked his other arm around Halle who scrunched up her face in a silly grimace as he planted a bearded kiss to her cheek. There was a fragile quality to Beruvik's eyes then, something more like glass than ice, and when he spoke to his children, his tone was gentle, warm, undeniably human.
Ozai felt a pang in his chest, something clawing within him. Remembering his own father's hands, his every touch charged with cruelty and malice. His mother's blind eye, his brother's eclipsing eminence. All the wounds he carried with him burned on his own son's face, stamped in his daughter's fear of failing him, her fear of him. In Ursa's pain and sorrow, her heartache rotted to scorn.
The children wrapped their arms around their father's neck, their voices brimming with affection, and Beruvik's weathered face creased warmly. He drew back and patted their cheeks, nodding them toward their beds, but at their earnest pleas and protests, he appeared to relent and retrieved a tattered book from the floor behind him. They nestled up against his sides as he started to read.
Acutely aware of his own otherness, Ozai couldn't help feeling like he was intruding on something private so he rolled over, watching the dying glow of firelight and shadows dance and shift along the wall. And for an instant, quieted by the lull of nighttime voices, he let his guard down, let the thoughts circling the edge of his mind come into focus.
Katara had once said that all her anger had masqueraded as grief. That the anger he fostered was grief that had never been given a place to go. He had mocked her then, though with little conviction. And as those words stewed in his head anew, a realization began to take hold of him like a fever. It should have been an obvious thing, not entirely profound, but somehow Ozai had failed to see his own blind spot. What Katara had seen so clearly.
Anger was a master of disguise, but grief, too, knew well how to dress itself up as anger.
Or fear.
Love was no more than a superstition, he had told himself.
A prayer whispered to keep the bitter truth of loneliness at bay.
But deep down, he had simply been afraid. Of shedding his armor and baring himself to someone again, of being vulnerable. It felt unnatural, to trust someone when they had nothing to gain from him. To trust the people closest to him not to hurt him – or trust himself not to hurt them.
But Katara had seen through all of his walls, past the dictator and the disgrace, past the decades of harbored malevolence and contempt, to the man beneath. She had seen the sorrow in his anger, the guardedness in his grief. And had not turned away.
An emotion was swelling in his throat, and it took him a moment to recognize what it was. For so long, he had been angry and wounded and vengeful, festering with unsigned grief, carved with a lifetime of hatred and regrets like a monolith.
But that was only a shape he had been poured into. He did not have to keep it.
It was a weight, crushing on his shoulders. It was a hammer, shattering him like glass. He felt himself sinking in his own undertow, fragments drifting down into the dark, looking for something to cling to, something familiar. He reached toward vengeance and found it empty. He reached toward anger and found it hollow.
And there, on the hard bed of furs, his darkest night still looming over him like a storm cloud, Ozai finally saw it. A tiny spark, flickering in the black void. He reached for it like he was freezing, like he was drowning. A strange shape, altogether unfamiliar – not the rage that had driven him or the vengeance that had sustained him. It was a tiny thing, almost impossible to grasp. A simple thing, almost impossible to weigh the breadth of.
Truth.
Like a sudden nakedness, he felt gripped by the urge to throw on his familiar defenses. For the first time, there was nothing standing between him and the foe he had never really faced. An enemy he had never truly conquered.
And confronting his fear now in as long a time as he could remember, Ozai finally saw it for what it was.
Fear was a prison. Fear was a poison. Fear was the bride of anger, the mother of regret, the butcher of hope. The grim eternity between forward and backward.
Fear was can't.
Fear was won't.
But fear was not ever a choice.
To never fear was to never dream. Never live. Never love. To never fear the dark was to never feel the warmth of dawn on your face. To never fear loneliness was to never know the joy of beauty in your arms.
Part of having something was the fear of losing it.
Part of creating something was the fear of breaking it.
Part of a beginning was the fear of an ending.
To fear was only human, it was not a choice you were given.
But letting it rule him was.
:.: :.: :.:
The air smelled like rain. Morning had brought with it a sky of granite grey. Though the wintry chill persisted, the temperature had risen just enough to turn the edges of the stale snow to slush.
It squelched beneath their boots as Katara was led by Inga to the center of the village where the chieftain and the elders were waiting, along with some of the villagers. Ozai was already there, standing next to Beruvik. A heaviness settled in her stomach and as he turned his head, she looked away and came to stop before the gathering. A stable boy was arriving with Fern and Katara took the reins from him gratefully. The animal whickered and nudged her with affection, and she stroked her hand along her velvety snout.
The oracle gave a short prayer for their journey and at Mjola's nod, Sigrun stepped forward, holding out the newly hewn blade. Beautiful runs had been carved along the hilt and the length of the sheath. The falcon on her shoulder ruffled its feathers as she handed it to Ozai. Though his quiet thanks was foreign to her, she understood and nodded in return.
Goodbyes were short but no less warm. Beruvik held out an arm and Ozai clasped it in turn, the Myrran gesture of familial closeness and respect. He received the same farewell from Otrygg, only the man dragged him into a one-arm shoulder hug with a firm slap on the back.
Little Halle half hid behind Inga, smiling shyly up at Katara as the woman embraced her tightly. "The gods be with you," she whispered.
As they took the road up the hill, past the longhouse, to the line of naked trees at the village edge, she glanced over her shoulder. The last of the shrinking shapes slipped out of view, and under the steady blanket of grey, Katara felt the first cold drops begin to fall.
The rain rushed. Steady and frigid, it murmured through the bare branches above, dripped from the tresses slicked to her forehead, down her nose. How strange it felt, unnatural, to be surrounded by her element, all its familiarity and comfort, but unable to sense it at all. To reach for it, to feel her chi struggle to stir inside her to no avail, cut off from it completely like a phantom limb. She wondered with a pang if this was what Ozai felt all the time.
They were passing between thickets, weaving through a labyrinth of the dark, wet trees. His expression was pensive, deep in thought. But it seemed whatever it was, she would never know, guarded heavily in a locked box until his final breath.
Loving someone who hated himself was its own kind of torture. She did not know what to make of his silence, and questions chased themselves around in her head until she was half-crazy with frustration. She had never seen such relief on his face as when he saw her in that hut, never felt such fierceness as when he'd dragged her into his arms. But even after all that, still nothing but more ambivalent silence.
She shook her head and stared down at the fractured snow, a blur of icy slush and detritus passing underfoot. Shame on her for being fooled again. How many times would she have to learn? How could she possibly have let her hopes rise again, expecting anything to change?
Like a hand reaching down, his voice pulled her from the sea of her thoughts and briefly, she clung onto the floating remains of hope.
"Taking down the slaughterslug is going to be a challenge without your bending. You'll have the sword, but you're not accustomed to this kind of combat and there's no telling what these creatures will do." He half spoke over his shoulder but didn't fully turn. "I want you to stay back so you don't get hurt."
She felt herself sink. That was it? There was nothing more he wanted to say to her?
So you don't get hurt.
With a sullen huff, she looked away, her voice dull as the leaden sky. "Sure. Like you care."
Ozai stopped so abruptly, Katara took two more steps before she realized it.
"What." The word snapped like a twig. It wasn't a question.
She tipped her chin up, challenging. "Is that not the truth? You can't care about me. That's what you said, and I was an idiot to think that maybe you hadn't really meant it."
For a moment he stood there, rain streaming from his hood, from his long black hair, breaths fogging. Looking at her in a way she'd never seen before, as though he could burn a hole through her with his eyes. His fists clenched once, the tautness of his muscles showing through the drenched layers of his cloak.
And then, intense as a flame, Ozai stalked toward her.
Katara's stomach did a hard flip-flop. On instinct she clambered back from him, colliding with a wide-trunked tree, and in three powerful strides he was upon her, planting his hands hard on either side, trapping her there.
"Don't," he hissed through his teeth, molten amber eyes raking over her face. "You have no idea what it did to me, Katara, thinking I'd lost you in the snow."
"Of course not, how would I know what it did to you?" she scoffed. "You've had all morning and still, you haven't said a single word—"
"I wanted to, I'm trying—"
"This isn't trying."
"Stop, I just—"
"No."
Ozai's nostrils flared but Katara held her ground, searching his eyes, his face, until her anger began to cool to sorrow in her chest. The words she spoke next came out in a wounded whisper.
"What are you so afraid of?"
He expelled an almost pained exhale and shook his head, breathing ghosts into the cold, damp air between them. His shoulders sagged as he tipped his face toward the ground, and finally, answered in a voice like smoke.
"You make me feel…" His throat dipped in a tight swallow, brows knitted deep and dark. A plume of steam came on a ragged breath. "You make me feel," he began again, quiet but fierce, his gaze returning to hers with an almost savage intensity. "I never wanted to feel this way, not ever again. But, dammit, Katara, you tore through all my defenses and capsized me like the perfect storm you are, and I've failed miserably."
Her throat and eyes were stinging, her heart drumming in fits against her ribcage. Ozai was so close she could feel his heat radiating, making her cold skin prickle, her belly reeling with the jolts of a thousand little sparks. She dug her fingertips into the damp furrowed tree trunk, hearing his hands curl against the bark.
"You mean more to me than I ever knew anyone could. You're in my bones and my blood and my heart now," he rasped. "It would rend me apart to be without you." The deep yearning in his voice sent the wind rushing from her lungs. "Whatever comes, however this might end, I want you… I'm asking you to stay with me, now and always. If you'll still have me."
With misty eyes, she held his gaze and tried to speak, but scarcely managed to choke out, "Only if you're sure."
Katara wanted him in a way that almost defied words, a way she'd never known could exist. But she didn't think her heart could handle the pain a second time.
"I've never been more sure of anything in my life than I am of this." Ozai cupped a palm to her cheek, his thumb sweeping away the beads of rain in its path. "I love you, Katara."
The words on his tongue were like a warm, velvet caress. A sob choked out as she smiled, a tear disappearing into the streams of rain on her cheek.
His smoldering gaze swept over her face, her hair, her neck, catching on her lips. A rapturous flood of longing engulfed her, made her blood throb wild, her breasts rise with a sudden intake of breath. The moment stretched and Katara waited, half fearing that he might not kiss her, that he might have second thoughts. Just shut down and go cold forever, never to speak of this again. But then her heart leapt as he leaned in and, at last, his parted lips were on hers, cool and slick and wet in the rain.
The whole world melted away. She felt the familiar sinking, that surging wave of warmth that left her limp as he kissed her, deeply, in a way he hadn't before. Kissed her long and earnestly, with every spark of passion, branding her forever. Curling her arms around his neck, she locked him against her, the only solid thing in a dizzy swaying world. There was something in Ozai's kiss unlike anything she had ever felt. It struck chords in her heart and lit her on fire.
She had heard people say that they lose themselves in a kiss. But in this moment, she felt like she was losing part of herself and finding another. Not who she wished she was, or who she was afraid of becoming, but the woman she was meant to be.
His hand moved from her cheek to the back of her head, getting tangled in her soaked tresses, the other slipping to her waist. She could feel the beating of his heart against her chest and Katara was sure her legs were giving way but he held her up, the entire weight of his body pinning her back against the tree.
She whimpered, her mouth opening and sliding with his. But without warning, Ozai broke the kiss in a rush of breath, her own coming heavy to match.
"What's wrong?" she asked between gasps, their faces dripping with wintry rain. That familiar echo of worry tightened her stomach. But he shook his head reassuringly.
"Two days. We can't spare any of it if we hope to make it back out of Myrr alive." His voice was like a stone worn smooth, with a weight that made her knees weaken as he brought his lips to her ear. "There will be time after that."
Goosebumps thrilled over her skin along with a tantalizing heat, his lips curling at the edges. He stepped back from the tree and took her hand to pull her with him, drawing her in for one last kiss. Then, calling to Fern, Ozai led them forward again as they set a brisk pace for the Ice Marsh.
