TORBJÖRN

Chapter 4

"Bid the man come in, and drink good mead
Here within our hall;
Though this I fear, that there without
My brother's slayer stands."
Poetic Edda poem Skirnismol, stanza 16

Late Ninth Century Scandinavia

Torbjörn sat in his chair, watching her sleep, willing her to wake up. The woman lying in his bed consumed him. She was not his Ólaug; he understood that. Ólaug had been dead for more years than most could count, but something deep within him refused the truth of it. This was his chance at redemption. This woman was his mercy, the forgiveness he could not give himself.

Ólaug's death was his fault. If only he had heeded Ragnvalder's warning. Even Óðinn cautioned of the nature of the beast, that he needed to learn full control lest it cloud his judgement and decisions. It cost him the life of the woman he loved. The woman he swore to protect, but didn't.

Four nights had passed and still she slept; soft breaths and a steady heartbeat her only signs of life. Her wounds continued to heal, and she appeared to be safe from fever and infection. But she needed to wake, even if it was just long enough for a few sips of water, or else there wouldn't be anything he could do for her. He refused to leave her side, and Ulfberht took care of any work that trickled into the smithy.

His eyes fell across the bite mark on her cheek. He leaned forward and brushed his fingers over the swollen and bruised flesh. It didn't matter if the man who did this was her husband, if he sired her children, or even if she loved him. Once Torbjörn discovered his identity, he would not live another day. She may even hate him for it, but it had to be done. He hoped she was not the type that would rush to her husband's defence. The man's death would be more pleasing without her interference. Gavr would never lay a finger on her again. Torbjörn was her protector.

Waiting for her to wake made him restless, but his mind couldn't focus on carving or any other diversion that helped pass the hours. He had already fabricated a Valkyrie pendant from silver and copper, placing it next to her as she slept. Torbjörn got to his feet. He would bathe her, he decided, but first he must tend to her hair. It lay dull and matted, grass and other debris still tangled in the long tresses.

He added stones from the fire to a pot of water, quickly heating it. He worked a comb through her hair as he washed it, patiently picking out brambles and smoothing out the tangles, taking care to avoid the large knot on the side of her head. As he rinsed the long strands, he hummed a song from his childhood, one his mother sung to him. A song of maidens, young love, and the signs of spring.

Once finished, he fanned her hair over the side of the bed, pulling the silky strands through his fingers. Blonde hair was prized amongst most women, some even using a strong lye soap to lighten it further, but in the flickering firelight, as shades of amber and gold played across her chestnut locks, hers was the most beautiful he'd ever seen.

"Lítill blóm." The words whispered on his lips, his heart aching in response. He had almost forgotten his pet name for Ólaug, his little flower.

He grabbed a pot of clean water, dropped in hot stones from the fire, and took it to her bedside. As he pulled back the fur bedding, his eyes took in every inch of her skin. Anger surged as he beheld the violence behind her healing wounds, but lust stiffened his cock as his eyes fell on her most intimate places. Each time he bathed her, the task became more difficult as he fought a war against his baser instincts.

By Óðinn's beard! She was beautiful. Valkyrie were goddesses compared to mortal women, but not this one. At least not in his eyes. His Ólaug had returned to him once again, and his heart sung with joy.