The Blessing of Equinox

by Kathryn Reynolds

  Shaking off the deluge of ideas, he turned away from the work stations to a pile of chests beside the doorway. They were covered in a thick layer of ash and dust and he knelt slowly to one knee before them. Taking the small chest from on top, he touched the lock and willed it open - it was his own lock; it would only answer to him. The box sprung open, revealing a silk bag inside. Pulling the bag out, he set the box aside and carefully dumped its contents into his hand.

  A ruby the size of his palm tumbled out, and he turned it over, revealing deep engraving that turned the solid gem into a realistic likeness of a rose in bloom. His heart constricted in his chest as he stared down at it. It has been meant for someone once, for love, for a promise. Setting his jaw, he slipped it back into the dark silk bag. That was a past life, decades ago. The dead had no use for gifts, and perhaps letting the piece go would help him to finally move on.

  Tying the bag to his belt, he touched the lock on the large chest and willed it open as well. Atop the pile below lay a sword sheathed in a leather scabbard that was embossed with a knotwork likeness of a wolf. The hilt glowed in the sudden light, wrapped in a twisted cord of gold and silver. A heavy pommel of silver was shaped in a remembrance of Thor’s hammer, deeply engraved with knotwork and runes.

  Picking up the sword tenderly in both hands, Fjell stood slowly. It had been so long since he had last held his masterpiece. Not since that horrible night, not since his life had turned on its head. His hand hovered over the hilt, longing to draw it. Gritting his teeth, he pulled his hand away. He wasn’t ready. Almost, he was almost there… But not yet. Leaning back down, he collected his silvered chainmail, guards, and helm from the chest, then turned and went back to his living space.

  Setting his gear aside, he moved on through the living area to his bedroom. Marsilia still slept, deep in sleep as her shoulders continued to rise and fall in even breaths. Fjell paused at the side of the bed, looking down upon her. He hated to wake her. He knew what it was to recover from a curse, from magical healing. He knew how tired she must be.

  But he also knew that she would rest better and be stronger in the morning if she ate. With a grimace, he reached down and gently shook her shoulder.

  Her eyes flashed open in an instant and she sat bolt upright, clutching the covers to her chest. Fjell took a step back on impulse, holding his hands up and to the side as she stared at him in wide-eyed indignation.

  “Sorry,” he blurted out. “I have food ready.”

  Raising a hand to cover her eyes, the white witch flopped back on the bed. “Ugh… What happened?”

  “Ye were cursed,” he answered cautiously, turning his head slightly to the side as he drew back, continuing to watch her. “Do ye not remember? Stoneskin. Ye had me put some black oil on ye while ye chanted.”

  Marsilia’s hand slowly slid down from her face and she stared up at the ceiling. “I remember,” she finally said quietly. Sitting back up, she covered herself with the blanket, turning her gaze to him once more. “You saved my life. Thank you.”

  “I’d say that calls us even,” he answered with a small smile. When her brow began to furrow and she looked ready to counter him, he continued on quickly. “Ye saved me from the nuckelavee. I could not have defeated it on my own - and I think that kerling knew that. If ye’d not called down the rain, I’d be rotting by the creek now. Let’s just say we’re even, eh?”

  A small smile graced the witch’s face and she glanced down. “Very well,” she answered. “If that’s what you wish, but I considered the fight to be both our efforts. I wouldn’t have had time to call upon the storm if you hadn’t engaged that demon.”

  He thought to argue for a moment, that she could have bolted and left him to his fate, but his brow furrowed as he came to a realization. She’d had every opportunity to save herself, to go on with her quest. She didn’t.

  “Why did ye stay?” he asked, turning back to face her fully. “Why didn’t ye leave me there? I had the demon’s attention; ye could have escaped and made it here on yer own.”

  Frowning, she raised those blue eyes to him once more. “How could I do that when I could help in the fight? I mean,” she sighed, furrowing her brow again. “Yes, the quest I’m on is more important than either of our lives; hundreds of other fae are at risk from the dark witch, maybe even more than that. But how could I turn my back on you when I could help you win?”

  Help you win. The words echoed in his mind for a moment as he stared at her. Help. She didn’t consider that fight her own victory, even though it clearly was. He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “It’s not just yer quest,” he finally said quietly. “I swear to ye, I will do all I can to keep ye safe, but if the worst should come, I will see that kerling ended myself. It is both our quests now.”

  A smile lit her face as she continued to clutch the blanket to her chest. “Thank you,” she said, so earnestly as to make his damned heart bleed again.

  “And it was ye who defeated the nuckelavee,” he added sternly. “We worked together, but the victory was yers. Aye?”

  “Alright,” she chuckled, then blushed bright red as her stomach growled so loudly he imagined he’d have been able to hear it even in his workshop.

  “Food’s ready,” Fjell reminded her and turned back to the living area to give her a chance to redress. “I’ll get ye a bowl.”

  Chapter 11

  As soon as Fjell left the room, Marsilia pulled her dress back off her shoulder, examining the area where the stoneskin had been overtaking her. Her skin was as pink and soft as it had been before, and she slid her hand over the skin to her back, feeling for any possible bits of stone left behind. Finding nothing, she flexed and stretched and only then, when she still felt no remaining evidence of the curse, did she finally let out a breath of relief.

  Kicking off the blankets, she refastened the buttons up the front of her dress. The cloth was still damp and pulled in annoying ways against her as she moved. If she’d known the quest she would be sent on, she would have grabbed a change of clothes before leaving the cabin.

  Marsilia swung her legs over the edge of the bed and frowned, her feet still hovering over a foot above the ground. Pausing, she looked around the room. Everything was sized larger than she was used to, but considering Fjell’s height, it made sense. The room was simple yet everything held a weight and purpose in its form and placement.

  And everything was either carved from stone or wrought form metal, she realized. It would have been a stark room if not for the piles of furs. Thick pelts of raw wool covered the bed and bench; rich deerskin rugs lined the floor beside the bed; a bear skin stretched between the bench and rack of clothes before the fire.

  Hopping down from the too-tall bed, the witch adjusted her damp cotehardie as best she could and made her way out to the living area. It was similar to the bedroom in the weight and placement of furniture and fur, but this was clearly more of a place of display. The chairs were carved in knotwork wolves, serpents and other creatures, some left plain, some inlaid with shining gold, silver and gems.

  The legs of the great stone table in the center of the room were carved completely through, bringing the knotwork wolf design in to full relief. Silver fangs gleamed in the beasts’ mouths and their eyes flashed with fire opals.

  Looking around the room, almost everything was carved and decorated to some degree. The occasional stag, cats, and other creatures were overwhelmed by the number of wolves displayed. Each one had a unique knotwork pattern for its body.

  Fjell stood before a great fireplace, his back to her as he ladled soup from a cast iron pot. To either side of him, on the wall above the smoldering fire, were carved two giant ravens in that same knotwork he seemed to so favor. They were painted black as night, save for the eyes that flashed with the same fire opals as the wolves on the table.

  Turning from the fire, his eyes glowed gold as they met hers. His ruined tunic was replaced with a new one, deep blue trimmed with more of the strange knotwork in silver
and gold thread.

  “Have a seat,” he said, nodding to the table as he approached with an intricately embossed silver bowl. “Do ye think ye can drink some water too?”

  “Yes, please,” she answered, reaching to pull out a chair.

  For as solid and heavy as it looked, the chair glided back with ease. Fjell set the bowl and a spoon before her, then turned to collect a matching goblet. Vanishing back to another room, he returned before she could cool the first bite enough to eat it and set a goblet of clear water beside her.

  “Thank you,” Marsilia said as he turned and headed back to the fireplace.

  Taking a bite of the stew, her stomach reminded her of just how hungry she was. Perhaps it was her hunger that flavored the stew, but it was by far one of the best she could recall. The meat practically melted in her mouth, salty and savory. The parsnips and carrots on the other hand were still slightly firm and bursting with sweetness. An herby broth tied the two distinct flavors together with chunks of onion.

  She was nearly halfway through her bowl by the time Fjell joined her at the table with his own bowl. A smirk of amusement flitted across his face. The witch forced herself to pause and take a sip of water.

  “It’s very good,” she finally said.

  “Aye? Thank ye,” he answered.

  They both fell to silence again as they ate. Despite her head start, they still managed to finish at the same time. Marsilia leaned back in the chair, resting a hand over her over-full stomach.

  “Would ye like more?” Fjell asked, scraping his chair back as he stood.

  “Oh, no,” she said. “I might pop.”

  Nodding, he collected their bowls and spoons, and she quickly stood. “Here, let me help with the dishes.”

  “No,” he answered evenly. “Yer a guest and recovering from a curse. Rest. I’ll be just a moment.”

  With a sigh, she sat back down. He was right about her needing to rest. She could have leaned back in that stone chair and fallen back asleep with ease - but she still didn’t like that he had cooked and had to clean up after. She and her pa always traded off – when one cooked, the other cleaned. It was how she’d been accustomed to things for most of her life.

  Of course, she wasn’t used to be a guest in someone else’s home, either. Most of the fae in her woods slept outdoors, or if they did have homes, they were too tiny for her to ever think of fitting in. She distantly hoped the brownies would hear she and pa were gone and come by to care of the poor chickens. There hadn’t been time to make any such arrangements before departing.

  Fjell returned and reclaimed his seat at the table. “I’d offer ye some mead, but I’m guessing ye should stick to water?”

  “Yes, but thank you,” she nodded, then frowned. “For someone who isn’t a healer, you seem to have a fair knowledge of how to recover from healing and de-cursing.”

  The dwarf shrugged, his eyes still glowing as he lounged back in his chair. “Aye, well, I’ve seen it a few times.”

  Marsilia furrowed her brow, leaning forward. “You’ve dealt with curses before? Have you fought a dark witch before, then?”

  He remained silent for a moment, staring off at the fire. Taking a breath, he unfastened a silk bag from his belt and slid it across the table. She caught it and looked down at it in confusion before returning her gaze to him again.

  “Yer price to King Nibelung,” he said by way of explanation.

  Frowning, she carefully opened the bag and pulled out its contents. Her breath caught in her throat. The rose carved ruby glittered in the firelight, nearly glowing in her hand. She had never dreamed that a jewel could be so big. The carving so intricate and delicate she almost expected to be able to smell the rose’s fragrance.

  A tremor passed through her hands and she quickly set it down atop the silk bag. “I can’t,” she whispered. “I can’t accept this.”

  The dwarf’s golden gaze finally returned to her, his brow furrowing. “What do ye mean? Ye need a price if we’re to gain aid.”

  She swallowed, shaking her head. “This is too much. Did you make this? I can’t… I’ll break it, or lose it, or-” Or not want to part with it. The thought made her uneasy, but she couldn’t deny it. She pushed back the well of shame from that thought.

  “Aye,” Fjell said, watching her cautiously. “I made it some time back. Are ye really so uncomfortable with items of wealth?”

  “I just…” Marsilia trailed off with a sigh and put the ruby rose back in its pouch. “I sleep on the ground, on a bed of straw, Fjell. I have three dresses that I’m constantly repairing. We have a few tables, a couple of benches and stools. Pa and I live simply; I don’t know what to do with…” she gestured vaguely to the room, the carvings and gilding and jewels. “With all of this.” Shaking her head, she let out a small laugh. “And I thought to bring your king a deer, when your people produce such items as this.”

  Standing, she took the pouch carefully in her hands and moved around the table to lay it before him. “If you think this is a viable price, I’d ask you to hold on to it and present it yourself. It’s very beautiful.”

  Fjell remained quiet for a long moment, his gaze locked to the bag before him. Finally, he sighed and looked up at her. “I’ll carry it for ye, but I’d rather ye present it. I’m not exactly well liked by my kind. It’d be better received from ye.”

  Marsilia met his golden gaze for a long moment, but something in his stony expression forbid the questions that were bubbling up in her mind. It was clearly a matter he did not wish to discuss. Finally, she nodded. “Alright. If that’s what you’d prefer.”

  Nodding, he dropped his gaze and took up the pouch to retie to his belt. “Go ahead and take the bed for the rest of the night. I’ve got a pallet in my workshop.”

  “What? No,” she began to protest, but he stood and turned back to her with that stern expression again.

  “Yer the first guest I’ve had in nineteen years, and I need ye recovered tomorrow. Take the damned bed,” he said.

  Without giving her a chance to reply, he turned and vanished into one of the other rooms. A heavy stone door closed behind him and Marsilia stood in the empty living area for a long moment. Something had upset him. She wanted to go knock on the door, ask him to talk to her, ask him what was wrong.

  But his expression had been clear. It wasn’t a matter he wished to discuss. With a sigh, she turned back to the bedchamber and the soft pile of furs. Wait, had he said nineteen years? Just how old was he?

  Chapter 12

  There was no sunrise to wake Marsilia deep in the mountain. She came to consciousness slowly and stretched her stiff muscles. Light shone into the room from the living area, but the bedroom itself was dark, the fire having long died down to coals. For a moment, she stared up in the dark confused. Soft pelts lay beneath her, and no straw poked at her back. Turning over, her mind caught up - the fights, the curse, Fjell’s home and his change of mood, but most importantly, their quest.

  Tossing off the blanket, she hopped down from the massive stone and made her way from the chamber. The living area was as she remembered it from the night before, save that the door Fjell had closed behind himself was now open. Cautiously, the white witch approached, peeking into the room beyond. Its size made her jaw drop - it seemed half the mountain had been carved out to form it. Distinct areas were set up to the left and right, but ahead a great forge took center stage.

  Fjell stood before it, shirtless as he pumped a bellows, stoking the forge’s fire to greater heat. Sweat drenched his back and hair, and Marsilia could feel remnants of the heat even at the other side of the vast room. Her soft leather shoes whispered across the stone floor as she entered, curiosity getting the better part of her cautiousness.

  As she drew closer, she could begin to make out a blue tattoo across his back - the same knotwork wolf that was so prevalent in the carvings in his living area. The beast seemed to dance across his back between the shifting light and the pull of his muscles.

  He
did not turn at her approach, nor seem to notice, so focused he was upon the coals. Reaching back to the stone table beside him, he grabbed a pair of long handled clamps and carefully lifted a glowing red crucible from the flames. With practiced movement, he turned fully back to the table, eyes glowing gold, and gently set the crucible on the stone. As he reached for a grey stone rod nearby, his gaze caught on her and he jerked, knocking the rod off the table.

  “Fanden!” he cursed half in surprise, half in embarrassment. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

  “Apologies,” she answered, fighting back a smile. Bending to pick up the rod as it rolled towards her, she carried it back over to his work table and offered it to him. “What are you doing back here?”

  Accepting the rod back, he began carefully scraping slag off the top of whatever molten metal rested inside the crucible. “I couldn’t sleep any longer,” he answered. “Thought ye’d be a while still, what with ye recovering and all.”

  “I took some supplements to aid in my rest and recovery before I went back to bed,” she answered, watching his process. “They seemed to work well. What are you making?”

  An amused smirk flitted across his face as he stirred the metal and then began carefully pouring it into a stone-carved form. “Ye’ll see in a bit.” She started to lean in, to get a better look, and his free hand moved to catch her shoulder, holding her in place. “Don’t get too close - it’s hot enough to eat through yer pretty flesh.”

  Leaning back, she remained quiet as he finished pouring the molten metal. Once he put the crucible aside, he turned to her and nodded to the living area. “I’ll meet ye out there in a moment. Let me just clean myself up.”

  “Alright,” she said, turning to make her way back out of his work chamber. It was a relief to find him in better spirits this morning, but she was still so terribly curious of what he was making, and of what had upset him the night before.