Fall in Love

by Anthology

  Gustaf gazed at the shattered stones of Halldora’s ancient spell lining the boundary of their destination. A haunting airstream kicked up around them, a warning of unnatural forces afoot. Despite the gale force wind that blew through the gorge, a ghostly low-lying fog remained adrift along the forest floor.

  With a tentative step, he crossed the threshold, careful not to disturb the edging of rocks as he led Æsa and his horse through. He breathed a sigh of relief when they all stepped across unscathed, but the eerie silence of the forest had him hesitant to think their presence was welcomed.

  “We are not alone,” Jørgen announced.

  Gustaf unsheathed his sword and turned to Æsa. He motioned for her to dismount and caught her with one arm before her feet hit the ground. He set her to the ground and guarded her behind his body as he pressed her against the animal’s side. “Stay close to the horse,” he whispered, handing her the reins. He removed the shield strapped to his back and secured it in his left hand. “Keep your head down.”

  He ducked beneath the horse’s head and stalked toward the front of the group. The only sound he heard was the slow withdrawal of his men’s swords in unison and the random nickering of the uneasy horses behind him.

  Eyes drawn to the trees swaying in the wind, he took another step forward.

  “Halt!” a deep male voice called out from within the whistling timbers. “You have crossed onto sacred land and unless you wish to take your last breath where you stand, I suggest you turn around and return from whence you came.”

  Gustaf gripped his sword a little tighter. “We have come a long way and we mean no harm to the people you safeguard within these borders.”

  “State your name and your purpose.”

  Jørgen and Gustaf exchanged discomfited looks before speaking out. “I am Gustaf, son of Rælik, and these are my men. Their families are protected here and we wish to see them.”

  A long pause elapsed after his reply. The hairs on the back of Gustaf’s neck stood up and his stomach hardened. Nausea was close at hand. Here, in this enchanted place, he was a vulnerable target no matter how well he fortified himself with sword and shield. He had no experience negotiating with those whose powers extended beyond the realm of natural forces. Whether real or hoax, he was not about to test the power of black magic or disrespect the supernatural with undue impatience. He’d stand poised and tolerant until the sun set if he had to.

  “There is no one here by that name,” the voice said finally.

  “’Tis true. You would not recognize it, as you were too young to remember. Halldora would recall my name. Perhaps you might send for her.”

  “And leave my post unguarded? Think again.”

  Gustaf hid his irritation and bartered further. “Might we at least possess the knowledge of your name before we are turned away?”

  “I am Ketill, son of Jørgen. Now be gone.”

  Gustaf and Jørgen stared at each other. He could see Jørgen contending with the unfamiliar sound of his grown son’s voice, the realization that he failed to recognize it lay heavy on his heart. Jørgen’s face fell in shame and unshed tears welled in his eyes.

  Gustaf spoke on behalf of his awestruck friend. “Unless you wish to run your own father through, I suggest you lay down your weapons and greet him as a son should.”

  “My father is dead.”

  Jørgen clutched his heart as he amended the statement. “Your father left when you were but a lad of four. And you would be twenty and seven now. Your brother, Ulfr, would be twenty and five. Is he there with you?”

  Silence followed, save for the blustery wind that howled in their ears. Jørgen’s desperation to convince his eldest son of his identity seemed to climb to immeasurable heights. Like a list, he spouted things only a father and husband would know.

  “Your mother’s name is Gunnhildr and she has a crooked finger on her right hand because she punched the horse that nearly toppled you when you were two and told me not so it could be splinted. Ulfr has a scar under his left eye where you struck him with the wooden sword your uncle fashioned for you on your birthday. A sennight before I left, I strung bows for you and your brother, asking you both to protect your mother in my absence. I suspect they are nocked with arrows pointed at my weary heart as we speak, but please know not a day has gone by that I have not thought of the family I left behind.” Jørgen kicked his leg over the horse’s neck and slid out of the saddle, throwing aside his weapon and shield. Divested of arms, he outstretched his hands. “Please come forward and let me see the fine young men you have grown into. Please…I need to see you. Do not send me away, I beg you. I have come home.” His voice cracked as he repeated his last words. “Your father has come home.”

  Out of the forest and through the gray mist, rode a tall, strapping lad with broad shoulders and stout legs on an equally impressive black gelding. In his grasp, a longbow held careful aim on Jørgen’s heart. At his hip was a broadsword and a multitude of daggers sheathed along his belt. Garbed in a wolf-skin cloak and knee-high fur-lined boots, he was not a man to underestimate—a warrior that would make any father proud.

  The young man circled Jørgen on the horse, its hooves stomping into the ground as he examined the older man, his eyes guarded and menacing. From behind him, another rode out on horseback, younger in age but no less daunting. Like his brother, he employed a tactic of intimidation as he approached, his stare affixed to the father they thought dead.

  Gustaf held his position. His gaze toggled between Jørgen and the two warriors who surrounded them, their weapons still drawn for the kill. The emotion that befell Jørgen consumed him. Twenty-three years of pent-up pain, elation, and relief washed over him. Silently, his shoulders shook as if he was caught in a fit of laughter, but Gustaf knew better. He was on the verge of breaking down, his knees buckling at the sight of his two brave sons before him, all grown-up into full-fledged, fearless champions.

  All at once, Jørgen’s legs gave out and he dropped to his knees, sobbing. The two men lowered their weapons and dismounted, running to his aid. With both of them at either side, they helped him to his feet.

  “Is it really you, Father?” Ketill asked, studying Jørgen’s face for a sign of familiarity.

  Tears of joy ran down Jørgen’s cheeks as he felt the touch of his own flesh and blood and looked into the two pairs of eyes akin to his own. There was no denying he sired the two handsome lads at his side. “Of course, ’tis I. Look at me.” He grabbed each of his sons’ napes and pulled them into a firm hug. “Look at how you have grown! Odin’s blood, your mother feeds you well.”

  Hearty embraces were traded over gales of excited laughter. It was a beautiful sound to hear mature men rejoice, for it wasn’t a common occurrence amongst Gustaf’s tight band of mercenaries. He’d never seen Jørgen weep and he doubted he would ever see it again.

  He sheathed his sword and glanced at Æsa. She, too, fell prey to the emotional scene. Her bottom lip quivered and twice the amount of tears fell from her eyes as she witnessed the long-awaited reunion between father and sons.

  One by one, Gustaf’s men sheathed their weapons and dismounted to join in the fun. Introductions were met with fervent, manly embraces as they reacquainted themselves with the two warriors they once knew as rowdy boys—everyone, save for Øyven who had come into the group at a later date. He remained on his horse, respectfully quiet and reserved.

  “And this is,” Jørgen commenced, holding out his upturned hand in Gustaf’s direction, “the great son of Rælik. Gustaf, my most loyal friend and lord.”

  Gustaf could barely look them in the eye, for he was the very reason they’d been separated from their father for nigh a quarter of a century. Guilt encouraged his next words. “Forgive me for keeping your father away so long. ’Twas not my intention to—”

  Ketill and Ulfr dropped to their knees before him and hung their heads in humble gratitude. “You have brought our father back from the dead. We are indebted to you, my lord.”

&n
bsp; Gustaf gazed upon the two lads kneeling at his feet. Their blind servitude reminded him of the unconditional fealty Jørgen had provided him all these years and he was moved by their gesture. “On your feet, lads.”

  The two looked to their father before righting themselves. Gustaf bowed his head and stood before Jørgen. “I should be kneeling before you, my friend. Your sacrifice goes beyond what any man should be expected to offer.” He averted his eyes toward Ketill and Ulfr. “If you serve anyone, it should be your father. Not I.”

  Jørgen marched forward and stood eye to eye with him. “I have no regrets, m’lord. I would serve you again, if necessary.”

  Gustaf had no doubts. But Jørgen’s days of being without his loved ones were over and it gave him greater pleasure to know they could celebrate this occasion together. He flung his arm around his friend’s shoulder and jerked him into a stroll toward the forest. “If you insist upon serving me, Jørgen, a large drinking horn full of mead would suit me just fine.”

  A roar of vigorous shouts erupted as every man came to the same conclusion.

  “What are we waiting for, men?” Jørgen announced, his fist in the air. “Let us go home.”

  Snorri mounted before all the others and yanked his horse to rise up on its hind legs. “May the mead run aplenty and the women run amok!”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Æsa should have felt as cheerful as the rest. It was a grand day to be among those who had finally made it home to their families and friends. The joyful noise of everyone’s surprise carried like squawking seagulls throughout the valley. Not one villager could contain themselves as they came bustling out of their longhouses. Squeals of surprise rang out as some came to realize their husbands, brothers, and fathers were alive. At times, their feet could not carry them fast enough as they bolted into the arms of the returned warriors.

  She understood well the elation that swelled in their hearts, for not long ago she’d felt the same upon Gustaf’s homecoming. She remembered how she nearly tripped on her own two feet to get to him and how his strong embrace nearly crushed her ribs as he swung her around.

  This was a special day for all, yet her heart didn’t soar with the others. Her spirits were weighted down by Gustaf’s cold rejection and his aloof behavior. He remained standoffish, even as the people came and welcomed him on his arrival. To add to her suffering, he placed the horse between them, a purposeful move to emphasize his position on the matter of their heated discussion. He seemed to do everything in his power to keep a safe distance from her as if she’d inflict severe pain on his body should he get too close. It was difficult for her to bear, knowing he had no desire to be near her. He might as well have run his dagger through her heart, for it would’ve been less painful.

  Hot tears stung her eyes again, but she refused let them fall. Before they were easy to disguise as Jørgen and his sons had come together. She recalled the quick glance Gustaf had given her and how it seemed to register with him. She knew she’d fooled him into thinking it was because of the moment, but he wouldn’t be so daft as to be duped again.

  She lifted her chin and forced a smile so she would not steal attention away from the men who were more deserving. She walked alongside the horse, not daring to reach across its withers and touch Gustaf’s hand that rested in its mane. It was a risk at best, one she was not willing to take given he made every effort to keep his distance from her. The fact that he didn’t even introduce her to one single person cut her to the bone.

  Watching as his men embraced their family members with exuberant glee filled her lonely heart with sorrow. This was not how it was supposed to be. She and Gustaf were so perfect together and yet they couldn’t be farther apart. In an assembly of many, she’d never felt more alone.

  As they were ushered toward a large wooden building in the center of many surrounding longhouses made of wood and reeds, Æsa’s focus was directed to Ketill and Ulfr. They remounted their horses and trotted in a circle, rallying the others.

  Ketill, being the more dominant, announced their plan. “Let us hunt together as brothers united. Who is with me? Father?”

  Jørgen lifted his head from the haven of his wife’s neck. Holding fast to her body, he eventually shook his head. “You will have to forgive me, son. I have other intentions this day.”

  Suggestive remarks and jests flew about with no remorse. Ulfr even covered his ears as the insinuations were made about his parents.

  “Surely not every man is as weak as my father.” Ketill winked at Jørgen as he searched the faces of the many able-bodied men surrounding him. “I would hope some of you still get hard with the thrill of a hunt.”

  Snorri was the first to pipe up. “That would be me.” With as much fervor as his words evoked, he mounted his horse and trotted up beside Ulfr. “What say you, Gustaf?”

  To Æsa’s dismay, Gustaf didn’t think twice. He grabbed a firm hold of mane and kicked his leg up over the horse. “Count me in.”

  A hard lump knotted in her throat. Her hand caught his knee before she realized she’d touched him. “What should I do in your absence, m’lord?” Her voice fractured as she spoke and she hated that she felt so weak in looking up at him, desperate for just one kind word to fall from his lips.

  “You can stay back with the rest,” he said coldly. “I suspect you will get along just fine, as you are well accustomed to consorting with strangers.”

  He was the first to break eye contact, whipping his head around and slapping his reins against the horse’s flank. As he tore away with the few others who’d enlisted, she was left to suffer the blow he so callously delivered. She felt ill. Embarrassed. Flushed and nauseated. She clutched her stomach and, with her other hand, reached for stability. Air was the only thing she had within reach and her balance wavered.

  One of the women grabbed her hand and steadied her by the elbow. “Are you all right, my lady?”

  She tried to focus her blurry vision. The woman split into two separate bodies and spoke with two distinct voices in unison. “You look not well. Perhaps, you are spent from the long journey.”

  Æsa nodded and squeezed the woman’s hand tighter. She felt like the ground was slipping from under her. A strong arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her against a firm chest. A male’s chest, muscled and warm.

  “I will watch over her.”

  The familiar voice belonged to Øyven and she swiveled her head to see if she was mistaken. She caught a glimpse of his youthful face and wondered why the shy warrior bothered to assist her.

  Before she could voice that her condition would improve given a few moments of reprieve, he hoisted her limp body upon his horse. In seconds, he mounted behind her.

  Sitting sidesaddle, she teetered as the horse danced beneath her. Øyven’s arms detained her on both sides; one forearm steadied her from flipping backward, while the other rested beneath her bosom. His hands took charge of the reins and she found a strange comfort in his bold behavior.

  “Might there be a stable for my horse?” he asked of the woman lingering behind.

  “Of course.” She pointed to the far end of the village. “I will send for my brother to aid you.”

  “No need.”

  Even in her delusional state, Æsa could tell the woman wished to get acquainted with Øyven. She was close in age to him and her eyes, piercing through long, dark lashes, sparkled with interest.

  “Shall I fetch you some water,” she asked, bestowing one last desperate offer as an innocent ploy to see him again.

  He patted the pouch at his hip. “I have plenty, but thank you.”

  With a click of his tongue, the horse lunged forward and Æsa fell sideways, her body leaning into Øyven’s torso from the momentum of the quick start. She pushed away, struggling to sit upright, but his arm pulled her back down.

  “Sit still.”

  His command unsettled her, but she gave no fight over his unusual dominance. The sway of the horse wreaked havoc on her tumbling stomach as well as
her befuddled brain. She’d never seen the assertive side of Øyven and wasn’t certain what to make of it. “Why?” was all she could muster amid her confusion.

  “Why what?”

  Why are you doing this? Why do you waste your time with me when you could be elsewhere, becoming friendly with that lovely girl who was taken by your handsomeness?

  All those questions and more raced through her mind, but only one surfaced. “Why did you not go hunting with the others?”

  His breath blew out of his lungs in one hearty scoff. “Unless the people of Dal Hinna Dauðu have a hankering for rodents and small hares, my bird and I would be useless on the hunt. Besides, I need you.”

  Æsa stiffened. She had no idea what he meant by the term “need,” and she worried what Gustaf would say to such an intimate statement. “You need me?”

  He laughed at her now. “You are the only one my falcon feels safe with. Who else is going to watch her while I tend to my horse? What did you think I meant?”

  She smiled inwardly, breathing a little easier after his innocent explanation. She should have known better than to think a loyal subject of Gustaf would be so aggressive as to make advances right under his nose. Øyven was a perceptive fellow and a benevolent warrior, two traits that distinguished him from the rest, and he’d be the last person who’d ever betray Gustaf.

  They came to a halt at the entrance of a wooden barn and the potent smell of fresh manure and old hay invaded her nostrils. She swallowed back the urge to gag, thinking she was still woozy from the emotional extremes she’d encountered throughout the day. In the morning, she’d felt breathless, bursting with uncontrollable excitement as Gustaf had finally unleashed himself. Triumph was a foreign experience for her. Then, in the blink of an eye, she plummeted to rock bottom. She ruined everything with a few insensible words. Spoken only to prove how deeply she loved him and how much she was willing to sacrifice, she’d probably done irreparable damage to their relationship. The thought sickened her to tears again.