Legend of the Mist

by Veronica Bale

Norah held his eyes intently with her own, then they swept across the walls of the broch. “To this,” she answered simply.

  He followed her lead, a look of doubt crossing his face as he gazed about the broch, listening for something which he did not expect to hear. But soon the doubt lifted. It was slow at first, a gradual smoothing of the brow. Then it changed, a doubting of his initial doubt.

  “What d’ye hear?” Norah prodded as she watched the change come over him.

  “I ... I do not hear anything—”

  “I dinna mean wi’ yer ears.”

  Torsten hesitated, struggling to accept the thing which his mind told him he could not know, but which his heart promised was true.

  “Trust it,” she encouraged.

  A smile spread across his face, a child’s excitement at discovering something new. “Wait here,” he said. Standing, he strode back to the open edge of the wall, listening all along to the direction his heart told him to follow.

  “Where are ye going?” Norah called after him when he disappeared between the inner and outer walls.

  She jumped from her seat, rushing to join him. When she reached the spot where he’d stepped from her view, she saw him, his silhouette barely visible. He was wedged in between the two walls, and had begun to climb, moving his feet from peg hole to peg hole with his arms braced against the sides of the walls for support.

  “Be careful,” she cautioned him. “The walls are no’ sound.”

  Halfway between the ground and first floors Torsten stopped, studying the stones on his right. Shifting to stabilize himself with one hand, he began to feel the bricks with the other, one by one.

  A grunt of pleasure echoed through the narrow, dim space, and Norah could just make out in the darkness that he had started to claw at one stone in particular. It was not long before he succeeded in dislodging it. The stone fell to the ground with a muted thud, and he began to make his way down again. When he stepped back into the light, he was holding something in both his hands.

  Norah’s eyes widened. It was a small, wooden box adorned with what looked to be antler of some type. The box, having been hidden behind the damp stones for probably centuries, had rotted on one side, and the lid caved in one corner where the frame could no longer support it. Despite its dilapidated state it was still a thing of beauty.

  “How did ye ken that were there?”

  “How do you hear the voices and see the faces?” he teased. “I listened. I had the oddest feeling that something was hidden up there behind one of those stones. But I did not expect that I would find anything.” Handing her the box, he added shyly, “I believe I might have given this to you once.”

  A fragment of memory returned to Norah when she took the box into her hands. An image of Torsten, of the warrior he had once been, presenting her with this box as a token of his love. She lifted the lid, and the hinge gave way where the box had rotted through.

  “Sorry,” she muttered sheepishly.

  “It is not the box that is important.”

  He was right. Sheltered in the small, carefully crafted box was an even smaller, even more carefully crafted ring. The band, gold, was etched in a pattern that weaved and crossed over itself. Though it was tarnished from ages of abandonment, a ruby, which was set atop the band in an ornate mount, still glittered brilliantly.

  “A ruby, just like in the necklace ye gave me.”

  “Ja ... but, the necklace was a coincidence.”

  “Nay,” she disagreed, shaking her head as she stared at the precious item in her hands. “I dinna think it was. I think ye were meant to give me this necklace.”

  The possibility intrigued Torsten. Could she be right? Gulnaraj’s voice echoed in his ears as he watched a multitude of emotions flicker across Norah’s beautiful face.

  When I saw the necklace I was taken by the ruby in particular. Something about it made me think of you, made me feel you might have a need of it one day.

  A ruby ... if it was a coincidence, it was a frightening one.

  “Here,” he said, his voice gruff. “Let me put the ring on your chain. I do not think you can wear it on your hand without someone asking its significance, do you?”

  “I daresay I couldna,” she agreed.

  She bent her head and allowed Torsten to fiddle with the clasp at the back of her neck. Her skin tingled where his fingers brushed against her, and grew warm when he allowed his touch to linger.

  Slipping the ring on the chain, he let it fall to her breast. It made a small, metallic clink as it settled next to the larger pendant already suspended there.

  When he had the clasp refastened, she lifted her eyes to his. Wordlessly she stepped into his embrace once more, and lifted her face to his. The kiss which followed, tender and aching, was one of love that time itself could not put an end to. After their lips parted, Torsten held her close, letting the warmth of her body cast its undying spell over him.

  “How will this turn out for us?” he murmured.

  Norah inhaled deeply, not wanting to answer for she did not know.

  “I dinna ken,” she admitted, an ancient sorrow settling heavily onto her heart. “I suppose we’ll just have to wait and find out what the fates have in mind for us.”

  Fifteen

  On an evening several days later, the islanders and their Norse guests enjoyed a night’s quiet entertainment.

  Or, rather, suffered a night’s quiet entertainment, for the air in the hall was stifling. It was so bad that many of the men had removed their shirts and tunics, desperate to maximize the benefit of whatever breeze was to be had.

  It did little good.

  To make matters worse for the Norse, who were already in poor humour because of the heat, they would not be returning to their own beds, in their own homes this night. A peculiar phenomenon of weather had developed over the islands of Orkney since that morning: a cool draft rising from the current of the sea mingled with the oppressively warm air above it, thickening the body of mist between Rysa Beag and Fara so much that the short distance between the two islands had become impassable.

  Orders had been given to prepare additional pallets, and once the evening meal had been cleared away the clan’s servants set to work readying the makeshift beds. In honour of his station above his men, Einarr, along with Torsten and Freyr, had been invited to sleep in the common room of the keep with the chief’s family. It offered slightly more comfort than the hall, for the windows on the second floor of the fortress were wider, allowing more of the night air to circulate.

  Though the special favour alleviated one torture for Torsten, it presented another: he had no idea how he would manage to pass a night so close to Norah. It was hard enough to pass a game of Hnefatafl with her, in plain view of others. To have her no more than the length of a longship away from him while she slept ... he shivered from both the dread—and thrill—at the mere thought.

  It did not help that the creamy flesh of her throat was within reach of his fingertips. Time and again he found his eyes drawn to that delicate swath of skin as she leaned over the board, pondering her strategy.

  “You do not want to move that one,” he warned when she nudged one of her white pieces forward. “You will leave your king exposed if you do. Your goal is to move him to one of the four corners of the board without exposing him to my attack.”

  “Oh yes, that’s right,” she said, and returned the piece to the square from which it had started. Musing over possible alternatives, she moved another piece.

  “Much better,” he commended.

  “I shall one day learn this game well enough to play wi’out my opponent’s lenience,” she vowed, tossing him a playful smile. Such a simple gesture set his heart fluttering like that of a starry-eyed boy.

  “But then I will not have the pleasure of letting you win, fifla.”

  His next move planned, Torsten reached for one of his black pieces lining the edge of the board. But distracted again by her throat, his fingertips accidentally grazed hers as s
he withdrew her hand from the board. His breath caught, halted by a flare of desire to grasp her hand and pull her across the table. Stupidly, he contemplated giving in to it.

  “Curse this megingimmr heat!” Einarr’s growl cut through the low din in the hall.

  Both Norah and Torsten wrenched their hands away and glanced to the next table where Einarr was engaged in a game of Hnefatafl with Freyr. Frustrated, the Viking leader stood from the table, yanking his drenched shirt up and over his head. The bruises scattered over his torso, which he’d sustained in his fight with Garrett, were healing; the blossoms of purple had taken on a yellowish tinge around the edges.

  Giggling with relief, Norah eyed Torsten. She opened her mouth to say something, but a movement from the entrance to the hall caught her attention. Torsten followed her gaze to see a small face peering at them from around the corner of the double-wide doors.

  “Cinead,” she called, “come here, lad.”

  The boy’s narrowed eyes fixed on the Norseman across from her, a clear warning to Torsten that he was being watched. Dutifully he sauntered over to the table where the pair sat.

  “Why are ye no’ in bed?”

  “It is my home, I shall do as I please,” he answered back.

  “Does your father agree with that arrangement?” Torsten quipped.

  “Torsten, no,” Norah warned, shaking her head to discourage him.

  Her hesitant expression and the young boy’s challenging glare threw Torsten’s folly into sharp relief. “I am sorry, young sir.”

  “I dinna want yer pity,” Cinead snarled.

  “Hush, Cinead,” Norah reprimanded gently.

  He pressed his lips together, turning his back on the Norseman to focus on her. “I only come to see ye’re alright. D’ye need protecting from this heathen?”

  She smiled, tousling the boy’s hair. “Brave lad. I thank ye, but I’ll be fine. Pray ye get some sleep. Ye’ll no’ grow to be a warrior wi’out a good night’s rest, aye?”

  “Well ... alright then,” he allowed. With a final glower for her companion, he departed the hall.

  “He’s a fiery one,” Torsten observed when Cinead had gone.

  “He has a good heart. He may be a bit unruly, and he’s still hurting over what happened to his da, but he cares.”

  “He adores you. He’s not the only one.”

  The tender look with which she fixed him pierced his soul.

  At the far end of the hall, Garrett rose from the table where he’d been playing dice with two of his clansmen.

  “I’ve had my fill, lads,” he declared, gathering the top half of his plaid which he’d shrugged from his shoulder earlier in the evening. “I must sleep.”

  “Night then, Garrett,” said Iain.

  “Dinna lose yer way like ye did last time,” Donaidh added. “I think Maebh’s da’s still pretty sore at ye for that little tumble ye took wi’ his precious lass.”

  “Shut yer gob,” Garrett grinned, flicking Donaidh behind the ear.

  Refastening his plaid to his shoulder he made for the exit, a path which took him around the remaining tables including the one at which Einarr sat. Since he could not avoid his adversary, Garrett gave the table a wide berth. As he passed, he happened to glance at the board between Einarr and his captain.

  “If ye move that piece there, ye can move yer king in behind him,” he observed, pointing to the board from a distance.

  “Move your finger from my sight or I shall slice it off,” Einarr threatened.

  “I’d pay him mind, ja?” Freyr smirked. “He’ll do it.”

  Garrett refused to let his enemy’s ire bristle his fur. Instead, he shrugged. “Suit yerself,” he said, and continued on his way.

  Einarr stared at the board, fuming at the pieces before him as if the insult, as he saw it, had come from them. But, begrudgingly, he moved the pieces as Garrett indicated.

  “You Hruga uskit’r cheat!” Freyr swore, though a grin tugged at his cheeks. Einarr—Einarr of all people, praise Thor—had let go of a grudge long enough to see sense.

  When the night drew to a close and those who were sleeping in the hall had found their beds, Einarr, Torsten and Freyr were shown to the keep by Fearchar himself. Three pallets had been assembled in front of the unlit hearth, and each one was laid not only with quilts but furs as well. Though the night was far too warm to make use of them, it was a gesture, an acknowledgement of the recipients’ significance. It did not go unnoticed.

  “This will do fine,” Einarr crowed, surveying the room.

  “If there be anything else ye require, water for yer washing perhaps, or anything at all, Seonaid here will fetch it for ye.”

  The wiry little woman who waited for them in the keep dipped in a curtsey, her eyes cast to the floor.

  “That is kind of you, woman, but I think we are well prepared for slumber,” Freyr answered, amused by the middle-aged maid’s unwillingness to meet his eyes.

  Norah, who had followed the men at a distance, waited patiently at the top of the stairs for those inside to settle themselves. Once they had, she stepped through the door and crossed the common room to where her parents stood. Though she dared not look, she could feel Torsten’s eyes on her, watching covertly. It gave her a heady sense of power that she rather liked.

  She could feel Einarr’s eyes on her as well, watching her not-so-covertly. She did not like having his gaze upon her.

  “Good night, father. Good night, mother,” she said, kissing them both.

  “Sleep well, lass,” Fearchar responded, embracing his daughter before she disappeared into her chamber.

  “You see? That’s nice. Our mother and father never showed such affection for us,” she heard Einarr say as she closed the door.

  “No, they did not,” Torsten agreed, bending to his pallet and fixing his bed to his liking.

  “Little wonder. Who would want to kiss an ugly backside for a face as yours?” Freyr barked in Norse.

  Einarr laughed heartily, shoving his captain in the shoulder. Torsten, too, allowed a chuckle. Fearchar and Iseabal, not understanding the language, exchanged uneasy glances. Then the lady retreated into her own chamber where her two youngest sons were already asleep.

  “Well then, good sirs, I’ll bid ye have a sound sleep,” Fearchar concluded before following his wife into their chamber.

  Once the torches lighting the space had been extinguished, the room was cast into night. An occasional breeze ruffled the fabric strung across the window, throwing moving shadows over the floors and the plastered walls. The moonlight which filtered past was softened by the mist outside. The effect was that the silvery light was magnified and dispersed.

  In such strange, glowing darkness the atmosphere in the keep felt surreal. Torsten tried to shut out its dizzying effects by closing his eyes, but when he did that he was bombarded by thoughts of Norah, separated from him by only a doorway.

  Thoughts of what she might be doing behind that doorway ...

  An ache for her blossomed low in his gut. Not an ache of lust—or not entirely at least—but rather a yearning for her presence, a longing to hold her warm body in his arms and know that she was safe in slumber with him.

  He could almost feel here there, curled into him. He wondered if the ghosts of memory were reminding him that he really had held her, many nights, in times past. The recollection of her breath against the hollow of his neck was so strong it might have been real.

  Torsten groaned, frustrated by this longing which he could not fulfill. Turning onto his side, he shut his eyes.

  “Quit your grumbling, man. Some of us wish to sleep,” Einarr muttered.

  Torsten declined to answer, but inwardly he agreed with his brother. He needed to sleep. Sleep would offer him a reprieve from his thoughts. He resolved to lie still as long as it took to drift off. Eventually he succeeded.

  But at some point in the night he awoke again, roused by something in the room. It did not startle him awake, rather it coerced him as
naturally as morning light. What had it been that reached him in his dreamless slumber? A sound? A premonition?

  Opening his eyes he found himself facing Norah’s chamber door ... her open chamber door.

  “Ssshhh. Dinna wake the others.”

  Torsten turned his head. There she was, crouched next to him, perched on the balls of her bare feet with her knees drawn to her chest and her arms wrapped around her shins. Her hair, inky black in the disorienting, luminous darkness, tumbled over her shoulder. It contrasted her thin, white shift which drifted over her delicate frame.

  “I do not think this a good idea,” he whispered. But still he shifted on his pallet, raising the thin quilt under which he lay that she might join him.

  “Nor do I,” she agreed. But still she slid in beside him, pulling the quilt over them both.

  Thor’s thunder, but she felt good in his arms. It was the only thing he needed, he thought, as he enclosed her in his embrace. Just to hold her. No more than that.

  But when he bent his head, intending only to kiss her forehead, she raised her face to his. Whether she was demanding more than that, or the gesture had been innocent, he didn’t have time to ponder. His senses left him the moment his lips met hers.

  In one fluid motion, the kiss took off at a fierce gallop, and Norah moved beneath the quilt to hover over him, her weight pressing pleasurably down on his body. The gentle ache that Torsten had felt only a few minutes ago—which then had not been one of lust—was suddenly an ache of nothing else. A smothered groan rose from his chest and blood roared in his ears as his manhood tightened swiftly beneath his braies.

  What were they doing? Einarr was not five feet away from them, and Freyr not five feet to the other side. Downstairs a whole company of his brother’s men slept. Was he seriously considering taking the maid in the middle of a wooden floor while others slept on around them?

  No, by Freya he was not considering anything. There was only what would or would not be, for he’d lost all power of reason. If he’d had his wits about him, his conscience would have stepped in by now. When in his right mind, Torsten was not the kind of man that would spoil a young woman’s virtue no matter how willing she might be.