“To death!” we respond as one. And we charge the enemy.
Three hundred noble Vikings meet a thousand Jackals in a vicious fray. Swords clash, and men cry out in rage and pain.
I let out a long war cry and slice through one Jackal after the other, never stopping, never tiring, never giving up. I won’t stop until I’m inside that castle and free the people in the dungeon.
Trident slams a Jackal in the throat with his shield, then yanks him forward to toss him, knocking two more down. He laughs gleefully, in the joy of battle. Abram raises his sword high and slams it down against a Jackal. Already he is mastering his technique. The boy may not need much training after all.
Lord Grimkael bellows and fells three Jackals with a single swipe of his sword. I rush forward and swat an arrow from the sky just before it hits the back of his head. We fan out, the two of us clearing more territory with every swing of our blades. Erik barrels through a dozen men like a battering ram to join us.
An earth-shattering boom shakes my head and nearly knocks me to the ground. I whip my head wildly around to find where it came from. There is fire and smoke in the air. “What the—”
Jericho lets out a whoop. “Jericho balls are a success!”
I can’t believe it. The utter madman. Yet somehow, he has managed to craft a useful weapon.
The fight rages on. I grow exhausted, but I must continue. The Jackals press against us, seemingly unending. They have more men than we thought. Abram tosses me his sword and takes up his bow, sending Jackal after Jackal down with a series of rapid-fire shots. I swing both swords in my hands skilfully, fighting several foes at once.
From the corner of my eye, I see Lord Troy run past me, from out of nowhere. He is dirty and bloody, with his sword in the air, stained with red. I run after him and look up when I see a woman staring down from the stone tower.
Shite, that’s his wife. The Jackal Queen. And he is hammering every single Jackal with ease. He never turns back to see if they are dead, he just knows.
“Fuck!” I shout when someone grabs me by the back of my fur and cuts it off me.
“I think I’ll use this to wrap your body in,” the man cackles, “or maybe I’ll lay it down and fuck your woman on it. I remember her, you know. All hot,” he snaps the T, spitting rancid saliva.
I take him by the throat and snap his neck, watching the light leave his eyes, and then run him through with Abram’s sword until he is nailed to the ground.
No one talks about Lilith like that.
Even in my rage, taking a man’s life isn’t easy, and how Lord Troy seems to enjoy it, I’ll never understand. This man used to have a life before joining the Jackals. Possibly a family. He lost his way, and sometimes, that’s all I can think about when I’m battling.
Until I hear his words repeating over and over in my head. He knew Lilith, and who knows what he has done to her. I hope the piece of shit rots in hell.
“Wulf! Wulf!” Trident’s shout is one of warning.
I turn around to raise my blade, but it’s too late. I lost focus. I let what he said about Lilith get in my head. The sword comes quick, piercing my torso, right through the scar Lilith’s father left me.
“No, no, no.”
My eyes lift to see Trident pushing through a wave of Jackals. He is swinging his sword left and right, to and fro, dropping them like flies. The Jackal that has his sword through my gut is smiling. His yellow teeth gleam in the snowflakes falling to the ground. My hands grasp the sword as he pulls it out, and I fall to my knees.
I can’t believe I fucked this up. Hundreds of fights and battles, I’ve never lost my focus. Trident comes up behind the Jackal and stabs him in the back, his long silver blade cutting through the vile man’s heart.
Everything around me fades and blurs. Time slows everything. I fall to my back, the blood rushing down my fingers. I never wanted this to be the last thing I saw. I imagined myself dying in Lilith’s arms, not some enemy territory by some mad man that barely knows how to swing a sword. But I suppose life likes to throw unknowns into my world.
“Hey, brother. Hey, it’s going to be fine,” Trident rubs a hand over his mouth and looks around. The sounds of war are becoming quieter, and I can’t tell if it’s because we are winning, or if I’m dying. “We are winning. They are no match compared to us. What the fuck, Wulf? You let this fucker get the best of you?”
I know. I’m currently wondering how I let that happen too. I try and open my mouth to speak, but blood clogs my attempt, and the only thing I can do is cough it up.
“Fuck, that’s not good. That’s never good. I’m getting you out of here.” He bends down and throws me over his neck. He won’t be able to last long like this.
I won’t be able to last long like this.
“I love her,” I wheeze, imagining Lilith in the sun as I let blood loss take me, taking me to my only heaven.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Lilith
Something’s wrong. I feel it.
I know the moment something went wrong. Maybe I’m overreacting, but it’s been days, and it has been the first time I’ve felt like this. Something is wrong with Beowulf. I’ve never felt anything this painful in my entire life. All those years, all those dungeons, nothing compares to the wound in my heart.
I run out the door of the cabin, pumping my arms as fast as I can. I’m not even wearing shoes. The snow is so cold it burns my feet, but it isn’t enough to stop me from finding my Beowulf. Tears fall, but they can’t even make it all the way down my face until they freeze.
My stomach turns, and I hold my hand against it, telling myself and the little babe that we will be okay. We must stay strong.
I slip when I take a quick turn around the castle and catch myself on the rough stone that binds the wall together. My breath comes out in frozen puffs. With every inhale, my lungs burn. With every exhale, I panic more.
I start running again, seeing men walking out of the disguise of the trees. One by one, the warriors fall out, tired, dragging their swords, covered in enemy blood, but there is one man I don’t see.
The most important one.
Beowulf.
“No!” I fall to my knees when I see Trident carrying a body over his back. He is moving as fast as he can, but he is stumbling. Even from here, I can see how drenched in sweat he is, covered in dirt and blood. It’s Beowulf’s blood.
“Lilith. We must go to the medical corridor.” Warlord Einarr takes me by the arm. I only know it’s him from his voice. My vision is compromised by emotion.
“He’s dead,” I whisper. “I feel it. Oh, god.” I give the Warlord my back. My stress gets the best of me. I’m done. I fucking hate this life. All the years of being without him, all the torture I felt, none of it hurt as much as this.
It isn’t fair. Why? Why would the universe, the goddess, give Beowulf back to me after all this time and give me a taste of the future I’ve always wanted, only to take it back.
“No, he isn’t. He is almost dead, but he is breathing. We don’t know if he’ll make it through the night. Come on. Let’s get you up.”
“I don’t want to,” I fall to my rear and curl in over myself, debating if I want to let the cold take me. “I can’t see him die.”
“I know he would want you to be the last person he sees.”
I muffle a sob with my hand and sob. Trident falls to his knees in front of me, tears in his own eyes, along with blood on his neck and face. But it’s not his. It’s Beowulf’s.
“Come on. Let me carry you,” Trident says, scooting closer to me.
“You’ve carried enough already.”
“No, no, I haven’t.” He doesn’t elaborate. He just picks me up with his shaking arms and starts walking to the medical corridor. “I’m so fucking sorry, Lilith. I tried. I tried. I tried everything. We cauterized the wound. It’s up to Leiva now.”
I hold my breath as we enter Leiva’s sanctuary. The only place that can save him now. “Please, put me dow
n.”
Trident releases me, placing me on the stone. I wince as my raw feet scrape the rough rock, but the pain, no matter the amount, shall never keep me away from Beowulf. Leiva is working quickly, cleaning and stitching the large gash in his abdomen. The chest I love so much, it’s still rising. It’s slow, but it’s something. It’s better than the original thought I had.
He has dried blood all over him. The dark chest hairs I love so much are matted down, and when I place my hand over his heart, instead of warmth, it’s cold.
“Beowulf,” I cry, letting the unsteady beat of his heart hit my palm. “Please, don’t go.” They were the same words I used before he left to go to fight the damn Jackals. If he died, would his death be in vain? Did we even win the damn war?
“Angel,” he rasps, his voice weak.
I gasp and lean forward to put my face in front of his. Goddess, he looks so pale and tired. His lips are chapped, and he tries to lick them, but he coughs. The stitches that Leiva put in place break free. Blood, the little he has left, starts to dribble out.
“No, shh, it’s okay. Don’t speak, my love. Just rest. Save your energy. You must live, Beowulf. You’ve had worse than this. You can’t let that Jackal bastard kill you.”
He nods, but it’s weak.
“I love you. We are supposed to get married, remember? You can’t die without making me your wife. You can’t. You have to meet our child.” I grab his hand and place it on my stomach. It’s still flat, but in the last few days I swear I’ve felt flutters. It could just be wishful thinking. I want to feel our baby move so desperately that sometimes I wonder if I’m making it all up in my head.
His eyes are closed, and his hand is still on my stomach, but it doesn’t have the same firm hold that he always gives me. I always found it so overbearing sometimes. He always has to be touching me there. When I’m cooking, his hand is there, when I’m sleeping, his hand his there, bathing, walking, whatever it is, his hand is there. And he always has a smile on his face, showing that crooked smile I’ve loved since we were children.
“He needs rest,” Leiva says.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I snap, clutching Beowulf’s hand to my stomach.
“He isn’t going to wake up anytime soon, Lilith.” Her eyes soften, and she reaches for my forehead. Her hands are ice cold, colder than Beowulf’s, and they don’t bring comfort. They only bring doom because that is the only thing that winter holds.
I blink, causing a fat tear to roll off my lower lash line. “I miss my sun,” I whisper, reluctantly letting his hand go. It drops easily without a fight, and I break.
I stumble back. The rail of the bed hits the small of my back. Sounds I’ve never heard come from my mouth, and I let go of all the pain. It’s animalistic. Arms around my waist pick me up and carry me away.
Away.
I hate that word.
I’m always away from him.
“Let me down.”
“Lilith, you must rest. Rian is safe with Lady Sassa.”
Rian, goddess. I forgot about him. What kind of mother am I going to be? I just ran out of the cabin without Rian. That only makes me feel worse. “Let me go. Put me down. Just put me down!” I kick and scream, but Trident just holds me through it. I don’t want his hold. I want Beowulf’s. His arms feel better, safer, warmer.
“I cannot put you down. Beowulf would kill me if I did. It’s alright, Lilith. You can cry. You can break. It’s alright.”
“None of it is alright.”
“No, it isn’t. But he is strong.” Trident’s words contradict him though, as he falls to the ground, knees slamming against the ground, but he keeps me close, so I don’t touch the snow.
“Trident!” I try to wiggle free, but his hold is too strong. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine. Tired.” He sways, and his eyes roll back in his head. This time, he drops like a bag of stone.
* * *
Three days. Three days I’ve waited. Beowulf is still sleeping, and Trident is in the bed next to him. He is fine but exhausted and dehydrated. He tore a few muscles in his back from carrying Beowulf, and the pain had become too much for him to take.
But I have hope that Beowulf will wake up soon. He has made it through three days. If he can do that, he can do anything. I know he will come back to me.
I feel it.
The hope pinging against my heart doesn’t hurt. It makes me happy and impatient. I’m waiting for him to open the blue eyes that send me to heaven and back. I’m ready for them to pierce my soul.
I waited for him for twelve years, but now I cannot wait another day.
I drop my head to his arm, and the hairs brush against my cheek. It’s soothing, peaceful. He is also warmer. His pulse is stronger. I’m about to drift into a peaceful dream when his fingers tighten around mine. At first, I can’t tell if it is him waking up or the dream.
“Angel?” his voice rasps.
I jerk my head up and see his eyes struggling to open. “Beowulf?”
“Am I dead? Am I in heaven?” he asks, rubbing his hoarse throat. “It would make sense since I hear you.”
I know that tears are running down my face now, but I don’t care.
“No, no, you foolish,” I kiss his lips, “stupid,” I kiss him again, “mad man. You’re back. You came back to me.”
“You asked me to. I’d do anything for you. Water?”
I nod, halfway hysterical and still asleep. Reality hasn’t hit yet. “Anything you want. Anything, my love.” I reach for the wooden mug and hold his head up as I place the rim against his mouth. A few droplets of water fall on his beard, but he gulps it down like a man coming back from the dead.
His head falls back on the pillow, and he lifts a brow suggestively. “Anything?” he lowers his voice, and with the soft scratch of sleep and being unused for the last few days, the tone is deeper, sending shivers up my spine.
I smile with complete glee and roll my eyes. “You would want sex after waking up from near death, you brute.”
“What man wouldn’t?” Trident coughs. “Glad to see you’re awake, brother.”
“Trident, are you hurt?” Beowulf tries to sit up, but the gash in his stomach prevents him. He growls with pain and places his hand on his stomach.
“Better shape than you. You worried us,” Trident says.
“It’s going to take a lot more than a Jackal blade to put me down. Jackals.” He remembers, his brows furrowed. “Did we win? What happened?”
“Aye, we lost a few men. But for every man we lost, we took twenty of theirs. And Sir Troy took his wife’s head. No love lost there, I suppose.” Trident settles his head against the pillow.
“No,” Beowulf and I say at the same time in shock.
“Oh, that man is mad. I never want to be near that man when he has a blade. Ever. Leiva?” Trident changes the subject quickly, which is fine with me because all I want to do is look into Beowulf’s eyes staring back at me.
“My sun is back to keep me warm,” I smile, feathering my fingers over his cheek and relishing in his warmth. Warmth means he is alive. And nothing makes me feel more alive than the sun.
Epilogue
Beowulf
It’s been eight months of waiting for my babe to be born, but at least I got to marry Lilith during that time. Still, the months have been… difficult, to say the least. Eight long months. She is due any day, but the stubborn child doesn’t seem to want to come out of the safe place of his mother’s womb.
Lilith is tired, grouchy, and emotional. Goddess, the tears. I have no idea how a woman can produce so many. She cries at everything. A flower bloomed the other day, and a buzzing bee landed on the pink petals, and she burst into tears about how beautiful it was to see.
I need that little babe to pop out of his mother’s stomach now so the mad woman can rest. The one thing about pregnancy though, that I’ve really, really loved, is how much my woman wants my cock.
Day. Night. Afternoon. Fucking tea time. Whate
ver it is. She wants it, and she is always ready. There has been times when my cock is raw, and my balls hurt from coming so much, but I’d never let that stop me from giving my woman what she wants when she is in need and carrying my son, nonetheless. It’s the least I can do.
And goddess, my angel looks beautiful pregnant. Her belly is so round and flawless. She walks barefoot in the kitchen, and all I can think about is how she shines like she is the sun.
“Good morning,” she says with a tone that suggests it’s about to be a really great fucking morning. “Oh, looks like someone is ready for me,” she purrs.
“I’m always ready for you,” I grunt. She rips the fur off my lower body to get a good look at what she does to me.
“I can’t wait to—”
She suddenly stops mid-sentence. I nod, waiting for her to explain.
“Can’t wait to what, Angel?”
“My water broke.”
“I know. The babe will come soon, you will see. I can help with that, you know.”
“No, Beowulf—” Her eyes round, and she nearly collapses on top of me as one hand holds her stomach. A quick sweat breaks out over her brows. She cries out, and it is a sound like nothing I have ever heard. Some mix of agony and excitement and happiness and shock. “My water. The baby. The baby is coming.”
I pull the blanket off the bed completely and see a puddle of water under her. “We need to get you to Leiva. Now.” I wrap her in a fur and throw on my pants, not bothering with a shirt since it is summer now. It’s fucking hot outside, and my poor woman has to give birth in this heat, my poor angel.
“Rian! Rian, come on. Your…” I almost said brother or sister is about to be born, but I keep my mouth shut. Rian calls me Uncle Beowoof still, so saying it is his brother or sister may trigger something in him I can’t handle today. “Lilith is in labor. We need to go.” I shout, and his patter of feet against the wooden planks get closer and closer until he is standing in front of me with wide eyes.
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