by J P Sayle
“Come on, watch. The fun is just beginning. You surely do not wish to miss this. I have always wondered how it must feel to plunge the knife in deep, feel the other person’s life force leaving them and covering you before it leaves this earth. It must be so exhilarating. How many times have you done this?”
The insistent tugging on his sleeve along with having his past thrown up into his face had Óláfr glowering down at the bishop. Peeling back his lips, he snarled. “Magnus did nothing more than choose to love and be loved. Does your Bible not teach that? If not, it should.” He spat the words out, unsure why he needed to say them. Leaning forward and gripping his fur pelt, he gave him a shake before getting into the bishop’s face. He forced himself not to pull back when hot, rancid breath ghosted his face, making his nose wrinkle in disgust.
“You, Bishop, will never tell me again what I should or shouldn’t do. Heed my words. If you push me once more, Magnus will not be the only one who will die on this night, and we will see how exhilarating you feel at the end of my blade. There is nothing but senseless loss to be felt here.”
He gave him one final shake before dropping his hands, pleased when his menacing threat had the bishop’s pupils dilating with fear a moment before his brow puckered. Casting his gaze away from Óláfr back to the men in front of them, finally, he turned back, giving a quick nod in acquiescence. His many chins wobbled before he looked away, but not before Óláfr caught the glint of malice.
Óláfr forced himself to let it go, for now. He shuttered his dark eyes and attempted to hide the misery that tormented his soul. His skin itched with the need to do something, anything, to release the crushing grief. It stole his breath when the blade continued to cut through his beloved.
Sky-blue eyes glazed with pain and misery wheeled open. With unseeing eyes, Magnus’s dirt-streaked face screwed up tight an instant before gurgling screams pierced the air. Pain sliced through his own back, making Óláfr bow. Bracing for the next attack, he felt the sharp blade slice across their skin. Each stroke of the knife Arngrim made carved into Óláfr’s soul. Teeth grinding together, his lips clamped tight, Óláfr held on to the painful shout that wanted to escape. He inhaled against his will, his nose wrinkled at the scent of blood on the heated air. It lifted, swirling like a cape, surrounding him. The ash from the fire coated his throat as he struggled to swallow past the combined misery the universe was dishing out.
A small voice at the back of his mind reminded him this was his choice, was ignored.
Magnus’s voice filled his mind, screaming for him to come and end his desolation. His gaze moved to Magnus’s pinched face, travelling down his body that was now awash with blood. The design of the eagle was marked into his flesh. Magnus’s eyes lifted to the man holding him captive, beseeching him to end his misery as words spilt into his mind.
“Help me. Please help me. Make it stop. If you feel anything for me, have done with this torture and throw me on the pyre now.”
The whispered words had him striding forward before he could stop himself, his fists clenching. The rising wind had his dark hair flowing into the air mimicking the flapping wings of the raven’s that moved in to attack their prey. His bunched shoulders prepared for battle as he approached the scorching heat, his gaze never wavering from Magnus. Uncaring of the hotness searing his exposed skin, he skirted close to the edge of the fire, needing to get to Magnus urgently.
Óláfr raised his large hands, shoving blindly at the men in his path. Driven by the voice chanting for him to come and save him from further torture, from the terror, Óláfr charged forward.
Arngrim so lost in what he was doing, was unaware of his approach, even as the men around them quietened. Wary of what was to happen next. It was almost as if they sensed the wrath inside him, moving further back to give him room. Óláfr took a steadying breath while looking Magnus in the eye, giving him the only reassurance he could before grabbing at Arngrim’s blood-soaked arm, stopping him mid-stroke.
Óláfr flinched at the unfeelingness in the grey depths of Arngrim’s eyes. Oh, he could see the hatred glowing, but it was the lack of disregard for life that had him pause.
Am I the same, so uncaring of the lives I have taken? Was that something else I will have to pay for?
Óláfr ignored the itch to release Arngrim’s arm and take the knife and plunge it into his broad chest. Instead, he made himself hold steady, using his superior strength to knock a shocked Arngrim away from his beloved. Not second-guessing himself, he grabbed the fallen knife, quickly cutting at the ropes. Picking up Magnus, he hugged his bloody and torn body to him. Rasping breaths and the feel of Magnus’s lungs inflating against his arms made his stomach heave while blood smeared his fur pelt, dripping onto his clothing and down his legs, soaking him.
Breathing in through his mouth, he prayed for the courage to do what was needed. Óláfr blinked away the wetness gathering at the corner of his eyes. Clenching his jaw, he took a moment to express his real feelings to Magnus. Óláfr opened himself up, knowing they could speak this way, letting Magnus understand in no uncertain terms he was sorry for not treasuring him, for not loving him as a beloved should be.
Promises he wasn’t aware of leapt out before he could stop them. He would make amends. Somehow or other he would right this wrong. As the pledge slid out of his lips, he felt a spark of awareness light his chest, holding him captive.
He clasped Magnus tighter to his chest. Resignation bowed Óláfr’s shoulders before lifted Magnus high—their eyes connecting one last time. Emotions swirled around them, lighting up the air and making his legs want to buckle under the pressure. He forced his legs to hold them both while he conveyed his love one last time.
Seeing Magnus nod his head, he clamped his lips tight to stop the trembling. Stepping closer to the spitting, crackling flames, Óláfr offered up a prayer to the God Njord and the Goddess Freyja for a quick death as he threw his beloved onto the pyre. The loss of weight had his legs wanting to crumble. Arms raised, Óláfr pummelled the empty night sky. His lungs strained to gasp and inhale the thickening stench of burning flesh that tormented his nose and mouth as he swallowed.
As he shifted away, the crowd swelled behind him, pushing him back towards the rising heat and smell while they hungered for more. He felt their emotions expand around, rising when Magnus’s dying screams rent the air, causing his blood to turn to ice, freezing him in place. The warmth radiated out was unable to penetrate and thaw the numbing cold that encased his body as the flames climbed higher in the night sky, displaying their ire at the injustice.
He understood the fury when he wanted to do the same thing; only he couldn’t. The mind-numbing cold left him with nothing but an empty, hollowed husk for a heart. Nothing but emptiness filled his mind and soul. He stood unmoving, his hooded eyes shielding his pain as he watched, memorising every blood-curdling scream his soulmate let escape as he took his final gurgling breaths.
Sniffing up, he tried to lock the tears inside, feeling a presence at the side of him. Looking down, left him breathless. Bending, he lifted Maximillian, hugging him into his chest, nuzzling his wet nose into his fur, hoping to share the burden if only for a moment.
They watched together until the fire died. Óláfr purposefully disregarded the anger he felt coming from Arngrim instead turning towards his men, forcing himself to make eye contact with everyone that stood around the fire. He used Maximillian’s warmth as a protective shield. Hugging him closer, he willed his voice not to convey the utter distress sliding through his chest. Licking his lips, hesitating, he gathered his thoughts as he spoke forcefully.
“It is done. It will be the last time there will be mention of what happened here. No one will utter his name again, and if caught, then those found will befall the same fate. Is this understood?” His angry booming voice had all but one head nodding, even as confusion over his tone had some men give him a questioning look. Óláfr kept his face as neutral as possible when he glanced at the unmoving Arngrim who
now stood by the bishop.
Óláfr straightened his spine, willing himself to hold it together for a few more minutes as he walked away from the dying fire closer to Arngrim. His gaze never wavered from Arngrim, ensuring he knew who was in charge. Grinding his teeth to stop the deluge of anger that wanted out, he took a calming breath, easing the ragged emptiness he felt shifting inside before speaking. “Am I understood, Arngrim? This matter is closed.”
Releasing a hand from Maximillian’s fur, Óláfr stabbed at Arngrim’s flabby chest. “You should be pleased this was what you and the bishop wanted. Well, you got your wish, and I will have mine, or else there will be consequences.” He saw the resignation in both men’s eyes as they nodded in unison before he turned on his heel before stalking away, not looking at anyone else.
He hurried into the dark castle, making his way swiftly back to his chamber. Each step created puffs of smoke and ash to rise, making him relive what had just occurred. He clung to his sanity by a fraying thread, hoping against all hope that he would make it to his chamber before it broke.
Maximillian
Maximillian could hardly believe it. How had it come to this? He lost count of the times he’d asked himself and the universe that question. He’d still been hoping things would somehow miraculously change, and Christina would come with her magic and stop what was going to happen.
He shuffled dejectedly along the outskirts of the keep wall, struggling to come to terms with what was about to happen. When he had seen Óláfr standing in the passageway when the guards had dragged Magnus from the cell, it had given him hope. But no, the cretin had done nothing, letting them take Magnus away to his death.
He couldn’t watch. There was no way he could endure the torture that was about to occur, but his small paws seemed to have a mind of their own as he moved ever closer to the glowing fire that lit up the dark. The flames danced higher, drawing him in. He felt their magnetising pull, or was it Magnus that had him moving closer to watch this atrocity?
Stopping, he sniffed the salty air which did not mask Christina’s scent. He gazed into the darkness seeing nothing but shadows cast from the flames and the dark clouded sky. Could he be wrong? No. He shook his body, letting the hair that had lifted settle. He would know her scent anywhere. Allowing their link to open, he spoke, “Christina, Christina, are you there? Please answer. I can scent you for Goddess Freyja sake. Please.” Half expecting silence, he sagged in relief when she responded to his cries.
“Yes, I am here, but not in body, my love, only in spirit. King Manannán would have a fit if he knew that I was even doing this. He has forbidden me to have any contact with you, but I could not leave you now. I just couldn’t. Not with what is coming.”
Her voice trailed off, leaving him bereft. He immediately sensed she had gone from his mind and started worrying at his whiskers.
What the heck was that about?
What did she know that he did not?
Hadn’t he already suffered, endured more than any other guardian?
The babbling voices at the back of his mind returned along with something else, fear, fear for him, and themselves.
Sensing Morgana, he gave in to his better judgement and asked the one question he wasn’t sure he wanted an answer to. Not when he could almost feel a noose slipping around his head. Swishing his paw up when the sense of foreboding spread inside him, making his hackles rise. “What has you all so worried, Morgana?” There was a quaver in his voice not pleasing him at all. His palpable fear spread down his spine, lifting the tiny hairs in its wake. His patience snapped, “Morgana, what is it?”
“Don’t you shout at me, you whippersnapper. You may be King, but I am far older than you and therefore should be given the proper respect.” Her haughty voice grated on his nerves.
With eyes rolling, he said nothing, waiting. He mentally slapped himself. Now he’d rubbed her up the wrong way, Morgana would make him wait longer.
He sighed as the time seemed to lengthen for forever. His fur was getting soaked by the thrashing sea. His mind drifted, and he listened to the sounds of the growing crowd on the other side of the castle. So lost in thought was he that when Morgana finally spoke, he leapt in fright.
“There have been rumours coming from the otherworld that your purpose as a guardian is about to change. The rumours are rife as they tend to be, but no one has any solid information as to what this means for you or us.”
Her aggravated sigh told him she had no clue as to what was about to happen.
“Thank you, Morgana. Accept my apology for the disrespect, for it was not intentional.” His teeth snapped at having to give an apology, but he didn’t want any more strife to bite him on the behind, so he went with it, smoothing her ruffled fur.
Sensing a change in the air, an excitement that felt unnatural, he moved cautiously across the rocky ground. Berating himself for what he was about to do, he clenched his body, holding still and opening both links simultaneously to Óláfr and Magnus. He didn’t notice how easy it was becoming to switch and change the way he used his mind, so lost was he under the strain of terror, anger, and love. They intertwined, swirling in a pit of misery that fired through his system, making his small legs give way as his back arched. As he plopped down, salty water splashed out of the puddle, coating his recently cleaned fur with salt and seaweed.
As he shook out his fur, his low grumbling growl got lost under the screams that rent the air. He froze in place for a second and the distress made him struggle to maintain his stance as emotions washed over him. He forced his body to move. Running, he panted. His full stomach threatened to revolt, and the food would make a return visit and soon if he continued to run.
Swallowing the bile, he rounded the side of the castle. His eyes widened in horror as Óláfr lifted Magnus’s torn, bloody body high, holding him close for a moment. Emotions from seconds ago rushed through him tenfold. The force had him leaping onto his hind legs, paws raised, trying to fight them away. His feelings blindsided him as he felt their connection inside him. Sorrow, fear, anger, and love, all locked together with a promise.
Óláfr’s words rang inside him like a bell tolling, sealing all their fates. He knew it even before the final promise was uttered. Óláfr had made an everlasting vow to find his soulmate. No matter what, or however many millenniums it took, he would right this terrible wrong.
Óláfr’s promise had the air charging and his fur lifting. His legs landed as he took off towards the heat of the fire. He went directly to Óláfr. The will of Magnus pulled at him and had him heaving a sigh. Nose wrinkling, Maximillian tried to hold his breath when the smell of burning flesh filled his nose, but he never wavered until he got to Óláfr.
Large, warm hands lifted him, making him ever so grateful when it allowed him to push his twitching nose into Óláfr’s neck, hoping his musky scent would mask the awfulness drifting on the air.
Ignoring everything, Maximillian took his courage and lifted his tiny face towards the fire, sensing Magnus’s spirit leave his body. The colour of the flames danced together, bleeding into each other, creating deep blues that merged with reds, making a haze of purple burst up into the dark inky sky. The air moved with the colourful display swirling closer to Maximillian. They hovered before finally settling onto him.
He was not surprised when he felt Magnus’s essence move through him till it found his soul merging. His weight sagged against Óláfr’s chest before the soft voice of Christina whispered through the fog, clouding his mind.
“This is your new purpose, Max. You are now a soul bearer. You shall not rest, and you will find no happiness of your own until Óláfr fulfils his promise. You must keep their souls safe and ensure they are returned to their rightful owners when the time is right.”
Sputtering, Maximillian asked, “What?—How—how will I know who they are?” The whine in his voice had him puffing out his chest.
“I am not privy to this information, Max, and neither are you. You must learn to trust y
our instincts and stick to the rules. Remember what I have taught you and seek the help of others when you need it. And, Max, that would include family members.” Her small chuckle made his eyes roll, and he hunched. Sniffing, he pointed his nose up in the air.
As if I would ask those meddling busybodies.
“Max, you need to learn to trust others and remember there is always more than the eye can see, the heart can feel, and the spirit can endure. Keep the faith, my beautiful friend. I shall miss you until such time we can be reunited. I must go now. I fear if caught, there will only be more retribution. Remember, life is for the living and stick to the rules, though I feel I may be flapping my lips in vain.” The fading words had him snorting as he felt Óláfr shift his weight.
He kept his head down, listening to Óláfr threaten violence on all those around him if they uttered Magnus’s name. His angry exchange with Arngrim had Maximillian worrying that there might be retribution anyway as he watched the silent exchange between Arngrim and the bishop when Óláfr walked off. He would speak of it when they returned to his chamber, though he wasn’t sure how much Óláfr could take when his heartbeat pounded faster than the horse’s hooves battering the hard ground.
He pushed his furry cheek to Óláfr’s, trying to calm him. Maximillian dug his nails into Óláfr’s blood-soaked pelt, holding tight when all he wanted to do was escape the stench and scent of lemongrass. Reminders of Magnus neither of them needed right at this moment.
Óláfr’s heavy footfall reverberated in the stone passageways as he almost ran back into the castle. He went directly to his chamber, and the resounding crash of the door shutting made Maximillian’s small body vibrate along with the room.
Óláfr’s arms were releasing him before the door shut. Maximillian jumped out of the way as he felt his massive body collapse against the wood, shaking. Tremors wracked him from head to toe. Tears flowed unheeded down Óláfr’s cheeks, soaking the hair that clung to his face. He landed in a heap on the hard floor with a resounding thud, making Maximillian wince in sympathy.