Page 64 of The Thornwyck Rose

Erik glanced at the slight tremble in her hands. He slid his hand over hers. Banded marks ran from his elbow to his fingertips. “I can wait for the physician if it is too much blood, Lady Seren.”

Her breath hitched at the warmth of his hand rather than the rough fabric of his glove. “I . . . I don’t know what’s come over me.” She took a deep breath. “I’ve tended to worse before.”

She locked eyes with him, questioning his feelings with unspoken words. She wished she hadn’t because he answered, or perhaps she only imagined it. Wishes were for people who shouldn’t dare dream. He’d shown her kindness and respect, that was all, and she was married.

Words crawled to the top of her throat, but never left her lips. She broke his hold and slipped her hand from his after a moment left too long.

“It must be the child. Sometimes the pregnancy is a strainon the heart,” she said, cheeks blushing. She averted her eyes and focused on threading the needle. It settled her breath, and she began to work.

The gash along Erik’s shoulder wept beneath the edge of her needle.

He sat on the bench with one hand gripping the edge of the seat, his jaw set.

She stood behind him, hovering near the wound. The needle tip gleamed red.

Margot leaned by the council chamber door with her arms crossed, watching the hall beyond with the sharp stillness of a hound.

The hearth crackled low, casting soft orange shadows across Erik’s back. The spearhead tattoo within the circle of runes was etched just below the wound. It looked angry now, inflamed with blood and heat. She had always wondered what it meant. Tonight, she found herself staring amid the silence that she wanted to fill.

“Does it hurt?” she asked. A brainless question. Of course it did.

“Yes,” he said.

She guided the needle in.

She shouldn’t have noticed the line of his spine or the slope of his neck, the way his hair curled slightly damp from the heat of the hearth. She shouldn’t have been close enough to smell the iron of blood and the faint wild scent of the woods still clinging to him.

But she was, and she wanted to be.

“Do your marks mean something? Like this one looks to be of a spearhead.” Her eyes trailed the spear’s handle down Erik’s arm and forced her gaze back to her task. She hoped the question would open a conversation so he wouldn't focus so much on the pain.

“It is called Gungir, Odin’s spear, with the serpent, Jörmungandr, circling the spearhead for fate,” Erik said through clenched teeth. “Gungir grants me Odin’s power never to miss my target. Jörmungandr is a reminder that fate is inevitable.”

“And the circle on the other shoulder? It looks like a compass.”

“It is. We call it the Vegvisir. It means I cannot lose my way.” Erik’s voice dropped. “Though I feel I have, if I’m honest.”

Seren’s heart twisted, but she was happy that he trusted her enough to be vulnerable with her. She had to say something to encourage him and to keep him talking.

“Keep to your path, Erik. It’s hard to see the destination through the forest,” she said as she tightened the flax. Half the gash was knitted. The top half remained.

“How do I know I’m on the right path?” he asked.

She paused.

“Trust the Lord,” she said, finally. “Or your gods if that is what you believe.”

She rolled her own shoulders and neck from the laborious work. “That is what I do. I’m not sure I’m on the right path either, but I know the Lord will provide for me, one way or another.”

She threaded more flax, reheated the needle, and began again, once more in silence.

“Tell me of the one on your side,” she said to Erik.

The thread slipped through his skin. Her fingers brushed his shoulder as he tried not to tighten the muscle.

Erik rubbed the side of his ribs where the mark lived. “It’s called the Valknut. I dedicated my life to Odin once. I was supposed to be destined for Valhalla, but none of Odin’s shield maidens would select me now, not after living this life.”

“A shield maiden is a Valkyrie?” Seren asked.