Page 68 of Warlords, Witches & Wolves

Chapter 10

Snow lay thick upon the forest floor, the stark and bare trees speared the sky, and all around was still, silent, dead. Ragnar stood at the door to the little stone building that was now his home and stared across the desolation. This was his lot.

It was where he had lived with Absolon after his dismissal, and then, to his shame, used as a stronghold for his loot. Since returning three months earlier, he’d raided its coffers to pay for comforts they couldn’t afford in the beginning and ones he later didn’t need—a bed, a padded chair, candles and books. He repaired the roof so it wouldn’t leak and installed a hearth and a chimney so he could warm his home.

His home…

In three months, that’s what he’d made. A home. Far from Absolon. Far from anyone but for the unlucky who wandered too close to his dwelling. He understood the Skogsrå then.

When it came time to harvest and no soul showed up at his door, he entered a village beyond the forest’s boundaries and delivered a merciful death to sustain himself. After a harvest, he returned to the forest, tipped out the stones from one jar into another, and began his count again. It was a life.

And so Ragnar the Red’s days passed.

He was too scared to venture much farther, afraid that he’d find himself at Absolon’s farm and find him gone. He wanted no confirmation that Absolon had died and so could continue to believe that he lived. He allowed himself that one delusion now that he’d cast away all others.

He was not a hero.

He did not deserve love simply because he demanded it.

He mattered no more than any other man.

So, he lived alone where he could do little harm. He chopped wood. He walked the forest. As an indulgence, he bought books and read them over and over to pass the time.

Not that it appeared to be passing much at that moment. He turned back into his house, closed the door, and settled into his chair. He picked up a book, eager to lose himself in some distraction, when a dog’s muffled bark broke the quiet.

He stopped. A dog would mean a hunter. He sighed and bowed his head. He could let him go; he had not yet stumbled up to his door and may yet pass by without notice, but the smoke twisting out of the chimney would give him away and draw the stranger near.

The dog’s excited barks grew louder. Whatever hunter this was, his hound was undisciplined. He’d have scared off any prey by now, but there was joy in the dog’s heralding, and it made him think of Trogen.

Which made him think of Absolon.

He grimaced. Whoever the hunter was, he would leave the forest safely. Ragnar had no desire to break them apart, not even to protect his tiny castle.

The barks came closer, taking on a more immediate sound. Perhaps he could welcome them after all. He had no food or drink, but he had a warm hearth and a bed to sleep in. He could be as generous as possible, and if the hunter was poor, he could load him with treasure.

He was getting carried away, but his self-imposed isolation had made him sentimental and more eager for the company of others than he would have expected. He put the book back on the table. He would find the hunter. He went to the door, turned the handle, and opened it.

He only had a second to take in Absolon standing there—a second for his heart to rise on a draught of warm air flecked with snow, a second for his blood to sparkle—before Absolon barged in, scooped Ragnar into his arms, and pressed him against the door frame. Their lips met, and Absolon’s mouth moved against his as strongly as his body pressed against Ragnar’s.

This was real. It had to be. None of his dreams had held such strength. Those lips felt like Absolon’s lips. Those arms felt like Absolon’s arms. That love felt like Absolon’s love. Or it would if Ragnar hadn’t burned it out of him. He pushed Absolon away, ripping out his heart by the roots.

“Wait, Sol, what is this? Why are you here?”

It truly was Absolon, dressed in a thick fur-lined coat and a woolen hat, and with Trogen—yes, Trogen!—sniffing at his boots. This was not some magic that the forest had conjured, merely a miracle. And one he didn’t deserve.

He went inside the house and sat on the edge of his bed. He didn’t want to invite Absolon in only for him to leave again, but he followed anyway, taking up the chair opposite. Trogen sat at Ragnar’s feet and put a paw on his leg. He didn’t have any food for the dog, but he gave him a scratch which pleased him.

“I had to find you.”

“But why? You’re better off without me, even I know that.”

Absolon laughed air through his nose. “For a while there, I agreed with you. I was even going to end it all, even after you brought the dog back, just to spite you.”

Ragnar’s heart wept quicksilver.

“But with one day left, I decided I didn’t want to die and leave Trogen behind. He was a good companion, and so I harvested and lived. I would have stayed there, but every time I looked at the dog, I thought of you and what you had done for me.”

“It was the least I could do after the trouble I’ve brought you in your life.”

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