Page 12 of Heart of the Wolf
“Why are you telling me all this?” Brielle asked.
“Because you are important.”
“Astrid,” Brielle said, tucking loose strands of hair back into her hood. “I think you confused this word with another. What do you mean by important?”
Abruptly, Astrid stopped. Brielle ran into her, almost tumbling to the ground. For a tiny thing, Astrid was quite sturdy. Wind blew her lush, blonde plaits to the side as Astrid pushed Brielle’s hood back until her curls billowed freely behind her.
“That is not my conversation to have with you,” she said, her tone light and as sweet as honey. “This is pretty.” Her hands carded through Brielle’s hair, pulling a coiled curl and watching it spring back in fascination.
The flickering desire she had to return home smoldered out like a dying flame. It may have been a foreign place with foreign words and foreign people, but the warmth from Astrid’s words fanned the curiosity she had always held for the Norse.
No one back home called her hair pretty. It was something to be tamed and controlled so her father could arrange a marriage for her. No one back home considered her essential. She was a tool, a means to an end. No one at home smiled at her as she walked through the village. No one here knew her, yet she received more kindness than she could recall in recent memory.
“Do many people here speak my language?”
Astrid hummed and started walking again. “Leif and Amund are the only ones confident in all the words. I’m close. A few others know some here and there, but most, no.”
They weaved through the bustling streets, littered with people. A man with a scowl and a thick beard worked steel into a blade, conversing gruffly with another man whose fiery hair was tamed into loose braids decorated with glass beads.
Once their gazes fell on Astrid, both nodded in greeting. As Astrid spoke to the men, Brielle shifted from foot to foot, running her fingers self-consciously through her hair, and wanting the ground to devour her. The onlywords she understood were Úlfr and her name. Both sets of eyes widened briefly before hardening back into a neutral expression.
Two tiny hands bracketed Brielle’s arms, thrusting her to the forefront. Astrid was unrelenting, refusing to let Brielle disappear into the darkness like she preferred.
“Ivarr.” She pointed to the red-haired man, who nodded. “And this is Styrr.”
The blacksmith clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes, ignoring Brielle and turning his attention back to Ivarr. Brielle tried to pull her hood up, wanting the security it brought back. She needed to hide, feeling unwelcome for the first time. Astrid stilled her hands, glowering at the blacksmith, who shrugged.
After tossing the man a final glare, Astrid maneuvered her among the thatched roofs and buzzing crowds. A little boy with long blonde hair chased after a young girl whose giggles sang over the treetops, making Brielle chuckle.
Thick specks of snow fell from the dense gray clouds. Astrid tilted her head back, smiling as fresh flakes melted on her cheeks.
“Winter is my favorite,” she said. “Don’t you love it?”
Nothing compared to the beauty of winter, to new snow blanketing rooftops. Brielle admired how the sun would sparkle on fresh snow, looking like a million tiny,glittering gems. Or how sheets of white would cover the barren trees, turning the forests into twinkling tunnels.
No wonder it was Astrid’s favorite; she was winter personified—all pale skin, crystalline eyes, and brilliant blonde hair sparkling like sun-dappled snow.
Perhaps Brielle could share that sentiment with her if every memory of winter wasn’t plagued with hunger and discourse.
Every cold season for as long as she could remember, she had minimal food, with the bulk of their supplies going to the Norsemen.
Most nights, Brielle went to bed with pangs in her stomach from the lack of food. She would gladly choose that over the risk of their village’s destruction, the slaughter of her people, or even worse, their capture. Brielle limited her rations without complaint, taking just enough to survive the snowy months.
However, if enslaved people were among the Norsemen here, Brielle couldn’t quickly tell who they were. Everyone wore similar vestments, none appearing above or below the other. Someone might have hidden them, believing them unfit to be seen among the villagers. The metallic tang of blood flittered on her tongue after biting down harshly on her bottom lip.
“You look tired,” Astrid murmured. “You’re still recovering. Home, I think.”
Blue eyes blinked at her, shining like stars. Creases grew between Brielle’s brows as she followed Astrid silently back to the large building in the center of all the activity.
Home, as she had called it. Leif’s home, not hers. It was a slip of the tongue. Astrid had not understood what her tone implied.
The cloudy haze of dusk claimed the sky, and night approached. Brielle vaguely remembered the path they had trodden, her feet moving of their own accord until her tired stare landed on a roaring fire.
A blaze flickered steadily outside the longhouse. Two deer hung from the rafters. Blood drained from their bodies, dripping into a bucket on the frozen ground.
A prominent figure sat sprawled around the fire, his long legs stretched out, his head tilted.
Moonlit-streaked braids framed his face. Lines etched his brow as he focused on the string of rabbits on a log before him. The man skimmed his hunting knife below the hides. Thick, pale fingers worked to tear skin from bone with an elegance she hadn’t expected. He dried the skins and furs out by the flames before butchering the meat and stowing it in a snow chest by the door.
