“You stand here and tell me not to chase revenge while you’re beating a practice post to splinters because you can’t get to the man you want to kill. You say you’re afraid of what you’ll become, but you want it just as much as I do. You’re just too afraid to admit it.”
Color rose in Hagen’s cheeks. “That’s not true.”
“It is. You want your revenge. The rage inside of you is barely contained. You just dress it up in noble words about protection and justice. But at the core? You want him dead as much as I want Sholto dead. The only difference is you won’t let yourself have it.”
Hagen’s hands fisted at his sides. “Mayhap because I fear nothing could be enough. Will you be satisfied if he’s dead? If you find the man who murdered your mother and you put a spear in his chest, will it be enough?”
“I don’t know, but I surely don’t like the alternative.” Brynja’s voice cracked. “I should just let them live? Let Sholto and the others walk free? They murdered my mother, Hagen. They would have sold me like cattle. And you’re telling me I should just… what? Forgive them?”
“Nay.” He closed the distance between them, his expression fierce. “I’m not telling you to forgive them. I’m telling you that revenge won’t heal you. It won’t give you peace. And I’m terrified that when you finally get it, you’ll realize that too late.”
“You don’t get to decide what will heal me.”
“And you don’t get to throw your life away on a mayhap!” His voice rose again. “Because that’s what you’re doing, Brynja. You’re so focused on killing Sholto that you’re not living your own life. You’re existing in this tiny space, waiting for him to come so you can—what? Die trying to kill him? Because that’s what might happen. He’s not going to come alone. He’ll bring men. And even if you win, even if you kill every last one of them, what will it cost you?”
“Whatever it costs, it’ll be worth it.”
“Even your life?”
“Even my life.”
“Well, it’s not worth it to me!” The words exploded from him. “Your life is worth more than revenge, Brynja. It’s worth more than Sholto’s death.” He broke off, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “You’re worth more than that.”
Tears burned behind Brynja’s eyes, but she refused to let them fall. “That’s not your choice to make.”
“I know.” His voice gentled, which somehow made it worse. “I know it’s not. But I’m asking you to think about what you’re really after. Is it justice? Or is it just pain for pain? Because one of those things might give you satisfaction for a moment. But the other one will haunt you forever.”
“You don’t understand,” she said again, but this time her voice was barely a whisper.
“Then help me understand.” He reached for her, his hand hovering near her shoulder but not quite touching. “Tell me what you think will happen when Sholto dies. When your mother’s murderer dies. Tell me how it ends.”
Brynja closed her eyes. She’d imagined it a thousand times—her blade sliding between Sholto’s ribs, the shock in his eyes, the way he’d fall. Or the ghost that haunts her every night. She’d imagined standing over his body and feeling… what? Relief? Victory? Justice?
“I don’t know,” she admitted finally. “I don’t know what happens after. I just know that I can’t move forward until he’s dead. I can’t sleep, I can’t rest, I can’t—” Her voice broke. “I can’t be free until he’s gone.”
“What if you’re wrong?” Hagen’s hand finally settled on her shoulder, warm and steady. “What if killing him doesn’t set you free? What if it just trades one cage for another?”
“Then at least I’ll have tried.” She opened her eyes, meeting his gaze. “At least I’ll know.”
He studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he sighed, his hand dropping away. “And what about us?”
The question hung between them, heavy with meaning.
“What about us?” she echoed.
“If you go after him,whenyou go after him, I’m going with you. You know that, aye?”
“I can’t ask you to do that.”
“You’re not asking. I’m telling you.” His jaw set in that stubborn way she was coming to know. “If you walk into danger, I walk into it with you. That’s what this is. That’s what we are.”
“Even though you think I’m wrong.”
“Even though I think you’re wrong.” A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Love doesn’t mean agreeing with everything someone does. Sometimes it means standing beside them even when you think they’re making a mistake. Because you’d rather be there to catch them than let them fall alone.”
Her breath caught. “Love?”
Color crept up his neck. “Aye. Love.” He met her eyes squarely. “Did you think it was something else?”
