Given that this was still a trial period of decision making for the camp, she was not able to make any personnel changes. Meaning she couldn’t get rid of every incompetent male Latham had replaced Gerrie with to train their warriors. Her only option was to give them an unforgiving schedule in hopes that they might quit. One of them had so far, so she’d count that as a win.
She’d spoken with Quillon again and learned the rest of what had transpired in her three-month absence.
After the initial chaos, the clan settled into a new routine under Latham’s direction. Quillon had tried to advise Latham to keep the status quo, but he didn’t listen. He changed much about the inner workings of the camp.
It had worked for a while, but tensions grew. Some citizens were overworked and others overpaid. Division infiltrated the once harmonious camp and systems of class developed. That made Solveig grind her teeth.
She’d spent decades creating a delicately balanced structure that limited the wealth and work imbalance. It wasn’t perfect, but it had been effective enough. More males were favoured under Latham’s leadership, and fewer females were seen doing work outside their homes. And those that were, were overworked to the point of exhaustion.
Her relationship with Gerrie was back to normal. Solveig had come back after the altercation with the prince in the woods and apologized to her. After Gerrie apologized too, there had been a strained silence for a couple of days until they exploded in a very loud, very aggressive argument that left both of them bleeding and laughing together in their private training ring.
Their issues were hashed out and real apologies were made. Gerrie’s friendship was her most cherished relationship, and she was grateful for their ability to solve conflicts between them. Maybe one day it would take fewer weapons, but she doubted it.
With their disagreement behind them, Solveig opened up to Gerrie about the cave each night. The way it smelled, the way the stone and dirt coated her skin.
Sometimes she would start shaking uncontrollably and Gerrie would reach out to take Solveig’s hand without a word. Eventually, she started describing her guards. Stick and Thick, Water, and Fear. Fear was the hardest to speak of—his presence still lingered in her nightmares, looming over her.
That’s what it was to her—a nightmare. It didn’t feel real anymore except she had the scars to prove it. Most of them had healed, save for a few stubborn lines to remind her.
One that hadn’t faded was that very first cut. The curved scar that went from her brow to her jaw was now a permanent reminder. Laeknir had been able to heal the puckered ridges that had formed from the infection, but the mark remained.
Solveig allowed Gerrie to help braid her hair so she wouldn’t have to see it in the mirror.
The night she told Gerrie of the pain of having her own knife taken to her face, she had woken drenched in sweat, screaming until her lungs gave out, and Gerrie had to physically hold her down to calm her.
Since her nights were full of vulnerability, she spent her days building her strengths. She performed her duties as best she could, praying the sweat dripping down her spine from her panic attacks stayed hidden. She visited with every family and each Vanir to ask what they needed.
The beginning of each conversation was a burden she had to bear—when they told her how sorry they were and how strong she was for escaping and surviving her ordeal. Even with practice, it was difficult to keep the appearance of being unaffected by the questions.
They were expecting General Tordottir, leader of the Southern Wilds, general of the Asgardian army. But she was a fraud. She was just Solveig, a broken, magicless female. Not that she let anyone but Gerrie or Laeknir see her that way.
She hurried through those parts of the conversations as quickly as possible so she could inquire after their needs, their concerns.
While Latham was out kissing the asses of the Fae, Solveig needed to make sure her people were cared for. This was important work, even if it cost her the position. She would not put her own needs above those of the many, not again.
Conalle had tried to get her to join the morning hunting parties, hoping she would build bonds with the people Latham was wooing. The constant visits with Vanir families had Conalle bored out of his mind.Solveig tried to insist that he join Latham so it wouldn’t appear like he was blatantly favouring her, but the lord refused.
Conalle brought up the subject again as they sat around the table one evening for dinner.
“You know, Solveig, it probably wouldn’t hurt for you to make some friends among the Fae,” he said, abruptly shifting the conversation from horses back to his favourite topic as of late.
“I don’t need more friends,” Solveig replied, gesturing around their table, which included the prince, Noren, and a few of their Fae soldiers. Friends might have been a bit of a stretch.
“Everyone needs more friends!”
“I’m not a witchling, Conalle. You don’t have to coddle me.”
“I can’t help it. Besides, it’s not just friendship you might find,” he insinuated. In the corner of her eye, Solveig saw a muscle in the prince’s jaw clench.
This could be fun.
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, feigning irritation. It wasn’t difficult.
“Come off it, Sol, you know what I mean. You might find someone who could tickle your fancy, strum your strings, butter your biscuit,” he said with a waggle of his eyebrows.
Solveig was trying very hard not to laugh at the look he gave her. She stared at him, face blank as if still not understanding, and he threw his hands in the air.
“For the love of the gods, Solveig, get some co—”
