The noise of the feast faded to a constant murmur in the background, and Thori’s vision blurred.
Norrin’s fingertips brushed against his cheek in a featherlight touch, but Thori jolted as if struck. He hadn’t seen him moving.
“Are you listening, Odinsson?”
“Huh?”
Thori blinked, struggling to focus.
Something was off. He felt hot and cold at once, unable to suppress a shudder running through his body.
“You’re running a fever.”
Norrin frowned unhappily.
“I’m a god,” Thori croaked. His voice sounded thick, slurred. “I don’t get a fever.”
It was a foolish thing to say, and yet he couldn’t summon the energy to regret it. But Norrin didn’t seem amused. He glared at him—it lent him the appearance of a sullen bear—and Thori couldn’t help but smirk. Was he making a wise decision? He doubted it. But it was such an exhausting task to think clearly right now that Thori couldn’t be bothered.
Something changed in Norrin’s expression, and he placed a cool hand on Thori’s neck.
“You like to play the fool, but you aren’t stupid, am I right?”
Distantly, Thori felt like he should say something, that he should pull away. But it was so pleasant to let Norrin support part of his weight for a moment.
“No, you’re delirious.”
With a frustrated growl, Thori was pulled forward. The sudden movement made his vision black out, and when his world stopped spinning, he found himself slumped against Norrin, his head resting against the warrior’s thigh. On a deeper level, Thori knew he should feel embarrassed, but the exhaustion made everything so confusing, so he decided to just breathe for a moment.
A cup entered his line of vision. The one he’d brought Norrin? Thori licked his parched lips.
“Drink.”
What was his plan again? Did he decide to defy Norrin, or was he playing along for the time being?
“Thori, drink.”
Norrin’s voice was insistent, yet not unfriendly. Against his will, Thori liked it. He couldn’t resist parting his lips, and the sweet taste of warm mead filled his mouth. Norrin made him drink slowly, but he didn’t take the cup away, allowing Thori to drink his fill. When Thori sagged back, the cup was half-empty, and his lashes drooped heavily over burning eyes. A cloak, soft wool, smelling of salt and sea spray, settled over his shoulders. Closing his eyes in utter bliss, Thori shifted closer to the warrior.
“Good, now relax. You’re allowed to rest for a while.”
Sighing, Thori did as he was told, slumping against Norrin. Keeping his eyes open seemed like too much of a hassle, so he concentrated on the soft feeling of Norrin’s trousers against his cheek and the grounding feeling of Norrin’s hand resting against his neck. He needed to rest. He would find an opportunity to escape later.
seven
Revenge
Njord
The feast was still in full swing, and Sveinn was completely drunk. The fool hadn’t hesitated even for a second to welcome Njord into his camp, as he seemed to hope for profitable trades. And of course, he wasn’t able to see through his disguise as Norrin Stormtamer. Njord had put quite some effort into forging this identity, and he had used the persona of the eastern sea king for decades whenever he needed to gather information among the raiders sailing between the realms or dealing a blow against theÆsirwithout risking open war.
Sveinn’s priestess, however, was a different matter. While she didn’t know who he really was, she seemed to expect something from him. She lingered in the shadows, always watching him.
A soft sigh drew his focus back to the man kneeling at his feet.
Thori Odinsson.
Njord hadn’t expected that it would be so easy to be allowed into Sveinn’s camp, and even offered Odinsson to serve him. But then the trouble had started.
