“Damn it, thrall, listen to me!”
The music swelled, and Thori nearly twisted out of his grip. Njord needed to do something, and fast. Gripping him more firmly to adjust for his struggling, Njord pressed his lips to Thori’s ear.
“Vakna þú, Þór, sonur Óðins. Heyr kall mitt.”
Instinctively, he reached for the old tongue, the language of binding and command that all gods understood in their bones.
For a horrible moment, Thori didn’t react. Then he blinked, some of the dreamy haze clearing from his eyes.
“Njord?”
His voice was thick and confused, but he was present again.
“I’m here,elskan.” Tightening his grip, Njord half-carried, half-dragged him through the fog toward where he knew the path back to the fortress lay. “Stay with me. Nothing else is of importance to you.”
Thenøkk’scall grew more insistent, the lyre music turning sharp and discordant as it realized its prey was escaping. Something brushed against them in the mist, cold and wet and disgusting like seaweed, but Njord pressed onward, using his knowledge of Nóatún’s steep paths to navigate blind.
Thori stumbled along beside him, fighting the enchantment with visible effort.
“What—what is this thing?”
“A water spirit. Anøkk. They lure their victims into the deep water to drown.”
“I can hear—singing—” Thori’s voice turned dreamy again, and he tried to turn back toward the sound.
“No.” Njord caught his face in one hand, pulling him closer with his arm around his waist and forcing Thori to look at him instead of the swirling mist. “Look at me. Only at me. Follow my voice.”
Something flickered in Thori’s eyes, but he still swayed. Thenøkkcalled again, closer now, and Thori winced as if in pain.
“It’s so beautiful,” he whispered. “I need—I need to know where it’s coming from.”
“The only thing you need to do is find the way back to my halls,” Njord snarled, drawing on every ounce of his divine authority. “You belong to me now, remember? And I won’t let a simple water spirit steal what’s mine!”
Thori’s gaze sharpened slightly, and a lovely flush rose on his cheeks.
“Njord,” he mumbled weakly before he hid his face against Njord’s chest.
He was still mostly dead weight in Njord’s arms, but he let himself be dragged forward, his resistance broken.
They reached the fortress gates just as the fog lifted, revealing glimpses of churning water far below, where something pale and hungry circled in the waves. Thenøkklet out one final,frustrated howl before the mist dissipated entirely, taking the deadly music with it.
Thori collapsed in Njord’s arms as soon as they were safely within the courtyard, his face pale.
“What happened? I felt like I was dreaming while awake.”
“Nøkkenare of old magic,” Njord said, running gentle hands over Thori’s shoulders. “Old as the waves, they feed on the warmth of living, breathing things, usually by drowning their victims. They lure them into the water with their music.”
Thori looked up at him with something like wonder.
“But you called me back. I heard your voice even through the music.”
Njord felt heat creep up his neck. He had spoken to Thori in the binding tongue, had used words that implied care and protection.
“You responded to my command,” he said gruffly, turning his head to hide his embarrassment. “As you should.”
Thori nodded slowly, but he didn’t move away from where he was still clinging to Njord, warm and safe and his.
“Thank you,” Thori said quietly. “For bringing me back.”
