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I must be dead, Lothar determined in his mind, although he didn’t recall the actual pain of dying in battle. He remained motionless, wondering whether one Odin’s nine maidens would judge him worthy to journey to Valhalla.
An acrid smell made his nose twitch as he inhaled. Hearing a female voice hum close by, he slowly opened his eyes. Attempting to focus on the lilting voice, Lothar turned his head to the side and groaned, regretting the small movement.
Gradually his sight cleared.
He gazed at the small cook pit of coals illuminating the center of the room. He spotted an open door beyond the pit, and light coming from a side window with its covering pulled back. He noted the cross breeze kept the room from being smoke filled.
Rotating his shoulders slowly to gauge the pain, Lothar immediately realized he couldn’t separate his wrists. He turned his head, raised his arms, and looked at the strip of leather binding them together. He twisted and pulled his hands against the strap, causing the blanket covering him to shift and fall to the floor. He shivered as cool air rippled across his body.
Silence.
Lothar turned his head to find a woman staring at him. Her shape outlined in the firelight against the darker shadows of the wall.
He ceased struggling when she glided towards him with a wooden goblet. Her dark auburn tresses danced in waves that cascaded along the linen dress, accentuated her curves.
“Valkyrie,” he whispered to himself. One of Odin’s maidens chose him worthy, as a warrior. She would free him of his earthly bonds, and escort him to Valhalla.
He watched her set the goblet on the floor next to the pallet. He flinched when she bent closer to him, then relaxed his shoulders, and noticed the ache subsided when her warm hand gently caressed his forehead.
Her eyes were light green with little golden flecks, reminding him of the grassy meadows filled with yellow wildflowers near his home.
A sudden rush of heat spread through him, his arousal grew between his legs, and he realized that he was not dead, but very much alive! He wiggled his hips, attempting to hide his erection, but the movement teased his body against the material covering him, and he resolved not to move at all.
“Where am I, Valkyrie?” Lothar spoke hoarsely through cracked lips.
“My name is Dara, and you are in my home, on the island of Hibernia.” She checked that the leather still bound his wrists.
Lothar enjoyed the velvety-soft tone of her voice. He rubbed his cheek absentmindedly with the back of his hand while he tried to remember how he arrived there. He felt a strange prickly sensation against his skin. Alarmed when he detected stubble instead of the full beard and mustache, he bellowed, “What have you done to me?”
She stood and crossed her arms. “I found you after the storm,” she calmly stated. “As for your facial hair, I removed it to save your life.”
“My beard could not have killed me,” he said.
“I have been shaving you,” Dara continued unperturbed by his rolling eyes, “and trimmed your hair slightly after I brought you here five days ago. I also removed your wet garments, so as not to leave any trace that you may be a Norse raider.”
He glanced at the loincloth. “Tell me why I am wearing this garment.”
“To save your life.”
“My death is no concern of yours.”
He watched her nervous hands play with the leather belt while she paced the floor.
“You could have killed me on the beach, but you didn’t; I simply returned the favor.”
He glowered at her as he self-consciously placed a hand over the side of his mouth, where he knew there was a small mole near the corner that had been hidden by his beard.
He sat up and surveyed the room for something to show his reflection. He bent down, picked up the wooden goblet, and glanced at himself in the liquid.
Detecting a difference in his complexion, Lothar noticed his upper face retained some of the sun-bronze left over from the summer spent out in the weather. But it too had started to fade. He grimaced as he noted the lower half still pale from his former beard. He thought he glimpsed her smile when he set the goblet back down.
“I am Lothar Truelsen, and I want to know who your chieftain is!”
“There is no chieftain here.”
“I will speak with the leader of your clan.”
“I belong to no clan.”
“The ruler in your village, then.”
“I live in the forest.”
“I demand to know who I talk to about terms for my release,” Lothar growled out.
“Me!” she finally yelled back.
“I thought women on this island were bound by the laws of men.” He knew women from his homeland were independent from men, and understood that other countries didn’t follow this custom.
“I am known by some to be a sorceress.”
Noticing a tear trickle down her cheek, he felt foolish about what he had been demanding of her. Taking a deep breath, he asked, “Tell me your terms for my release.”
“When you can walk.” She sniffed. “The faster you leave, the less danger I’ll be in.”
“I understand.”
“I’ll find you something to wear for now until you are able to leave.”
“My clothing...” Lothar reached down and touched the end of the loincloth fully aware of what remained awake underneath.
“Your leggings were wet; I had to remove them before the dampness killed you.”
He yawned. “Tell me again where you found me.” With his wrists bound together, he reached down, and grasped the blanket; draping it over his legs, before reclining on the pallet.
* * *
DARA STIRRED THE COALS in the fire pit as she told him of their first meeting and the other man on the beach. After she finished, she turned and found him asleep with his shoulders hunched. Sighing, Dara removed the leather strip from his wrists and pulled the blanket over him. She watched his body shift and fall into a comfortable slumber. Grabbing the goblet, she moved to the table, poured some mead and took a swig. She sat on the stool and watched him sleep while considering her motives for helping him.
“My death is no concern of yours,” he had said. The statement stunned her. What would it mean to her if he died? She couldn’t decide whether the type of danger she would experience was from the local villagers, or something of a more personal nature.
She wasn’t sure which scared her more.
Dara didn’t want to think about it, but the question would not leave her. She had to get her mind off of the probing questions, while needing to do something with her hands.
Since Lothar was asleep, she walked toward her sewing basket, grabbed the bolt of newly purchased linen, then tiptoed over to him and spread the cloth across his chest.
Dara let out a soft whistle that seemed to stir him. She scrambled back to her stool and set herself to cutting the material. She reprimanded herself for taking such a chance on waking the man when he needed to rest to recover.
Dara found her bone needle and some thread and started to stitch up a long-sleeved shirt. The pulling of thread through the cloth would keep her mind busy.
“Ow!” she muttered as the sharp point of the bone needle pricked her. She looked at her finger, noticing a bead of blood appear. She dropped the sewing project onto her lap, and sucked her injured digit, glowering at the sleeping man. If she hadn’t known any better, she was sure she had heard him snicker.
She removed the finger from her mouth. The pain was gone and the blood stopped pooling. Frustrated, Dara stood, placed the material into her basket, and began pacing back and forth. Finally picking up her gardening basket, she headed outside and closed the door behind her.
