At The End of it All

Music drifted through the closed doors like a melodious drum of death. Soft. Faint. A siren’s song that seeped under the cracks of heavy oak, like languid whisps of promise. I stood there –silently waiting, hands clenched so tightly into fists that I was sure they would start to bleed. Everything felt like it was humming. All day it had been a whirlwind of activity as the servants set to work preparing the palace for this moment –this single accumulation of seconds that would inevitably change everything. I stood behind the doors still as a statue despite the frantic beating of my heart. The overwhelming feeling of being pulled under water with no sight of the surface flooded through me. I felt like I was drowning. Swallowed up in a ridiculous ball of taffeta, silk and lace. More fabric layered over my skin than there had ever been in my entire life. It made me feel like a fraud, an ornamental pawn. All dolled up like an unsuspecting lamb being led to the slaughter.

“Breathe Âse.” I whispered to myself as I forced my fingers to uncurl. Small drops of red pitter-pattered to the floor as I refrained from smoothing my shaking hands against the side of my dress. Their warmth seeped through my fingers and stained the hem of my gown. The sight made something akin to dread flutter in my chest. “Fitting isn’t it.” I hummed as I watched the lace slowly leech the red, turning its edges into something sickly pink. The traditional white now soiled with the very blood that was supposed to unite my people with the ones waiting on the other side of the door. Corrupted before the purification ceremony. Tainted before the Guder. Maybe it was a sign… “Breathe. Âse.” I reminded myself. Ignoring the looks of the lady’s maids beside me.

To them I was a spectacle. A northern girl with hair too fine and eyes too dark, swept into the spotlight by nothing other than birthright. A girl of soft hands and fragile words who smelled of the wheatgrass that grew in golden waves along the country’s furthermost boarders. To them, I was unfit to rule beside their king who had been born from power and forged by bloodshed and battle. The music shifted tempo, quiet harmonies falling into line as the doors in front of me creaked. I straightened my spine. Trying to forget the feeling of the dress that threatened to light my lungs on fire. The lady’s maids sprung to attention as they fluffed the train of my gown. Quiet sentinels of poised gossip and venomed words. When the older one, the white haired lady who always looked at me like I was a thorn in her side moved to pull the veil over my face I froze. Breath catching in my lungs so quickly it chilled like the winter air.

She smiled politely, though I could see the disgust lingering in the depths of her eyes. I wasn’t bred for this, and she knew it as much as I did. Do not look down. Do not trip. Do not show weakness. A single tear slipped down my cheek as I tried in vain to remind myself to breathe again. I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t good enough to be queen. A fraud. Of all my sisters, I was the least qualified to be standing here. The youngest. Unknowledgeable about the inner workings of court life. Where they had studied religiously about the political affairs and societal practices, I spent my days reading. Walking the paths of our country home as I learned the names of the flowers. This… it was all too much.

“Are you ready Vandrer?” The older woman asked as she reached up and wiped the tear from my skin. Her cold fingers brushing the overheated flesh of my cheeks as she settled the veil into place. Her lips twitched at the corners like she was forcing herself to keep a straight face. “Our king is waiting for his little blomst. Must not let it wilt in the shadows any longer.”

I didn’t have the time to run before the heavy doors swung open –old, weathered creaking as they parted forwards like a gaping maw ready to swallow me whole. She nudged me towards the center aisle with a huff of air. The music that had once been muffled now flowed freely. Wrapping around me like silken webs of false bravado. The muscles in my jaw feathered, an indescribable tightness in my expression that wouldn’t have been noticeable unless one tried to find it. She found it. The woman smiled at the discomfort, a quick flash of teeth before she righted her expression again. A quiet melody hummed between her lips.

“What is it delikat little Vandrer,” the woman asked as he leaned forwards and whispered in my ear. Her breath brushing against the nape of my neck and a sending a chill down my spine. “Is it too much all of a sudden, are you feeling scared little blomst? Is it all you ever wanted but now just realize you never needed? You know what can solve that flutter in your chest… run…”

Her words were like needles pricking into my skin, poisoning me from the inside out. A gentle calcification of honeyed tar that stuck to my heart. All too soon I felt like I was drowning. Sinking slowly under the sudden burn of the lights that shined on me from somewhere in the chapel’s depths. Every head turned in my direction; hundreds of eyes focused solely on me. I gulped back the growing bile in my throat and closed my eyes for a moment. Brief. Grounding. Do not trip. Do not look down. Do not show weakness. I walked slowly. Counting my steps as I tried to keep my heels from tangling into the edges of my gown. Eyes focused on the floor despite the whispered reminders. My hands fisted at my sides, fingers going numb. I could feel the penetrating gaze of my betrothed at the end of it all. Yet I refused to look up, afraid that if I saw the man who put the kind of fear in my people that led me to this moment I would do as the old woman had suggested.

Something unexplainable thrummed in my chest, growing faster the closer I got to the alter. Like a war drum working to keep me steady despite how petrified I truly was. My footsteps faltered a little and I nearly tripped. My entire body freezing for a second as I felt the familiar crawl of blush creep across my skin, praying no one saw, though I knew everyone had. Then I continued walking. Slower. Eyes still on the floor. I wasn’t a strong person. I wasn’t politically refined. I was a quiet country girl who loved nature more than people. I wasn’t cut out for this. I was the worst choice. When I neared the altar I looked to my left. My family sat there smiling. Sisters beaming with excited jealousy, my mother with pride. But it was my father that stopped me from smiling back. The way that he stared at me like I was the solution to every late night he spent pouring over war plans. It twisted my insides and made the room sway around me. I looked away from them. The pink in my cheeks deepening.

When I finally reached the end of my death march I looked up for the first time. At Bjørn. The ruthless king who stood beside the priest like a solemn effigy of unabashed destruction dressed under the weight of ceremonial armor, heavy mantle and the royal crown. His face held none of the warmth it should have on our wedding day. It made the feeling of unease grow deeper inside me. I watched his gaze languidly run its way across my figure. His jaw clenching as he gritted his teeth. Then he took a single almost indecipherable step towards me, a large hand outstretched as he grabbed my hand from where it was curled into the fabric at my hip. A silent command to join him where destiny would intersect with barbarity.

The moment his hand touched mine it burned, like sparks of electricity running through every nerve of my body as if it were a war path only he knew the way through. The heaviness of it all wrapping itself around my heart, mind and soul. My people didn’t believe in magic the way those from the south did. But we trusted in the Guder. In the little invisible threads of sjelevenn that undeniably bound two souls like a gift from the heavens. Even if I was blind, I would have understood the intensity of the moment. I wanted to speak. To shy away and hide from the reality I knew was about to come crashing down around me, but I couldn’t. I didn’t. The pulsing of the threads that tied itself around my heart and his kept me where I was. Shocked into submission if only for just a moment.

I watched as his breath stilled in his chest, the unmistakable pull of the sjelevenn nearly bringing even the most ruthless of kings to his knees. The music faded into the background as the world suddenly narrowed down to the two of us. To the space between him and me. For the first time since I had been carted to this kingdom full of cunning eloquence hidden behind noblemen and women dressed in their finest silks and furs, I studied his face. Propriety be damned. I allowed myself a moment to take him all in. The twitch of his lips as he refrained from smirking. The creases of his brow, like they were constantly furrowed in worry or agitation. The curve of his jaw behind the wildness of his braided beard. The long scar that ran down the left side of his face… it made me want to trace it with my fingertips and ask what sort of blade could have carved out a line so jaggedly rough against the marble sculpt of a man that radiated hellfire. If I had a been a better woman, a stronger one, I would have stepped back. Knowing that what stood before me was less man than he was Djevel. I would have turned and ran down the aisle to the open doors that beckoned freedom like whispering demoner.

But I wasn’t. I had never been, and the scent of him curled around me like it was carving into my soul with the intentions of branding itself there. Musk. The pine. Woodsmoke. Something so righteously him it nearly made me stagger back. My nose twitched as I inhaled a deeper breath, trying to regain all the thoughts that I had lost at the first electric shock of the sjelevenn. He was so close –the lack of space between us left me dizzy.

“Why do you hesitate little queen.” Bjørn rumbled, his voice achingly mocking as he leaned down to study me. Fingers flexing against my hand when he slowly let it go, reaching up to trail them against the side of my cheek before he gently brushed away a strand of hair that had fallen from the meticulous crown of braids I wore behind my ear. “The threads of fate do not lie. Tell me, would you rather watch me burn your world down than accept my hand in marriage?” He continued; the question almost playful if not for the way his eyes studied my face. As if he was searching for a reaction.

“No.” The word came faster than I intended. His threat reminding me why I was here. Why I had been chosen. “No…” I repeated. Slower this time as I shook my head. Carefully chewing over my words. “It would be cruel to condemn everyone else to a life of flames just because I couldn’t choose my hand in marriage.”

His exhale came slow, hot breath that washed over my skin like disappointment at my answer. “Cruel indeed and yet, not entirely undeserved.” With deliberate slowness, Bjørn tilted his head down further until his lips nearly brushed against my ear. His words were a command wrapped in velvet hidden smoke. “But if that is the choice you decide to make, then take my hand little queen and let me show you how to rule with the flames instead.”

I gulped, a flush creeping slowly across my cheeks, my eyes only able to focus on his scar and the way he looked at me now like a wolf ready to pounce. Do not look down. Do not appear weak. You are nothing if you do not take this marriage. Do it for your people. My hand shook as I slowly lifted it towards his. I watched as his smirk curled against his lips again when he stood. His tall looming figure filling the altar with its commanding presence. Half cloaked in shadows like a sentry. A weapon of destruction I was willingly selling my heart and soul too. Breathe. Do not look down. Do not show weakness. Do it for your people. I went through the list in my head like a mantra. Something tangible to keep myself from screaming. His presence was everywhere. Commendable. Suffocating in its regality and aura. Nothing less than a king should be.

I had to tilt my head back to look at him as I laid my hand against the rough calloses of his palm. Do it for your people. The smirk he wore only grew at the tremble of my hand now in his. Like a warrior recognizing surrender, tasting it when it came from something far more dangerous than weakness, but rather defiance.

“You’re mine at last.” He murmured under his breath –too quiet for anyone else to hear.

Oh god… I was going to ruin us all.

Norwegian-to-English Glossary

Âse – [proper noun] old Norse name meaning ‘goddess.’ Symbolizes wisdom, connection to the divine.
Bjørn – [proper noun] old Norse name meaning ‘bear.’ Symbolizes strength, courage and resilience.
Guder – Gods. Plural form of the word Gud (God).
Sjelevenn – Soulmate or kindred spirt. Translates directly to ‘soul friend,’ signifying someone with whom you have a deep spiritual connection.
Blomst –Flower or blossom.
Delikat –Delicate. Sensitive. Describes something easily damaged or that needs careful handling.
Vandrer – [proper noun] meaning wanderer.
Demoner – Demons. ‘Evil-spirit’
Djevel – Devil. Can refer to the spirit of the devil or even metaphorically to someone perceived as bad.