Page 66 of Warlords, Witches & Wolves

“I didn’t want to admit that love was already there for me if I wanted it. I thought it could be taken from me so easily, that it made me weak, that someone would hurt you and I would be broken utterly. I never understood that it was I who hurt you and in so doing hurt myself.” He took up both hands. “Please, Absolon, I know I have done you much wrong. I stole your life from you, and I broke your heart more times that I should be forgiven for, but please, I have changed. I have seen that the life I could have with you is worth more than all the gold and praise and sagas put together.”

The hard glint in Absolon’s eyes did not soften. “You are a liar and you will always be one. Now get out of my house.” He pulled himself free of Ragnar’s grip and held the door open. He refused to meet Ragnar’s gaze.

Was this it? Was there truly nothing he could say to make Absolon understand the depth of his love? He could feel it, running all the way through him, but how could he show it to Absolon? If he died, there would be no life left for him.

He stumbled to his feet and shuffled towards the door. He stopped in front of Absolon. “Please, Sol. There must be something I can do to keep you alive.”

He lowered his face towards Ragnar like a snarling hound. “I would have my freedom from the pain of love. Now go ruin someone else’s life.” He shoved Ragnar out of the house and slammed the door.

He turned to knock. He would plead with Absolon again, if not to take him back then at least to reconsider his suicide. He pressed his hand against the wooden door. But what words could he say that he hadn’t already? Absolon didn’t trust any of them. And whose fault was that? He took a step back and traipsed across the field in a daze.

Eight days.

He had eight days before Absolon perished in which to find a reason for him to stay alive. Why couldn’t it be him?

He knew why.

And he wished it wasn’t so.

He slipped into the forest and walked with his head down. Words no longer meant anything to Absolon, and perhaps they never had. They hadn’t spoken much when they’d been holed up in the forest that first winter, yet he’d felt Absolon’s love then as they eked out their living. He had to do something to show—

Pawprints tracked through the mud.

The dog…

He crouched and felt around them. They were fresh and led off to his left. He stared in their direction. He could get the dog back. If Absolon wouldn’t live for him, then maybe he’d live for the dog. Despite what Absolon said, he was made to love, and it didn’t have to be human.

He followed the tracks as far as he could, wending deeper into the forest, crossing and recrossing the stream. They disappeared at times and he had to expand his search to find where they picked up again, but towards the end of daylight he spied the dog in the distance.

He breathed out in relief. Now all he had to do was catch it. Trogen hadn’t yet spotted him so he crept closer, keeping as quiet as possible, until he was within astenkastof the reclining animal. He lowered himself into a sprinter’s stance, digging his heel into the dirt to get plenty of power, then launched. He charged through the forest towards the dog and swept it into his arms before it knew what had happened.

He’d done it! He’d caught the dog!

But his elation was short-lived as the dog fought and snarled and sank its teeth into his arm. He dropped it out of fear, and the dog fled. Ragnar cursed its retreating backside, but when his frustration subsided and he was left alone in twilight, he knew the blame was all his. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy, and now he’d wasted one of Absolon’s few remaining precious days. There was no point in chasing the dog now. The more he stormed through the forest, the more likely it was that the dog would keep running.

He sank to the ground and rested against a tree trunk. He’d have to bide his time until the morning came and try again. Trogen had given his trust easily when they’d first met in his cell, which is how he’d been able to use him against Absolon, but regaining it would require time Absolon may not have.

The next day Ragnar stayed in the area, the many tracks in the ground a sign that Trogen preferred it. He hunted, caught a hare and a pheasant, and built a fire over which to roast them in the hope the smell would draw the dog near.

But he stayed away.

Ragnar scattered the cooked meat in a broad radius around his camp and waited, anxiety over the passing hours urging him to do more, or at least to go see Absolon. But he refrained. He sat and dug his hands into the soil as if they were roots taking hold. He didn’t see Trogen the entire day, but he remained through that day and the next with no reward.

The following day he hunted again and set the kills to cooking, while checking what had been taken and what left. In place of meat, he found pawprints and breathed out a heavy sigh. It was a start. There were only five days left, but he knew he was on the right path. He laid out more meat and waited, and in the late afternoon was rewarded with the sight of Trogen standing on a rocky ledge looking down on him. He remained for a second then turned tail and ran. But it didn’t dishearten him. He would try again.

With four days remaining, he didn’t scatter the meat as far and laid trails leading to Ragnar’s position. Absolon’s nearing demise constricted Ragnar’s throat, but he continued on. He couldn’t hurry the dog, and Absolon would not listen to his words. He had to be patient, even knowing how close to the end he was getting.

Ragnar waited by the campfire, the smell of charred meat wafting through the air. He held onto a pheasant’s leg while another rabbit cooked over the fire. Trogen had to come. Absolon couldn’t die.

The sound of crunching bones and contented growls came from behind Ragnar’s back. He turned slowly to see the russet hound munching on its meal, happy in its gluttony. When Ragnar rotated in his place, the dog looked up and cocked its head, its tongue lolling out of its mouth. Its ears were up. Ragnar allowed himself a smile.

He held out the pheasant leg and called softly to the dog. A tense minute passed before Trogen stood, sniffed the air, and approached. Ragnar stayed where he was, careful not to spook the animal, but he worried his heart was thundering loud enough to scare him away. Trogen reached forward with his snout, wary of getting too close yet still eager for a feed. Ragnar held it out further, and Trogen took it in his jaw and sank to the spot to eat.

He breathed again, fully aware of how much stock he was putting into this endeavor. He wanted to go to it and scratch behind its ears or coax it into his arms, but he wasn’t yet certain of the animal’s trust.

When Trogen finished, he stood and ambled closer, snuffling under Ragnar’s hand to lick the meat juices from his skin. The rough and eager tongue made him laugh but he kept his voice quiet, changing from a chuckle into a hum, to sing to the dog as it lay in the dirt and rested its head in Ragnar’s lap. He sang as he stroked the thick wiry hair on the dog’s back. Trogen climbed into Ragnar’s lap, curled up in the warmth that Ragnar provided, and fell asleep. Ragnar sang all afternoon, his hand on Trogen’s back, and his heart quiet and at peace.

Tomorrow, he would save Absolon.

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