Page 115 of North Is the Night
I close my eyes against the pain in his voice.
He steps closer, and I let him. “From the moment I met you, I knew you could be my redemption, my light in the dark. You stood before me and declared yourself mine. You freed me, Aina. I am myself again, and Iwillprotect you.”
“I’m yours?” I repeat. “Your property, my lord?”
“No.”
“Your servant?”
He takes me by the shoulders. “You are my wife and my queen. Gods hear me, you’ll be my lover too. Mother of my children, mate of my soul.” His grip softens, even as he holds fast to me. “But I vowed kindness. I will never force you, Aina. You will come to me willingly, or not at all.”
“You would force me without meaning to,” I reply, fighting the urge to tremble. “You’re doing it now. This bond in my chest pulls at me. And then you look at me.Please—will you just stop looking at me? You did it as the raven and now as the man—I feel like I can’t breathe with you always looking at me!”
He smirks, not looking away. “Shall I close my eyes and feel my way out of the room? You may have to help me mount my horse.”
I bristle. “And now you’re laughing at me.”
His smile falls. “I told you, wife. You have all the power here. I don’t think I’ve ever been so completely unveiled before another soul.” He rubs absently at his chest. “This bond is a curious surprise.” He glances back at me, dropping his hand to his side. “I will wait for you.”
My heart squeezes tight. “I don’t want you to wait for me. Don’t you understand? I know what I promised at the alder tree, but Ican’tgive in to this, my lord. I can’t give you children. Not in this place. I can’t—I can’t pretend Tuonetar doesn’t live in my house. I can’t forget that your daughters who betrayed you and sold you out to the Witch Queen still eat at my table.”
“They are being dealt with,” he replies. “They are not a threat to you. Aina, please—”
I shake my head, tears welling. Behind his calm demeanor, buried deep within the bond, I feel his anguish, his fear and loneliness. My threats are breaking him. Ilmatar help me, I think the god of death is in love with me. My voice is hesitant as I say, “How long will you wait for me?”
He takes my question as an invitation and steps forward. Cupping my face, he presses his lips to my forehead. “Until day is night and night is day,” he vows. “Until snow falls from the earth and birds fly north for winter. Is that what you want to hear?” His thumb slides against the coolness of my cheek. “I know you, Aina. Iseeyou. Tuoni, god of death, doesn’t frighten you. I don’t even think you’re afraid of Tuonela. Not anymore. Not in my arms. You’re afraid to give yourself to me... afraid toloseyourself to me.”
I swallow my frustration, hating how easy it is for him to read me.
“I will come to you as a poet if that is what you wish,” he goes on. “I’ll whisper honeyed words and make you feel like the queen of the forest. I will play the eager bridegroom. I will court you with flowers and songs. If that’s what you need, I will do it. But know this, wife: all words are hollow in the end. No words I speak will lead you to love me. You will love me for my actions.”
“Tuoni—”
He steps away, placing a chaste kiss on my hand. “Take all the time you want. Deny me for a hundred years if you wish. Mortal men may lack the strength to stand before your radiance, but I am not mortal... and I’m not going anywhere.”
36
Siiri
I sit at Väinämöinen’slow table. A bucket of fresh ice thaws by the hearth. The scraps from our shared meal still litter the table. I give the clear liquor in my cup a wary sniff. “What did you say this is?”
Väinämöinen chuckles, dropping to his knees at the table and picking up his own cup. He takes a contented sip, smacking his lips. “It’s a barley mash. I sweeten it with juniper berries. Try it, girl.”
He rifles through a basket as I take a small sip. The liquor stings like fire all the way down my throat. “Poison,” I rasp, setting the cup aside.
He barks out another laugh. “Keep drinking. This will hurt. My mash will help numb the pain.”
Aside from the crumbs of our meal, the table is now scattered with Väinämöinen’s tattooing tools. I grimace at the set of small fishbone needles tucked inside a strip of leather.
“I’ve been saving this for something special,” he says, taking something from his vest pocket.
“Saving what?”
He dangles a little leather pouch in his outstretched hand. “Do you know what this is?”
“How can I possibly know?”
He hands it over. “Look inside.”
