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Chapter twenty-four

Sifa

And I Wait

I ’ve made some terrible decisions in my long life. The series of choices that landed me back in the gods-damned Nest might be the worst yet.

But I can’t bring myself to regret them.

I will. I know I will. My time here before nearly broke me. This will be worse. And I probably won’t be able to escape. This thing around my neck is designed to keep me in. But even without it, the Dróttning won’t allow the same weaknesses as last time. My guards will have strong minds and be changed regularly enough to defeat any manipulation. She won’t make the same mistakes.

Today, though, as I sit waiting for the torture to begin, I’m grateful to have bonded with Astarot. I’ve received the most precious gift any elf could get. My connection with my dragon completes me in a way I never knew I needed. I found our thread—a thin link, different from the pain I clung to as the guard carried me away—and I can feel his presence again. It gives me strength. But even if he dies, a thought that guts me, I wouldn’t regret saving him.

And as much as I really, truly hate admitting it to myself, I’m grateful to have known Fhord. Despite his betrayal, I can’t deny that our connection brought a part of me to life that I thought had died. I haven’t felt lust—because that’s all it was, I remind myself—since I left Midgard.

But I don’t want to think about Fhord. It hurts. A fog billows through me, deadening all my senses, whenever I let myself remember him. How he made me feel. The lies he fed me. My chest grows heavy, an anchor weighing down my heart, when my mind dredges up his face as he turned me over to the guards.

Soon, the pain will outweigh any gratitude I feel for having known him. And then I can push him out of my thoughts entirely.

Shaking my head, I stand to wander around the small cell. I still have enough strength to exercise, so I do. Dropping to the floor, I do push-ups until my arms feel like they can’t hold me up any longer. And then I do ten more. Lunges and squats follow before I finish by running in place. Perhaps ninety minutes after I started, I collapse on the floor, gulping in air while my gaze searches the ceiling above me.

“I did that too when they threw me in this hole.” The male voice that floats toward me is weak, like all the life has been wrung from it. A bitter laugh follows. “For a while.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Seven hundred and eighty-four days.”

A wave of pity for this faceless comrade ripples through me. I don’t think I’d be able to endure that much torture, and can tell from his voice he may be nearing his end. “How have you survived more than two years of this?”

“I am ridiculously difficult to kill.” This laugh is more genuine, as if he’s pondered his mortality long enough to find it amusing they still haven’t succeeded in taking his life.

“A blessing and a curse.”

“More of a curse at the moment, although it’s been a blessing in the past.” He sighs, a bone-weary exhale filling the space between us. “I’m ready to die. I just can’t find a way to do it.”

“What would it take?”

“When my head is separated from my body, I will rest.”

“Nothing else will end your life?”

“Nothing. I’ll grow weak, but I won’t die. After my first year here, I stopped eating for seventy-two days. The pain of starvation turned into a numb nothingness. I thought perhaps it would kill me, but it didn’t. Eventually I gave up. It’s been several months since I resigned myself to this existence.”

“Will they hold you here forever?”

“Eventually they’ll take my head,” he explains, a note of hope entering his voice. “They must know by now that I won’t give them anything they seek. I don’t know why they haven’t done it yet.”

“What do they hope to get from you?”

“The identities of the rebels in Revalle.” His tone is matter-of-fact, as if he long ago gave up trying to hide his connection to the rebellion. An unexpected thrill rolls through me as I realize this connection might be even more important than the link to the Dróttning I’ve been pursuing. They’re my best hope for finding a place for Astarot and me to hide. If we can get out of this place.

“Yes, that’s something the Dróttning would desperately want,” I agree. “You’re strong, to deny them information that might give you the death you crave.”

He sighs again, the weariness sneaking back into his exhale. “I have no choice. My mate joined me in the rebellion. If I gave up any of them, he would suffer, and it would be worse than anything I’ve experienced here. I would spend a thousand days on the rack before I would do that to him.”

“You have a mate? I didn’t think those bonds really existed.” I’ve heard references to mates in this world but only in whispers. I saw these bonds between elves in my worlds, but here, it feels like myth. Stories told long ago that have evolved over the years to describe an unattainable love.

“Our mating bond snapped into place when we saw each other. For more than two hundred years, it has been the reason we live. Dragging him into my misery would cause me more pain than the Dróttning could ever inflict.”

We sit in silence for a moment, my thoughts whirling. “Is that what it means to be mated to someone?” I ask at last. I don’t know why, but I need to better understand the mating bond. Maybe it will help me in my connection with Astarot.

“That is part of it,” he responds, his words trembling with emotion. “We are fortunate. With most of the elves trapped in the Dróttning’s prisons, few mates find each other. We somehow both evaded the Dróttning’s personal Helheim in the prisons, and then landed in each other’s arms. We’ve had more than most.”

“How many elves live freely here?” I’ve never met any, other than Bevin, if I’m right that he’s an elf. But I wouldn’t know if I had. I’d need to develop a friendship with another elf that would last long enough to break through the shields that protect our minds. Only then could I discern their nature.

It’s part of the reason my connection with Fhord is so confusing. Even if he were part elf—although he doesn’t feel like an elf—my mind seemed to recognize his when I first encountered him. I’ve never experienced that kind of link with someone I didn’t know.

“A few dozen,” he says. “But not freely. Their location is another secret the Dróttning would like to wring from me but hasn’t.” His voice is layered with pride.

“What’s your name?” I ask at last. “I suspect we’ll be good friends before our time here is done.”

“I am Joralf. And what is your name?”

“Sifa. I’m an elf too—which I’ve now admitted twice in a week, more than in all of the years I’ve lived in Revalle. Not a good sign,” I add with a laugh.

“I suspected you might be,” Joralf tells me. “The air shifted when you arrived. Your power must be great, to occupy so much space in these caves.”

“Maybe,” I concede. “I have no idea how to measure it here.”

The boots slapping on the floor in our direction draw our attention, ending any conversation. In a few seconds, two guards stop in front of my cell.

“The Dróttning requires your presence,” one snarls as my stomach drops. He pauses, a key just shy of the lock on my door, to sneer at me. “I’m not allowed to kill you, but I can cause you pain. As much as I need to get you to her alive. You don’t plan to fight me, do you?”

I drop my head and then hold still for a moment, letting the emotions wash through me. The dread I felt when they stopped at my cell has tempered, a flash of thrill taking its place. My pulse quickens, and I have to hold back a smile as their words settle.

I’m going to meet the Dróttning. Whatever I may suffer at her hands will be worth it because she holds all the answers in this place. Every bit of knowledge I can gather about or from her will help me find my way home. Or at least help me find a way home for Toffer, if I can’t bring myself to leave Astarot behind.

But they can’t know I want to meet her, so I don’t move right away, forcing them to speak again. “Are you gonna come willingly?”

I grasp on to sorrow and fear, pulling up my memories of Astarot being shot, to make sure that when I lift my eyes, they’ll reflect those emotions. “I will,” I tell them, dragging myself to my feet. When I shuffle toward the door, shoulders drooping and back curved, my gaze drops to the floor. They scrape open the door, grasp the chain still attached to my throat, and drag me out of my cell and down the hall.

The corridors wind endlessly and dread returns with the realization that we’re going deeper into the caves—toward the rooms they use to punish prisoners. After a dozen turns, I abandon any hope of remembering our path. I’ll never escape from the rack anyway. They’ll lead my broken body back to my cell when they’re done with it. Instead, memories of my weeks here fill my thoughts. It feels like my throat will close completely, the bile that’s started to rise from my stomach the only thing that will pass.

Fuck me . We turn into a hallway I recognize, right outside the room that holds the rack, and I’m deep in my dread. My emotions whip through me as I come to terms with what comes next. My stomach is tied in knots and I wonder if I’ll be able to keep myself from vomiting.

I don’t want them to hurt me again.

I know the cave they take me to, too well. The rack that waits for me. I fought them the first few times they tied me to its frame, thinking I could change or avoid anything they tried to do to me. It only made it worse. I always ended up trapped here—every single time—but when I fought, I did it with broken bones. Forcing myself to move, aligning my bones to make sure they healed properly while I hung here, was the most painful thing I’ve ever experienced. I won’t do it again.

When they lead me in, I let them strip me naked, spread my arms and legs, and tie me to the cold wood. Then I wait for the Dróttning to arrive. For the punishment to begin.

And I wait. And wait. And fucking wait.

Bitch.

But I won’t let despair suck me into its inferno this time. I choose anger. Erecting my strongest shields around my thoughts—because I will not let that bitch see any part of me—my mind replays everything the Dróttning has done to this world. Everything she’s done to me. It’s a never-ending loop that I refuse to stop. My pulse races and my heart pounds out its beat, the blood of my ancestors preparing me for anything she may bring.

Twice, Fhord’s betrayal dances into my mind, but I push it away. This is about the Dróttning. She’s coming, and I will be ready to spit in her face when she does. She will not see fear or anguish. Only fury. Hate. Resolve.

Guards occasionally traipse in to leer at my nudity. Some even touch me, fondling my breasts and poking their grubby fingers inside me. Laughing at my horror and degradation as I refuse to give them the satisfaction of screams or tears. Skin crawling, my mind occasionally shutting down when the assault goes too far, I deny them any response. I hold my body still because I will not shrink away from their depravity.

And I wait.

Twice, someone other than the Dróttning appears to give me pain. They beat me, leaving dark bruises all along my body and face. But I’ve suffered pain before. This will heal, and I know it’s only the beginning. So I hold on to my malice.

And I wait.

Finally, hours after they strapped me here, my head drooping in a sleep I desperately need already, I feel a pulse of energy moving toward me. It’s similar to Fhord’s but colder somehow. A winter storm driving forward to destroy everything in its path. If I can feel it, even through the manacle, it must be the Dróttning. Only her power could be so strong.

It won’t destroy me.

She won’t destroy me.

She’s pretty, in a frigid sort of way. I knew she aged slowly—she’s been alive a very long time—but I’m still surprised by how young she looks. Perhaps she’s like the Vanir and ?sir in my worlds, and will live forever.

Or until I kill her.

I suspect she and I are nearly the same height, but I’m taller than most humans. Her long, straight hair is black as a starless night, a stark contrast to the pale skin it frames. With strong bones and full lips that are painted so dark, they nearly match her hair, she looks like a witch from children’s nightmares on Midgard. The red dress she wears hugs the few curves she has in an otherwise stick-thin frame. Only the knives in her belt interrupt the look of blood from neck to toe.

She strolls in, her eyes dancing, and shoves two fingers inside of me, the longer fingernails scraping my walls to pull blood with them when she draws them away. As I’m gasping, struggling to control the agony that erupts in my core, her tongue reaches out to taste my pain, before sucking her fingers into her mouth.

“I’ve always enjoyed the taste of elf blood,” she purrs as she takes a knife from her belt and rests its edge against my bare skin. My flesh puckers where she touches, flinching away despite my resolve to stay still. And then she slices a thin strip of my skin, her gaze holding mine the entire time.

I can’t stop the shudder that washes over me. Closing my eyes, sucking in deep breaths as I work through the agony throbbing through me, I cling to the mountain of hate I built while I hung here.

She will not break me. Ever.

“Remove her manacle,” she directs one of the guards. Turning to me, her lips lift in a sneer that tries to mimic a smile. “I want to be able to touch your mind while we do this. It’s so much more fun when I can taste your pain.” She pauses as a man with a rough hand does her bidding, then backs away.

Twisting my neck to stare at the wall instead of her, I hold back the sigh that wants to escape as the blanket lifts from my thoughts. If the Dróttning knew me better—if I’d given in and revealed myself to my captors all those years ago—she’d have kept me bound. She knows I’m strong but not how strong.

“Look at me.” The Dróttning’s demand echoes through me, persuasion layered through her words. She’s trying to control my mind, but I’m more powerful than anyone else I’ve encountered in Vanatia other than Fhord, perhaps. She won’t take this from me.

“Look at me,” she repeats, anger entering her tone.

But I hold on. Because she will not control my mind.

“If you don’t look at me, I will slice off your tits. Now, before we’ve even had a chance to talk. I know your body heals itself, but I also know it will be a slow, painful process. I don’t have to do that. We may never get there, if you’re smarter this time and give me what I want.”

I turn my head and show her my anger and defiance. She may compel me with threats, but we both know it’s not what she wants. She wants to wield my thoughts. She wants my secret. I refuse to give her that.

“Never.” Holding her stare, I let venom fill me, twisting every feature. “I will never give you what you want. You failed before and you will fail now.”

“Why?” Curiosity fills this word. I think she’s legitimately confused about why I would defy her, deny her access to my thoughts and memories

“You’ve always chosen yourself over everyone else,” I hiss. “You can’t understand any other choice because your dominance in this world matters more to you than anything. Or anyone. But I see how small and empty you are. How fucking alone you are. Because you choose yourself.”

Pausing, I let her seethe in her anger at my words for a few seconds. And then I spit out the rest.

“My fear, my greatest fear, is that I would become like you. That I would sacrifice others to my own needs or wants. I will never let myself drop so low, become so depraved, as to be anything like you. I will suffer any pain, tolerate any humiliation, before I will give in to your demands.”

“Then you shall.” She drags her fingernails across the wound that still seeps blood, knives digging in to wrench more agony from me, before lifting them to her lips. A slow smile twists her features as she sucks away little bits of my life. “Bring a chalice of this elf’s blood to my room within an hour,” she orders, her gaze still holding mine.

Spinning, she strolls away, her words echoing through the chamber along with the staccato of her heels. “Leave the manacle off so I can relish her torment. Every drip that fills my cup must cause her pain. I want her to suffer as you extract her sacrifice. She’ll heal quickly, but you’re to ensure she bleeds through the night. Do anything you must. Or anything you’d like. Just don’t kill her. I’ll check back in tomorrow.”

My head drops as I prepare for the hours ahead.

They are everything I feared when they threw me in the cell. The pain that began in a single wound, its fire already filling me with an agony that ties up my lungs and fills my stomach with rocks, grows with every slice. Every cut. Every puncture and stab and twist. Every laugh and jeer and grope.

So I go away. The Dróttning will punish them if they kill me. My body will be alive when I return. Right now, at this moment, I need to protect my mind. I need to rebuild the walls inside that helped me get through the agony of their questioning without going mad. It will take time, even though the walls I forged before never fully came down.

My mind casts out, escaping the blades that hope to strip away my soul, as it searches. I don’t want to seek him, but I have none of the control I’d found when they held me here before. That will come in time. Today, my scrambling mind needs its anchor. It needs Fhord.

Tomorrow, I’ll build the new barriers I need to protect myself from him.

But he’s not here.

After only a couple of weeks, I know his essence better than my own. I’ve become attuned enough to sense him at the far reaches of the Nest. Even if he was shielding from me, I’d recognize his presence, at least.

He’s not here.

Finally, after my desperate mind has searched everywhere it can reach, it leaves the Nest. I can send it a few vikus away and still reel it back to me. That’s where I find him—perhaps two vikus from the caves. He’s blocked me, of course, as he races south alone on Sigurd. He didn’t even wait for Tindera to be released and must have left soon after the Dróttning entered this cavern. As she sliced my flesh away and tasted my blood.

That’s what breaks me. Not the punishment I’ll face alone, the pain I’ll endure at the hands of the Dróttning and her guards. Not the humiliation of being displayed for leches to see and touch. Not even the despair of knowing I probably can’t escape this time. They won’t make the same mistakes they did before. This is my life until they give up and send me to a prison.

Fhord destroys me, in a way the Dróttning didn’t and never could. I saw his face when he betrayed me and the rational side of me knew. He chose his duty, himself, over a chance of saving me. He gave me up because he would suffer for helping an elf. Anyone would. Survival is the most important instinct in this world.

I still hoped.

I wanted to believe it was an act. That this thing between us was more than lust. It was for me, I know now. I fell for Fhord. I didn’t want to. I should have pushed him away. I should have refused Bevin’s demand, forced him to choose someone else, even if it meant losing all the progress I’d made. I knew when I saw Fhord that he would threaten everything. And I let myself get close to him anyway.

I wanted to believe he cared about me too. But now I know he didn’t. Because if he did, he would have saved me from this fate. This pain.

If Fhord felt the way I do, he would have moved mountains to rescue me.

But he’s not fucking here.