Chapter 14

CHAPTER 14

Frida surveyed the hillside, though the canopy of leaves shielded most of her trek from view. No one was following, as far as she could tell.

Her heart ached anew.

Not that she'd wanted Gunnar to come after her; she'd fled precisely to remove herself from his cool stare.

He'd seemed, at first, willing to listen and to understand, to accept her even. His reaction toward the runes and all she'd tried to explain could have been far worse. But then he'd turned cold, dismissing her altogether, making it clear he wanted no more to do with her.

Despite all they'd shared!

The weight of Gunnar's judgment tore at her, and there was no escaping that burden. The man she loved had cast scorn upon her, as others had done before—those who saw wickedness where Frida saw wonder. They feared what they did not understand, and Gunnar was no different.

No. Different.

The acceptance of it burned within her chest, but regardless of his spurning, she still yearned for him.

Fool.

Her tears welled.

I'm a fool to have felt anything at all.

She fell to her knees, pressing her heated forehead to the grass.

Had she the will to carry on?

So casually, he'd mocked her, throwing away their closeness.

It can't have meant anything in that case!

The intimacy had never been what she'd believed. It was obvious now. All her imagination!

Sitting up on her heels, she rubbed at her eyes. There was no benefit in dwelling on feelings that were one-sided. He'd shunned and betrayed her!

And why was that?

The fear that grew like a canker whispered through her pain.

He was repulsed because there's something wrong with me.

Why is it that I see such awful and strange things? Why am I cursed so?

A breeze carried from the sea, lifting the hair from around her face, but it brought no answers. There never were any. Not real answers, no matter how much she studied the stars or waves or stared into the embers of the fire. Neither flame nor smoke told her what she needed to know. Not even the runes could be relied upon.

Something was happening here on the island, but she was no closer to understanding what that might be. The puzzles laid out before her seemed unsolvable.

Perhaps I'm being punished if Freyja thinks I haven't used my gifts wisely.

It was little wonder then that the goddess had chosen not to bless Frida with a child.

No wonder Gunnar had scorned her. She hadn't deserved his love. Perhaps she wasn't worthy of anyone's. The thought branded a scar across her heart.

I'll never know love the way others do. I've been an idiot to think otherwise.

Raising her face to the sky, she beseeched Freyja, as she had so often, asking for some sign that she was with her, that the goddess still believed in her.

There was nothing out of the ordinary, however.

While Frida's heart broke, all else appeared as it usually did, though dark clouds were gathering over the water, casting shade that moved fast across the sands. Many hours would yet pass before the sun would descend to the horizon, but it felt as if the world was bathed in twilight, all brightness extinguished.

The breeze came again, stronger now, blowing the first spits of rain.

Frida shivered.

If she remained as she was, she'd be soaked. Besides which, she'd fled with one place in mind to escape to. It was there she ought to go, letting the walls enclose and protect her as they had in times past. It was where she retreated whenever life became too much to bear.

Rising, she continued upward, pushing through the foliage and away from the well-trodden track toward the jagged fa?ade that rose steeply from the hillside. No one knew of the special place but herself and Bothild, as far as she knew. There was no reason for any to go there nor any chance of someone coming randomly upon the opening in the rock. The entrance to the cave was concealed by vines and trailing branches.

Clambering over the gnarled roots that marked the threshold of the cave, Frida tugged aside the heavy creepers, revealing the narrow opening. It gave no indication of the space beyond. Passing through, she let the vines drop behind. For some moments, she stood as she was, where fragments of muted brightness yet filtered between the leaves.

The cave was special, though for reasons as complex as the visions she'd been enduring. Since Frida was young, Bothild had brought her here to make libations to the mountain elves every twelve moon cycles for the álfablót . Though for some years, Frida had undertaken the duty alone, for Bothild was no longer strong enough to make the journey.

It was a sacred space of quiet reflection and solace, a place also of more tormenting memories. This was where she'd come when the island's men had turned on her, accusing Frida of causing the illness that had struck them.

She'd warned of the illness and deaths to come, hoping the men would find some way to appease the gods, but they'd chosen to believe she was cursing them rather than warning. As far as she knew, she hadn't been, but perhaps she was wrong about that, too.

She'd been wrong about a great many things.

I was wrong about Gunnar…

It seemed wherever she went, she spread ill-tidings. Was it possible she'd also inadvertently provoked the men's suffering?

Trailing her fingertips along the familiar, curving wall, she moved more deeply inside until the entranceway became indiscernible.

She closed her eyes, breathing in not just the cool, dank air but the darkness surrounding her. It was a palpable thing, pressing upon her skin, making her feel that even the ground beneath her had given way to this void of nothingness. The sensation made her sway, but it took only the reach of her hand to reassure her that the wall remained, its surface damp.

From past visits, when she'd had the foresight to bring a lamp, she knew the ceiling reached far while the cavern extended back, and there were several places where water dripped from above.

Every moment of her life had brought her to this place—to the cave, yes, but also to this overwhelming grief. She should have seen how events were unfolding. What use was her foresight if it could not protect her from pain?

Thus far, her abilities had protected no one.

How can I have been so rash? Thinking Gunnar would love me or that he would give me a child to love?

That was never the life I was destined for.

I should have known better.

The closeness we shared with our bodies meant nothing to him. Didn't Elin say as much?

Elin—who she'd lied to rather than see her friend attain what Frida herself coveted.

I've been selfish and so utterly wrong. I deserve this.

Frida wrapped her arms around herself. This was her sanctuary and her prison. She'd run away through necessity when the men had turned upon her. How cold and terrified she'd been! Too afraid to emerge in daylight, she'd quenched her thirst by pressing her tongue to where the walls were most wet and chewed upon moss that grew near the entrance. She could still taste it at the back of her throat, its flavor lingering like the fear that had gripped her.

Five nights had passed before her grandmother dared seek her out. She'd known, of course, where Frida had concealed herself. By then, the surviving men had set sail, and Bothild had spoken on Frida's behalf, convincing the women that there was no harm in her. Bothild was greatly respected; for her sake, Frida had been permitted to return.

Now, she wanted only to remove herself from what was too painful to bear, to hide from the wreckage of her own doing, to forget she'd let herself love Gunnar.

Against the darkness of her memories, Frida closed her eyes.

How has it come to this?

This time, the fault was hers, and there was no remedy for her despair. Elin had been her one true friend, and look how she'd treated her! Had Gunnar sensed something of her deceit? Frida held close so many secrets, had she forgotten how to speak honestly?

It seemed even Freyja had abandoned her.

I cannot abide it.

The cave was where she would stay, and she would make her end there. Sliding down the side of the wall, Frida at last gave in to her sobs.