Nena by Ann Boelter (digital book reader txt) 📕

had witnessed her uncharacteristic response to Baldor that night in the council. Most importantly, he would have noticed that she had never once demanded revenge. She had assumed Gentok had positioned himself to be at the cliffs at the same time, but even that could have been her father’s doing. He had not disguised the fact that he wanted her to choose, and he would know of her leanings toward Gentok.

Or—and she hated to admit this, her being sent here could just have been a coincidence. Gentok was right about that, too; she never would have questioned it, had she not wanted to be near Jarl. Guarding the cliffs was a normal expected duty. And the other warriors were, in fact, taking four day shifts. Had she just overreacted? Gentok’s other words burned in her mind. Did she shame herself? The concept was so foreign, it was difficult to even imagine. She had always been the one others emulated. Successful. Strong. Never before would the word shame have even been breathed in the same sentence as her name. But now?

She tried to imagine the situation through their eyes, as if she’d never left the village, as if it were some other female warrior who’d been captured and returned acting as she did. Some other woman who now cared for an enemy prisoner—a Worick perhaps. Woricks were the only enemy she could think of that her people despised as much as Northmen. She imagined this other woman caring for a bulging-skulled, jewelry-pierced Worick—bringing him food, thinking of him, pining for him. It made her sick. Nena had no doubt she would have looked at such a woman with pure and utter disdain. As Lothor had looked at her.

And, she would have believed, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that for Lothor to kill such an enemy was the best thing for the woman. The certainty of her conviction left Nena shaken. If she would have felt that way about someone else, then was it right? Was she under some spell that she needed to break free from? The thought made her heart ache even more because now it added guilt to the existing pain.

How had she come to this? How had she turned into someone who had to restrain herself from attacking one of her own people to protect an enemy? And Jarl was the enemy; why did it not feel that way? Baldor had never been a favorite of hers. His heavy-handed, brutish ways had eliminated him from ever being chosen by her, but to want to kill him? And in that moment when he had clubbed Jarl to the ground, she had wanted to kill him—had wanted to fly across that space and beat him to death with his own club. How had her loyalties become so skewed?

Was it because she owed Jarl her life? Because he had fought the gods to keep her alive? Or because the gods had chosen him to be her first? Could Jarl be right? Had the gods been trying to show her their choice all along, but she’d been too stubborn to see it? Had she defied them? What she felt now—was it the spirit sickness Jarl called love? Or her spirit being strangled as her father had predicted?

Her mind felt like it was shattering into a million pieces. Trying to balance what she felt with what she knew, was tearing her apart. How could she do what was right, when she couldn’t even tell what was right anymore? How could everything and everyone she cared for, push and pull her in such opposite directions all at once?

But even if she had the answers, it would not solve her most pressing problem. She had to find some way to keep the trial from taking place. To do so, she needed to clear her mind of everything else and focus on that. This was all her fault, and she had to find some way to put it right. There had to be some other option—something else she could do. She couldn’t just sit there and do nothing.

Jarl would not leave without her—he had made that clear. But what if he had his prize? Would he agree to go then? Nena wasn’t sure. There was more at stake for him now. Pride. Honor. A desire to prove himself up to the challenge—to prove he was worthy. He had not requested this trial, but he had embraced it.

And if he would agree to run, could she do it? Could she skulk off with him in the night? Jarl had risked all for her—could she do the same? Assuming she could find some way around the increased guard on the cell, could she forsake her people and leave with him? It would ensure her father did not lose Lothor, but he would lose another child. Would that be any easier for him—especially to lose one in such a shameful way? Nena wasn’t sure.

And if she were to go through with it, it would affect far more than just her father. There was Exanthia. She would forever be known as the ward of the shamed one. Her life would be destroyed. No man would ever profess to be chosen by her when she came of age.

There was also Lothor. Losing the opportunity for revenge could quite possibly send him so deep into his pit of rage that he would never recover. Even if it did not, the smear to their family name quite possibly would. It would be the legacy left to his unborn child and all who came after. Whispers of weak blood would plague them. Some would perhaps even blame it on their mother for coming from the Southern Plains tribe. Forever forward her family would be known, not as the fierce or the strong, but as the weak, the shamed, the undisciplined.

Nena knew she could not do it. If it were only to reflect badly on her, perhaps, but such an act would have immediate