Nena by Ann Boelter (digital book reader txt) 📕

Nena declined as she sat cross-legged next to him. “Jalla said it helps with your headaches. Are they severe?”

“Not so bad anymore. The tea helps to keep them at bay. Initially she put other stronger things in it—juice of the poppy I am sure was one, though she knows how I feel about it, and still will not admit it. Now I believe it is down to just a few ingredients.”

“As injured as you were, how did you ever make it back here?” Nena asked the question that had been on her mind since first seeing his scars.

“Survivors of the Eastern Plains tribe discovered me among the bodies. I regained awareness only long enough to explain to them how to build the sky graves, and to request that they return me here, if I still lived, when they had completed them. I fully expected not to even begin the journey home, much less to survive it. They told me later they had found your brother, Ruga, but not you. All this time I feared they had not looked hard enough, and that your spirit might still be lost trying to make the great journey. They were so terrified the Northmen would return. They wanted nothing more than to flee the place. Only later did they admit they had not prepared sky graves for our escort warriors. Every day I worry for them, and part of me worries even for Ruga, if they truly did as they claimed.”

“Ruga is safe with our ancestors, Father. There was a point when I was a captive that I approached the afterlife. I felt Ruga there. And Mother.” She shook her head and frowned at the recollection. “Which was strange because I barely knew her. Yet I recognized her spirit as if we had been close.”

“So you were badly wounded, too,” he said, nodding as if he had expected no less. “Your body has healed well; you show no signs of mortal injury.”

“I was not wounded, Father. I became very ill with a deadly sickness they called the Northman’s Curse. Many among the prisoners contracted it. I was the only one to survive.”

Her father cocked his head and looked at her curiously. “Never before did I believe people could return from being so close to the afterlife. But I, too, felt your mother when I was injured. Ruga was not there, so your words bring me great comfort. It was strange, though. Your mother did not welcome me. It was as if she was trying to tell me it was not my time. Was it the same for you?” he asked.

“No,” Nena said. Her father’s words disturbed her; they confirmed her earlier suspicion that Jarl was the only reason she yet lived. For her, the afterlife had been very welcoming, but Jarl’s hold on her had been too strong—stronger even than the gods. He had pulled her back.

“Ah, probably just the delusions of a wounded old man,” her father said as he took another sip of tea. “You know, with only one eye, I will never raid again, and worse, something is wrong inside my head. I can no longer ride a horse. The world spins uncontrollably if my feet are not firmly on the ground.” He paused and looked at her. “No one else knows that.”

Nena opened her mouth to argue with him. He was not old. He was Meln. He was strong and powerful. But as she looked at him now with the shock of white hair growing from the injured area of his scalp, quietly sipping his tea, she realized that even though he was also home and still chief, much had changed for him as well. Most telling was the fact that he was having such a heartfelt discussion with her at all. Her father was a different man.

“Are the survivors of the Eastern Plains tribe who brought you home, still here?” she asked.

“No. Once their wounded were healed, they were sent on their way. They were well-rewarded for their efforts and well-supplied with provisions for their journey. I will always be grateful to them, but they are not Teclan.”

Nena nodded and was thankful again for Exanthia’s easy and unobstructed acceptance.

“Have you given thought to your decision?” he asked.

She knew he referred to her next choosing. “Yes, but no decision has been made.”

“I know you think my words about choosing another so soon to be callous, but know that I am not unsympathetic to what you have endured, or your feelings on this matter. You must trust me that my decision is for your own good.”

“Yes, Father.” Nena nodded, but her mind raced. He would never have spoken so to her before—never felt the need to justify his decisions. That he did so now was staggering to her.

“When one is left alone with certain memories, those memories can become like the iron vine growing inside,” he explained. “If left unchallenged and not replaced, their vines grow very quickly, and eventually they will strangle your spirit. Even the greatest warrior cannot fight them. You must make new memories, now, before their grip on you is too strong to break. Only when new experiences fill the places within you, will the others wither and fade. Only then can you have your life back as it was before. Only then can your spirit have peace. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she murmured. Her life back as it was before. Was such a thing possible? But it had to be; that was why she’d escaped and returned here. How did her father know these things?

“And the warriors here are not unfamiliar to you,” he continued. “You know them all—have known them your entire life as warriors and as men, so you will not be making a hasty decision from strangers. I expect you to choose one soon. It is the best thing for you, Nena. If too much time is allowed to pass, it could be too late.”

She nodded. “I understand, Father.”

“Good. Now you should go and