The Jarl's Son, Chapter 9-1
The Red Bear, Part 1
After so many years of long and lonesome wandering, intimate touch had become somewhat foreign to Gaiur. This wasn’t due to a lack of desire for such things; she yearned for sex and intimacy just the same as anyone would. Rather, it was a consequence of the solitary life she’d taken to. After the deaths of her husband and son some seven years prior, she’d naturally fallen into a cavernous depression. This was the beginning of her isolationist tendencies, which were further fed into when most of her fellow Valdunites shunned her, marking her as a bane cursed by the gods.
Having been made a pariah in her own home, leaving became easy after her encounter with the demon, a monster which rode a steel star from the firmament to the Glimmerfrost’s glacial expanse, some two years later. Those few short days had also been rife with loss, for they’d seen the hero Esbern, her late husband’s dearest friend and one of the very few Valdunites left who hadn’t shunned her, slain in a most gruesome fashion. The same was true of the others who joined their expedition. Luthmor, a young glory hound who failed to live up to the honored name he’d been given, had been run through while Sieglinde, a veteran tracker and archer, had her body torn asunder by the fiend’s sinister white fire.
The only one who’s fate she did not know was that of Arne, Esbern’s suspicious younger brother. He did not share in his brother’s sentiment that Gaiur was undeserving of the ire often aimed at her by the other villagers. Nay, if anything, he was among the most vociferous in his disdain for her, laying the blame for every tragedy they encountered in those icy forests at her feet. The last she saw of him, he was lying dazed in the snow, struck in the brow by the butt of her axe when he tried to murder her.
That was some five years ago now, though she still remembered the events as though they’d just happened. There was no point staying in Valdun after that. She knew well that she’d once again be blamed for their losses, so upon her return in the pitch dark of an early winter’s night, she burnt down her old home and resolved never to return. Thus began her lonesome exile.
Who would’ve thought that choice would lead her here, into the bed of a jarl’s son? Certainly not herself. Yet as the festivities celebrating young Erik Ostock’s newfound health carried far into the night - never let it be said that the Stenisian people don’t revel as hard as they work - that was precisely where Gaiur found herself.
She’d been concerned that her lovemaking might be clumsy after so long. It had been more than seven years since she last lay with a man, after all. Marten smirked and tittered when she put voice to that worry. Pulling her close to him, hand pressed against the small of her back, he kissed her softly upon the lips and promised that she needn’t fear, and that he’d be gentle with her.
Gaiur narrowed her eyes at him. Her lips parted, and she leaned close, as if to kiss him again. By his expression Marten expected exactly that, yet she moved past his lips and his cheek until she was close enough that he could feel the breath of her voice against his ear.
“What makes you think I want you gentle?” she said in a sultry growl.
Marten quickly grabbed her then, and began to undress her. Gaiur met him move for move, stripping him of his cloak, his tunic, and his trousers. She’d seen him bare chested earlier, during the wrestling contests. His handsome face and strong form had already stricken her then. Now that she saw him fully bared, though, her thoughts turned momentarily to Ida’s words. He truly was cast in the image of Balefor the Beautiful; tall, blue-eyed, well muscled, with lustrous red-gold hair and a beard kept just short enough to let her see the strong cut of his jaw and his sharply chiseled features. To say nothing of his endowments.
For the briefest moment, Gaiur’s breath hitched as she took Marten in, tracing him head to foot with her eyes. Every line. Every crease. Every bulging vein, roll of hard muscle, and every scar he bore. One at the gut, two on the left leg, three at the chest and shoulders each. Much like the scars which marked her own body, the jagged lines of marred flesh upon Marten’s resilient form had stories to tell. For a moment, she found herself wondering about them. Yet it was only for a moment, and that was because she caught Marten’s eyes exploring her naked body in the very same hungry way.
Gaiur felt the heat rising in her skin, and she flushed a gentle hue of pink. Her heart started to race. Though a woman of twenty-three years, having gone so long without the intimate touch or longing gazes of another brought out the feelings of a nervous girl. These, too, were short lived, chased away when Marten stepped forward and swept her close to him. Rough hands explored her hips and thighs, and she stroked his hard chest and brawny thews. He cupped her face and pressed bruising kisses into her lips. She met him, and grabbed his silken and coppery hair by the fistful. His lips moved to the scars at her shoulder. She traced those on his chest with her fingers. Finally, he laid her down on the animal skins which covered his bed. Then, once he’d joined her, Gaiur’s usual harsh mein softened, and she held him close.
Had the people of Halvjord not been lost in their own cavortings, then they’d surely have noticed the great ruckus made by Marten and Gaiur. Alas, the revelry of the people spanned the whole of the night, with the drinking, feasting, and song only ending once the morning sun crested the horizon. So it was that their lovemaking went unnoticed by all but two within the house of Jarl Ostock. One was the Jarl himself, who gave an amused laugh as he drank himself to sleep on mulled mead. The other was Renald, who’s heart swelled with joy at the knowledge that, at least for tonight, she’d be free of the lonely grief that haunted her for so long.
When the sun rose the next morning, it did so over a quieted city. Light fog blanketed Halvfjord in the predawn hours, quick to burn off as the morning progressed. By the time dawn’s golden hour had arrived the mist had vanished completely, leaving only a few small clouds to dot the sky. Those also faded as the early day drew on, such that come the hours of middle morning, not a single cloud was left in the sky.
Gaiur roused in this time, woken by a shaft of sunlight that passed over her eye through a gap in the shuttered window across from Marten’s bed. She winced against it, yawning as she blocked it with her hand. Early morning was no stranger to her. Most days she rose with the sun, which made this hour feel quite late to her. Then again, most days didn’t end with her sharing the bed of a rugged and handsome man late into the night, so she was disinclined to fault herself for this late rising.
Marten had fallen asleep with her, naturally. He laid at her back, his left arm draped around her at the waist. Both were still naked. After their long lovemaking, they’d fallen asleep in each other’s arms. At some point during the night, Gaiur had turned so that he lay behind her. She looked down at his calloused hand; at how it rested so naturally against her belly. She laid hers atop it, then stroked the back of his hand and his wrist. He still didn’t stir, the slow rhythm of his chest rising and falling unbroken against her back.
There was a flutter in her stomach, something which she hadn’t felt in years. Gaiur and Marten had only known each other a few days at this point, but that didn’t stop her from enjoying how right this felt. Nor did it stop those pesky nerves from bothering her. Those she could’ve done without, for they were the feelings of a young and ignorant girl. The same sorts of feelings she had upon meeting Varro for the first time. The same sorts that came the first time she shared his bed, and when his seed quickened in her, and when she birthed-
She sucked in a breath, swallowed the lump which formed in her throat. Old memories still came on easily. It would be some time before she’d no longer be haunted by them, though that feeling would never fully leave her. Loss of such profound nature is never truly forgotten. Burdens of that sort remain shouldered, carried by their bearers from the moment they occur through to the rest of their lives.
Yet that wasn’t to say it couldn’t be made easier to carry, as Renald helped Gaiur to remember the day prior. Indeed, as she lay there with the still sleeping Marten beside her, with his hand upon her belly, and with her hand upon his, the weight of those she lost felt a little lighter. A burden partly lifted not just by the night they shared, but by the man’s very presence. The warmth of his body against her. The press of his chest as it rose and fell with his breathing. The rumble of his voice as that little ray of sunlight now passed over his eye, causing him to stir.
A smile drew up the corners of Gaiur’s lips. Marten held her tighter now, wordlessly trying to resist wakefulness by clutching her even closer against him. Reaching back, she placed her hand against his neck and rubbed. He groaned, and she felt his lips press into the crown of her head.
“Good sleep?” she asked him.
“Best in years,” he responded, his voice gravelly from his grogginess. “You?”
“Best in years,” she repeated.
They stayed like that for a while longer, with Gaiur holding Marten’s large and calloused paw against her with one hand, while reaching back to rub at his neck with the other. Marten, meanwhile, leaned into her. His nose and lips pressed into her thick and disheveled blue-black hair and soon he was amorously kissing his way down her neck. She didn’t stop him. Instead, she tilted her head slightly to the side and pulled her long hair away to give him easier access. How wonderful those lips felt against her skin!
“Last night was good, neh?” Marten’s voice vibrated into her shoulder as he spoke.
“Yes, it was,” Gaiur murmured in return, leaning into his affections.
“I wonder how the Wolfmother and I should spend our day, then?” he hummed playfully.
A tempting prospect. Gaiur would’ve told him as much, too, had they not been interrupted by a sudden and boisterous roar from Marten’s stomach, one which was so loud that it stopped them both dead in their tracks. They stared at each other for a long moment, the ghosts of goofy grins lingering upon their lips. Those grins grew in full as Gaiur snorted out a laugh, which was immediately followed by a bellow from Marten. Just like that, they had their answer.
Gaiur ate after she dressed, opting for the same blue and white dress she wore during the celebration. Then she went outside and tended to Varro’s needs. Spending the last few days cooped in the Jarl’s training yard left the greatwolf restless. The most activity he’d seen since they’d come to Halvfjord was when they traveled into the heart of Ostock Forest the day prior to retrieve the sapling branch. Eager as he’d been to help Gaiur in her fight against the forest spirit which attacked them, the cage of trees the creature had erected around the grove made that impossible. Other than that, he’d done little more than walk and chase Hunin that day, and even less than that the couple days prior.
Play and exercise were needed, preferably somewhere open where Varro could range more freely. Alas, that would have to wait until they could leave the city. Games of fetch would have to suffice for now. War tugs would’ve been another good option had he still been small. Now that he was near fully grown, though, he was too easily able to rip the knotted leather cord Gaiur used for that game out of her hands. Little surprise, given he was already as big as a bull elk.
Midday was near, and their shadows had grown short. Though he whined a great deal over it, Gaiur had to return Varro to his leash in the yard once more. “We’ll quit this place soon,” she promised him, tousling the dark gray fur atop his head as she spoke. Then she made her way out into the city. Sticking to the wider main thoroughfares, she followed the road south out from the market square, which was still being tidied after yesterday’s celebration.
This road was longer and windier than Gaiur had anticipated. From outside the palisade walls, Halvfjord looked as though its southern half was only slightly larger than the northern. Set upon a shallow incline, its slight downward slope put in her the expectation that the road would make for quick traveling. This idea was further bolstered by how straight and direct the opposite road to the north was, as she’d experienced when she walked it with Marten on their way to the house of the læknir Hlín two nights ago.
It turned out the palisade hid much more from the eye than she’d thought, including a steep rock slope about twice her height that split the southern road in two. Gaiur cursed to herself for not asking Ida where on the south side the smithy’s shop stood. Though not a grand and sprawling city, Halvfjord was nonetheless large enough that one unfamiliar with its roads and alleyways could very well end up lost. Not helping matters in that regard was that the city proved something of an unusual mix of old and new. The most obvious sign of this came from the structures, where old longhouses built on plots many decades old stood beside homes built in the newer Southern styles, which incorporated things such as stone foundations and masonwork chimneys. Jarl Ostock’s home was one of many that blended both of these sensibilities.
It was the thoroughfares, though, which now proved the largest inconvenience in this regard. The city was partly designed in the grid patterns common to the Southerners, particularly those who’d once been under the yoke of the old Bayelan Empire. However, this layout only extended insofar as the land and those older plots which were already present allowed. Once again, this made for relatively easy navigation on the mostly flat and direct northern half of the city, which didn’t have the same kind of high rock ledge dividing it that the southern half did. What’s more, best as she could tell, the two southern roads didn’t seem to be branches which met again later. Each seemed to lead to separate destinations, with one winding its way down to the south gate, while the other banked to the switchbacks that led down the fjord to the brackish waters below.
Gaiur didn’t know on which path the smithy’s house lay, if it lay on either of them. It was entirely possible it was situated off some branching dirt alley, or tucked away between plots off the main thoroughfares. She could take a guess, but she didn’t wish to keep Ida waiting, not when the secrecy of their talk was so paramount.
Thank you for reading.
The Jarl’s Son sees Gaiur the Valdunite return to embark on a new adventure and acts as the follow-up to my dark fantasy mystery tale, In the Giant’s Shadow. The previous story isn’t required reading to understand and enjoy this tale, but doing so will enhance the experience.