Ægir's Wife Ch. 11

That was not completely true; the feeling had been growing for a while. At least since they brought Kirsty here. To some degree, even before that -- since Stig's death.

Seven years. Long ones. She felt the unshed tears burning at her eyes and brushed them aside with the back of her hand. Just as she had tried for so long to brush this uneasy feeling aside, it was not working. Not anymore. She did not belong.

She was not the bride. Kirsty was now. This was not her home anymore. It belonged to them now. To the new generation. And that was as it should be.

Where did that leave her? Where did she belong now? Oh, sure, they had Olaf's cabin. That afforded them some privacy, but it did not feel right either. She was not sure what the answer was.

It was unlikely that she would magically find those answers sitting here for another hour or two, watching the Northern Lights dance across the black blanket of the universe. Perhaps she would try to capture its essence in a quilt. But not even that was bringing her the solace it once had.

No, she was at a complete loss for answers. Like a ship without its rudder. No compass or even stars to guide their way. But as futile as it probably was, this was the one place she had come to think for four decades. And she was not ready to leave. Not just yet.

"In a bit, I promise," she added as she brushed more tears away.

Olaf tugged harder on her hand. She had no choice but to stand. His other hand landed with a solid whack on her butt. "That was not a suggestion, Rachel. It was an order. You keep forgetting what those are, old woman."

She felt her ire rising. She was in no mood for more of his games. "I told you..."

But before she could complete her sentence, his mouth covered hers. His tongue swept away all resistance. All thoughts. And she lost herself in him. In this man as familiar as her faded denim jeans, and just as durable and comfortable too.

The kiss went on and on. He did not attempt to take it further, never touching her anywhere else. Just his arm about her waist and his lips upon hers. It was as intimate, mundane, and natural as breathing.

She loathed when he finally broke it. Whimpers of need, not sexual, somehow more profound, escaped her throat. Another of those firm spanks connected with her other butt cheek.

"I am going to have to retrain my sub completely; it seems," he smiled. "Good thing we will have plenty of time and privacy, where we are going."

Rachel shook her head, "Going? Who said anything about going anywhere, old man?"

"If you can stop moping long enough to follow an order, then I have something to show you, old woman. So, get that still sexy butt in motion like your Dom told you, or it will be fifty with Forseti."

Her eyes widened, and she swallowed back the knot of trepidation, "Fifty with Forseti?"

He smiled, but it was not comforting. "Yes, that way, you will remember who is Dom and what it means to be a sub, old woman. So, I suggest you start moving before you discover just how serious this old man is."

Rachel looked at him. Examined the set of his shoulders, the stern way his forehead crinkled, adding even more wrinkles to his still handsome face, but it was the steel grey of those eyes which their son had inherited that forced her to put one foot in front of the other.

"This better be good, old man," she mumbled.

Another even firmer blow landed on her bottom, "It has always been good between us. Now, head to my workshop."

She chuckled, "What? You are letting me into the inner sanctum? After all this time?"

He smiled, and this time, it softened that grey to a molten silver that heated her right down to her toes. "You have always been my most inner sanctum, Rachel. And you always will be. Hopefully, more now than ever before."

His words stirred her curiosity to life as she quickened the pace down the side of the fjord. They completed the ten-minute walk in silence. That was the beauty of a lifetime of love; you understood that sometimes words were simply not necessary.

It was not until they reached the old wooden barn that Olaf had converted into his workshop that she spoke, "Okay, Old Man, what is so damned important you have to drag me away from my quiet place?"

He chuckled and shook his head, "Quiet? What do you know about quiet, Old Woman? Since the day that Anders met you in Amsterdam, you have not been quiet for more than five minutes unless you're asleep."

"Well, if that's how you feel, I'll just go back to the Homdling and check up on Kirsty again," a subtle smile creased her face as she turned to leave.

Olaf grabbed her upper arm and dragged her against him, "Did I say that I minded? That loud American mouth of yours was the first thing that attracted me to you. I, we, always knew exactly where we stood with you."

His features softened as the fingers of his other hand caressed her weathered cheek, "I would not change a single thing about you, Old Woman."

Rachel smiled as she wrapped her arms about his shoulders and drew him down for a kiss. It still amazed her how perfectly they fit together. She had learned long ago not to compare them, her husbands. Each brought something unique and special to her life. But this man -- this man with his teasing that hid such pain always touched something deep inside of her.

She drew back slowly, "So, are you going to show me whatever it is you brought me here for? Or should we head over to the house so you can lay me down and softly whisper tender love words in my ear?" she hummed the words of his favorite song.

He tossed back his silver head; the deep, rich baritone of his laughter danced off the walls of the fjord, filling her heart and soul. 'Please, sweet goddess, let me keep this one for a nice long time,' she sent her silent entirety to whatever deity was or was not out there.

She knew too many to name and truly believed in none. You made your own Fate, and she would never regret hers. She had found her place and purpose in this world the moment she stepped off that boat and onto the Holding.

His roughened hands, the knuckles slightly swollen with arthritis that she knew bothered him more than he let anyone know, covered her eyes as he spun her around. She stumbled a bit as he guided her towards the door. She smiled when they stopped for a moment as she heard Olaf open the door.

Perhaps that was a metaphor for the life they had shared for over four decades. He and his brothers leading her, sometimes blindly, forward.

She was not certain what she expected to see when he dropped his hands from her face, but the vision that greeted her took her breath away. "Oh, my goddess, it's beautiful. No, magnificent."

He stood in the doorway as she walked over to the boat that practically filled the barn to capacity. She ran her hands lovingly across the smooth, shiny wood of its hull. It was the most masterful combination of traditional Norse longboat and a modern sailboat. She was awed by the craftsmanship he had put into it. It certainly justified all those long hours he had spent hidden in here.

She walked along it, her hand feeling the love that went into curving and shaping each plank. There were no nails or screws, only the wooden pegs that his Viking ancestors would have used. At the bow stood a Valkyrie; she laughed as she recognized those bare breasts. "They have not looked like that in a very long time, Old Man."

Olaf chuckled as he covered the short distance to stand behind her. His hands rose to cup her breasts, "I'm not complaining."

There were tears in her eyes as she turned to face him. "It's remarkable. You did this? You built this all by yourself?"

"What? You don't think I'm smart enough to design and build her?" She saw the teasing in his eyes. "There's more."

"More?"

He led her to the stern, where a canvas sail hung across it. "Remove it."

Her fingers were trembling; her eyes held his gaze for a long moment, the love she saw there still took her breath away after all these years. She tugged gently, and the canvas fell away. Tears scalded her eyes, "Rachel's Dream."

When she turned back to him, his own eyes glistened silver with unshed tears. "You never did finish your around-the-world tour."

Her throat tightened, and the tears ran faster down her cheeks, "No, but as you said, I wouldn't change a thing, Old Man."

He stepped forward and brushed a tear from her cheek. He brought it to his lips and tasted her joy and pain. "I thought maybe we could finish it together?"

Her mind filled with hundreds of excuses. Who would be here to guide Kirsty, help her with the babies, do the housework when she was too tired from another sleepless night.

Then she stopped. It was not her job to raise the next generation. She had done her part, raising the last, helping them to find their One, seeing them through the roughest spots, and now assisting in the birth of their future. But this was not her place anymore. Not her home. She would only be in the way. Wasn't that the very truth that had driven her to her quiet place?

And didn't they deserve this? Time. These final years, alone, just the two of them. Time to laugh and love and live. Time to heal the hurts of the past. He was just the man to do it with, too.

***

Olaf's throat was tight. He had planned this moment for over seven years, since the day that they had scattered Stig's ashes over the fjord. He had thought of at least a thousand ways of saying what he wanted. But all of them seemed to flee him at that moment.

"Of course, we can't leave just yet. I need to help our sons through this season. Maybe help them find another crew member or two. And I know you want to be there for Kirsty and those babies," she nodded her head slowly as he spoke again.

"But in the spring? Maybe early summer? We could set sail." He brushed the rest of the tears from her face, "We could start to plan it now, though. Give us something to do when I am home. And we could even talk about it while I am sea. These sons use that tablet thingy to speak with their wife everyday. We should try that, too, Old Woman. I miss you."

Her hand caressed his cheek, tenderly, "Jeg savner deg så mye min Old Man."

His heart beat faster. This was the hardest part. He had pondered it for months. Was it the right course? At times, it seemed a betrayal of all they stood for. Of the brothers, he had loved. The men he had fought with and for.

But they were all gone now. Just memories. Memories that slipped deeper into the recesses of time with each new dawn.

It felt right. That was the bottom line. No matter how many times he turned it over in his head, it just felt right.

So, with a deep sigh and a wince, as pain shot through his joints, reminding him that the sands in their hourglass were running low, he dropped to one knee. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and brought out the small, black velvet box that he had picked up on their last trip. He slowly lifted the lid to reveal the ring.

He had designed it, too. In the shape of a flower were a variety of stones, the birthstones of her husbands and sons clustered around the perfect pearl. That said it all about this woman who had loved and lost four husbands, brothers that she had fought and loved for over four decades. She was their pearl, their precious jewel from the sea.

His now. His alone. But never truly alone. They would always carry pieces of the others with them, wherever they went. As it should be.

But this was a new chapter. A new beginning. And this seemed right.

"Rachel, will you do me the honor of being my wife?" The words came out far stronger than he imagined. Not that he had any doubt. Not from his end anyway. But hers?

He waited. And waited. Fresh tears streamed down her face as she looked from the boat to him to the ceiling and back again for long moments.

Maybe this had been a mistake? Perhaps she considered it a sacrilege to the memory of the others? He considered what to do or say next. Had he spoiled everything?

At last, after what seemed an eternity, she dropped to her knees in front of him. Her hands, the lines around her knuckles more pronounced now, the skin thinner, a few age spots glistening in the fluorescent light, grasped the hand that held that little box in both of hers.

"I made that decision forty-three years ago, Old Man. I see no reason to change my mind now." She leaned in and brushed her lips over his, "But if you'd like to reaffirm or renew or whatever those promises before we leave, I think that would be a beautiful beginning to this new chapter. Helveti, the new book we will write together."

"Yes, Olaf, it would be my pleasure to be your wife." Her face beamed, the years dropped away, and the natural beauty of that lost hippie woman/child alone and adrift in the world shown through. She was more beautiful now than she had been then, at least in his old heart.

He sent a silent prayer of thanks to Anders in Valhalla for picking this woman, for finding their One.

There were regrets, of course. So many mistakes. They had all made them. But he had meant it, the one thing he knew beyond all else in this world -- this was the only woman he wanted or had ever wanted to spend his life with.

And whatever was ahead, calm or stormy seas, he looked forward to every single moment that he still had left to give her. Be they hours, days, months, or another forty-three beautiful years together.