The tide turns

Chapter 5 / Thorfinn

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Two days went by painfully slowly. Gudrid seemed unable to shake off her illness, spending most of the time drinking and eating as she had been told to do, and hiding from the elements under the scratchy blanket that she had been provided.

She sighed. It gave her enough time alone with her thoughts to grow bored and lonely, so when the boy who had taken pity on her would emerge from the trees, she would perk up.

She didn't know if she could call him a friend yet, but it was a relief to have him around.

"Hi," she greeted him weakly, her voice barely more than a hoarse whisper. It was early morning, and she rubbed her aching eyes. She was normally an early riser, but her fever just made her so exhausted.

He never had much to say, so he approached without a word, only acknowledging her with a nod of his head. In his hand he was carrying the skin with water. He had taken it back when he was there the day before so that he could refill it.

"Thank you," she smiled when he handed it to her, and when she raised it to drink of it, he took the time to place his hand on her feverish forehead.

She could feel the hardened and rough skin and the small scars on his hand that he had gotten from some sort of hard work. His hand was also pleasantly cold, and it made her want to lean into his touch, but remembering his reaction the last time she had done that made her decide not to.

He cursed silently under his breath and wiped his hand off on his sleeve. She was probably sweaty. The thought made her blush from embarrassment. She was probably smelly as well.

"Your fever has barely gone down at all."

"Oh..." she exhaled. "I feel a little better today, though. I mean, everything still hurts, and I feel really weak, but my head is a bit clearer now."

He looked at her, his face as unreadable as it always was, his brown eyes piercing through her.

"It's not enough," he finally muttered with no optimism in his voice. He was not an optimist, clearly.

"I know... I just thought it was a good start," she muttered and laid herself back down on her side, watching the wind pull at the grass. "Hey," she called out to him, "how far is this place from Greenland?"

"It's far..."

"How far?" She fisted a handful of grass, not expecting him to know the answer.

She really has a habit of reminding him of a past that he couldn't return to, reminding him of his father's kindness and of Iceland's home.

He picked up a stick, just the size of his forearm, and tried to remember the distance between the islands. He pondered it for a few moments before he began to draw.

"What are you doing?" Gudrid muttered, sitting up again.

"Come here" was all he said.

Gudrid knew her legs could not support her weight, so instead of walking to him, she pushed the blanket off her shoulders and ungracefully crawled on her knees and hands in order to get to him, sliding down the sand, feeling small rocks dig into her skin through her leggings.

He continued to draw while she dusted her hands off.

He drew three shapes in the sand, varying in size.

Gudrid's feverish eyes had a hard time focusing on the individual lines that he drew, but she knew what it was.

If she hadn't done the same thing countless times, she probably wouldn't have recognized his drawing at anything other than odd shapes.