Blood Feud [COMPLETED]

CHAPTER TWO ☀︎

Sigtrygg's booming call to order diverted his mind from dwelling too long on how he felt, with the broken post as his walking stick, Erik Sørensen joined the men to survey the damage. When he got his body moving, he realised his injuries were not as bad as he feared, yes, the thigh twanged every time he put pressure on his right foot and breathing caused his bruised ribs to bring tears to his eyes, but the older men were watching. Their eyes scrutinising, looking for the damage done to the 'princeling' as they coined him, and how he was enduring it.

Ulf, his cousin, made sure to slap Erik's back in hearty greeting, posing as a reunion after a shipwreck, but Erik knew this was a pissing contest. His body reverberating in pain from the jostle told him so.

It was a rough embrace. As the Chieftain's son, he was on track to succeeding his father and commanding Ulf and the rest of the men, all his senior. This was a possibility which encouraged the men to test his character any chance they could until his younger brother reached maturity. Then Erik would face his brother in combat and the victor would earn the Brotherhood's reverence.

Erik's stomach dropped to his toes.

"Harald... the shi-" The spittle caught in his dry throat in panic, his mouth was parched and the saltwater made him cough and splutter. He needed to know if his brother was okay.

A few men laughed at his state, unable to speak and dissolving in a fit of coughs and tears. He did not care, his mind raced with awful scenarios involving his little brother's chubby face drowning in the sea. He was only twelve summers, and still rosy-cheeked and so lovely, so unmarred by the responsibilities on his older brother's shoulders. Which he would unwillingly share with him soon enough.

Not now, not like this. Harald was still a little boy, and Erik had been promised many more summers with him before they would face each other in a very unbrotherly way.

Erik had barely controlled his sputters and catastrophising before Sigtrygg's ginormous hand encircled his nape again. This time, a comforting rather than riling touch.

"Harald and the third ship are safe." The raspy voice assured Erik. "We did not see them go under before we did, nor did we see them in the storms that blew us all the way here." He squeezed his shoulder and replaced Erik's wooden post with a taller and stronger walking stick.

"But you can't know that."

Sigtrygg did not pay heed to his immature outburst, and started off towards a pile of the ship people had yet to rifle through. "I know that I did not see the ship go under. I know that I did not see Harald's body wash up on shore. This is all I consider."

His serenity made perfect sense and yet, enraged Erik. Sigtrygg was many years older than his cousin, but not enough to possess such wisdom in the art of being unbothered.

He does not let the unknown bother him. Erik mused as he used his stick to scatter the ship's debris, chest tight and unwilling to ease at Sigtrygg's words.

He had to believe his little brother was not dead, or else he knew the pain, now a light hum in his nerves would quickly consume him should he let his mind win. Thinking Harald was alive and well would help Erik get home.

Just so I can watch him increase in years and kill him myself?

Life's little ironies were never wasted on Erik.

 ✦✦✦ ✝︎✞✟ ✧ ✝︎✞✟ ✦✦✦  

Connacta blood flowed quickly into orange rivulets, not dissimilar in colour to their hair. It pumped out of every tiny scratch hard and fast with no signs of clotting. The light-coloured, slippery liquid did not coagulate for days, it was a sticky, oily substance. They were tough-skinned as the Connacta saying went, so they did not fear their odd blood being seen, for their mighty gifts would protect them from harm. The Clann's desire to be separate from the lesser kings of Erenn in matrimony and martial practices ensured others would never see their odd blood, not in lust nor war.