Blood Feud [COMPLETED]

CHAPTER SEVEN ☀︎

Erik awoke in the fetal position.
His mind was foggy with sleep and hunger. He did not feel the pain initially in his wounded thigh. That is until he attempted to stretch himself from his curled sleeping quarters in the corner, a groan escaped his lips. The icy ground worked its way into his bones and depleted any energy he had left.
The cold did little to soothe the stinging injury he sustained in the shipwreck. The gash was burning with infection.
He shoved the thought to the back of his mind, knowing if he fixated on the wound it would worsen with worry.
His eyes flickered open, dazedly taking in the sorry state of his men. The days had begun to dampen the hardy spirits of the Sorens. Back home, had the men found Erik sleeping in the fetal position, he would have been woken up with a bucket of ice water or a spit in his open mouth.
Erik pushed on to his elbows and surveyed his fitful brothers.
A pang hit his heart. A familiar fear every morning he woke in that hellish place. Erik's life was usually planned out for him. Every day had the purpose of fulfilling his familial obligations. This situation was quickly ridding him of his resentment towards his family's pressure.
In a cramped mud-hut rank with excrement, he felt defeated. The putrid air hung heavy, stagnant with only one window high above their heads for ventilation. Shivering and pressing himself into the corner, he searched for his cousin. Weak light filtered through the high window, his eyes landed on a shaking form huddled in the opposite corner, a dark shape against a bleaker background.
Erik scuttled over to Sigtrygg, dodging the pitiful men lying in heaps around them. They were all covered in a thick layer of dirt and dust, their throats dry as sand and lips crispy.
Sigtrygg was curled up on his side shaking, but his face was a picture of serenity. He looked a decade younger and happier asleep, mouth wide and snoring loudly.
He kicked him, too uncomfortable and cold to think of anything else, the movement hurting his wound more than his cousin.
Sigtrygg awoke with a start, his snore interrupted by a cough.
"Get up."
His elder cousin stared him down, even though he was horizontal. His eyes slit like a serpent, "There must be something wrong."
That bristled Erik's already terse nerves, "We're marooned on a strange land where the natives want to kill us," He hissed. "Right now, we're falling asleep in a shit-streaked hut, curled up like little babies. The real question is, what's right?"
Sigtrygg rolled his eyes at his outburst and unfurled.
They surveyed their men, rattling coughs and sniffly noses signalled the first signs of sickness. Since they had wrecked the crescent moon had become full, then waned and the temperature had dropped considerably. The biting cold sliced through his men during the night, leaving feverish faces and scratchy throats. Without proper care from a healer, he would lose more of his crew. The prospect of watching them waste away through illness was far more terrifying than any storm or lightning bolt.
He exchanged a worried look with Sigtrygg, who began moving through their sleeping comrades, ordering the sick ones on one side of the hut and healthy ones on the other. Seeing them divided up -- five men snivelling in the sick corner, whilst two stayed hesitantly in the other, struck more fear in Erik's heart.
"I don't feel sick. So, that's five sick four not. Presuming you're a picture of health, princeling?"
Erik finally let out a sigh and gingerly pulled his make-shift shorts up to reveal the greening, crusty wound.
"Great. So, we devise a new plan to escape. We need healing roots for that wound as soon as possible. Can't have our mighty princeling out for the count that would worsen morale."
"Similar exit strategy to the last one?"
"Yes, except this time, you escape first and secure healing roots. Then, we leave the little deer dead and take the other elk instead," Sigtrygg rubbed his hands together. "Payback for our braids."
He knew his cousin tried to hide it, but as Sigtrygg turned to discuss plans with the men, Erik saw the shame in his expression. He was in turmoil over the loss of their braids, as were the rest of the men. Cutting them off and taking them was a different form of violence from their captors.
For the first time in his life, Erik was relieved he did not have his hair long and braided yet. From his infancy, the importance of the braids to the Sorenson brotherhood was stressed. He felt so left out, short curly hair, refusing to be tamed, so in contrast to the impressive, older warriors with long braids punctuated by war spoils.
It was not just the braids the men had stolen but trophies of war, memorabilia of foes conquered, injustices avenged.
Sigtrygg, Cnut and the rest of the men looked naked without their braids, unadorned warriors at half strength.
They discussed escape plans sombrely, at odds with their energetic selves. The last plan they hatched had enthused the men, but the loss of their chance to enact it had dampened spirits.
Their hair hung limply by their ears, hacked and uneven, devoid of the trophies dotted at each braided intersection. A tooth from an enemy, shrivelled ear or the braid of an opponent defeated in combat was intertwined in their braid.
This was supposed to be Erik's opportunity to earn his.
He would sail to some distant land. Grow his hair long, defeat an enemy and be covered in spoils by his men after the raid, earning his privileged status as a son of the chieftain. Instead, a storm had crippled their expedition and now they were to rot in this damp bog.
"Princeling!"
He snapped out of his sorrowful musings and scuttled over to his men, crouching to his hunkers to hatch a new plan.