Erik had lost his cousin and breeches.
He lay in the sand, his body still convulsing with the icy chill and tried to decide which to retrieve first.
His eyes remained closed, encrusted with sea brine and tears, but he felt how bare his legs were with the tips of his frozen fingers. He could not feel his body much, bar a long wound on his thigh, perhaps explaining the missing trousers.
The parts of his body he could feel sang in pain. He checked himself: quieted the dark voices, fought off the need to vomit and propped himself up on his elbows, at last able to focus.
His ribs screamed in protest at the movement, which alerted him to the damage he sustained in the wreck. His forearm grazed his injured thigh, an intense wave of nausea forced his head between his legs and he began to vomit saltwater.
"Erik!"
He ignored his cousin, trying to angle himself away from the voice and the men convening by the shoreline. He wished to vomit the ocean's contents in peace before he would celebrate his cousin surviving.
"Come now, cousin! It was only a few storm clouds!" Sigtrygg hollered.
His cousin was seemingly in great form, what was considered perilous to some were boring pastimes to Sigtrygg. Death and shipwrecks excited him and his companions in more ways than one.
A memory rammed itself into the forefront of Erik's mind — Sigtrygg dangling from the weighted ropes of the sail during the storm, sword brandished and slashing madly at the sea and the sky, screaming for danger, adventure. His wide smile revealing his razor-shorn teeth and furs wetted through.
Erik vomited again, unable to prevent some pitiable groans after. He mewed like a foal and of course, his brethren heard.
"Come now, princeling." A hand dragged him up from the sand. Sigtrygg's voice rumbled right into his ear, his acrid breath causing shivers of revulsion, 'We sons of Søren don't get upset tummies from a little seawater. Or lose our trousers."
Sigtrygg dropped the young man as quickly as he grabbed him, Erik had just enough strength to land on his knees, rather than his face. The men laughed cajolingly with their commander as Erik took in his surroundings.
They had washed up on a beach, their beautiful ship lay in pieces dotted along the shoreline. The water lapping at Erik's feet, unnoticeable because of the cold, was gentler than the tumultuous sea that tore through their ship. He looked down along the beach, careful not to focus on the bodies unmoving and entangled in the ship's remnants and sand, and he tried to find beauty.
He wiped his eyes free from the crust, forcing himself into a standing position aided by a broken wooden post beside him for leverage. Focussing his eyes on this new environment he could subdue the darkness threatening the corners of his vision. Who knew how long he had been unconscious for? When his last meal was?
There, just behind a protruding cliff face, was a minuscule islet.
No, not even anything you could reach, get on top of. It must be a sea stack, solitary in its battle against the ocean's onslaught. Erik focused on the colours of nature's spectacular creation, dark at the bottom and scorched by the core's inferno, graduating to greys and sands and the brown-greens that signalled life, with a smattering of grass on top like stray tufts of hair.
His mother had always reminded him to focus on the beautiful, to block out the awful.
And right now, Erik was feeling awful.
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.
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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.
Colloquially, they called themselves Bloods. Their blood separated them from the island's other inhabitants, so naming themselves after their most distinctive trait seemed fair. Their non-Blood counterparts, the regular people of Erenn, were nicknamed 'Nobs' by Tara's Clann -- No-Bloods, Nobs for short, which sounded very similar to a knob.
'Knob' was a synonym for willy, something that caused great hysteria amongst the children.
The Bloods consolidated their burgeoning kingdom with the powers imbued in the Clann's elite, talents the gods gave each Connacta child. Dorcha, the Dark King, a millennium ago, united the Tarrachta and Naithí -- warring tribes from the same Blood Clann and all fell under the Connacta's sway.
Long before, when man had yet to till the land and sow or reap, the Connacta, Naithí and Tarrachta were one unit. A huge family. The transition from hunting to farming did not suit them, and so a schism divided the three. Though blood, marriage and powers kept them connected, and annual games kept them civil.
The immense power of the Dark King defeated the warring Blood tribes, who at this time were as rife with conflict as the petty Irish kingdoms surrounding them. Dorcha's capabilities manifested quickly as a child, by the time of his first beard he had led the Connacta against their closest relatives, subjugating the Naithí and Tarrachta in consecutive vicious wars. With his mind, the Dark King controlled the moves of men, and each enemy general, obvious by their markings, was manipulated into killing his unit from the inside out.
As watchtowers fell, the Dark King forced his hostages to dance as entertainment, his prisoners would dance in the old Great Hall to the delight of the Bloods surrounding. They would dance for hours, days, weeks until they died of exhaustion, starvation or dehydration.
The Connacta Clann remained dominant on the island for a thousand years, but only destroyed two kingdoms to win that preeminence. The rest of Erenn fell into submission easily, believing the Connacta Clann's favoured nickname -- 'the fairies' -- and all the horror that went with it.
The moniker created a life of its own, roving the island a thousand times over instilling fear in all. Their inexplicable powers and isolation fed into the story of the Connacta being fairies, an evil folk hellbent on discord. The strange Christians said they were sent from Hell, which only heightened the fear and paranoia of the Irish, and protected Dorcha's ancestral lands increasingly with each passing year. The association was useful for Tara's people, affording them privacy and an island-wide intimidation tactic that prevented random conquests from Nob neighbours. The relationship was all thanks to Dorcha, another everlasting gift to his family.
In ancient times the young daughter of the witless rí, Aedamnair, named for her fiery hair, was caught maundering through the grassy plains of Connacht, collecting wildflowers to press. The Dagda happened upon her still in girlish fancy and then stole her for his fugacious pleasure.
Thereafter, he revealed to the princess the sons she would bear him; one to name Loinnir, brightness, and the other Dorcha, darkness. Frightened and disturbed but unable to escape the god, Aedamnair bore twins the following winter solstice.
Yet the great scrupulous god had erred, for the twins did not survive long, within five years only one child remained -- Dorcha, a child that grew stronger as his brother grew weaker as if gorging on his fraternal energy. Loinnir was born thin and sickly, whilst his brother was rosy-cheeked and bright.
Later in life, as Dorcha's age increased his strength, edged by the energy drained from his twin, he rose to great prominence in his Clann, the Dagda's blood ran in both twins, and now both to one.
That was ten one hundred years ago, and from Dorcha's line arose the great rithe of Connacht, whose lofty throne was nestled within mount Nephin and whose descendants sat atop ever since.
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All of Erik's belongings were destroyed.
He managed to fish out a badly torn woollen undershirt before tossing it back into the water. Realising the search was fruitless, he began scavenging for surviving weapons, food supplies or familiar faces, possibly some trousers.
The sea air cleared the fogginess in Erik's mind, as did the brisk winds that tore through their wet clothes.
Several men fanned out across the dunes, watching out as the others looted their beautiful broken ship. His gut tightened at seeing all his efforts awash in pieces on a strange beach. He had enjoyed an entire year constructing the ship with the Brotherhood. His father always harped on about the necessity of making your own ship for battle, the benefits of understanding exactly how your vessel moved and bent across the waves.
But Erik thought ship-building easy and rewarding. Battle was something far more fruitless.
"The Valkyrie is dead!" A voice hollered from a few lengths down the shore.
Instantly the seaweed-covered brooch slipped from Erik's hand, and he watched the men slowly bumbling up to a dark figure in the sand. His mind in turmoil over the words, he hesitantly made his way over to the group.
Her death was the worst omen.
She was on board for the exact purpose of bringing good fortune to their voyage. Being one of his father's favourites, with years of good service under his rule, Njal Sørensen had chosen Valkyrie to accompany his eldest son on his first distant voyage.
Arguably his last.
She had followed his father into countless battles and brought victory and proper burial for the warriors. Valkyrie travelled with him to monastery raids, and foretold of great riches brought back home and now Erik could not bring her back.
He ambled his way through the group to see her bloated corpse, face unrecognisable due to cuts and bruising, but her blacked-out forearms identified the body, as did her one eye. The leather eye-patch she wore was long gone, his stomach churned at the sight of the cauterised wound where her right eye should be, shrivelled and purple, a hole in her face that gave her eternal wisdom and true sight; as it did Woden, their principal god.
She was impaled by a rudder.
Sigtrygg cursed under his breath and called the men back to order, tasking Erik with preparing the seer for transport.
"Why me?" Erik blanched at the prospect, he was never particularly fond of getting close to Valkyrie, and now even less so.
"The rest of them are too frightened of a Valkyrie," Sigtrygg grunted, tugging off his soaked overshirt and draping it over the body. "I thought you were not one of them."
"Old one-eyed women, no, rotting corpses, yes." He wrestled while tying the ropes through her arms before rigour mortis set in.
Sigtrygg huffed a laugh in reply.
Erik finished tying the makeshift harness around the Valkyrie and gave his mentor an exasperated look.
"Come now, princeling, bring her along. We have to find kindling for a pyre, or else our journey is destined for disaster. More than we've already had."
As if in agreement, Thor clapped his approval with thunder, a moment later sending lightning to illuminate the beach silver for several long, tense moments.
Needing no more encouragement, he gripped the harness and tugged the seer's body down the beach.