Ethne and her sister Esras bathed Tara in lavender and rose oils. Their small hands worked gently to rub the oils into her skin. The routine was often quite soothing, but their hands were freezing this time of year and left trails of goosebumps.
The recent fall of chestnuts heralded the annual purifying ceremony of her Clann before the veil between two worlds thinned. Her Clann performed rituals to cleanse themselves before the start of the sowing season. A purifying ceremony dictated abstinence from alcohol, rutting and revelry on the eve of the ceremony.
Instead, they were all to expel their impurities through bog jumping.
The little rí was anointed in coastal flower oils to soothe her rubbed-raw skin, roughly exfoliated by ground sea salt and sand. Esras aided Tara in threading her arms through her ritual costume whilst Ethne stood to the rear, deftly tying the garment's textured belt tightly around her waist. Her chest tightened at the hefty brooches pinned above her breasts, adorned with large silver clasps and impressive animal motifs. She favoured the stag one, carefully inlaid with russet beads to mimic eyes.
Ethne prepared the headdress behind her while her sister bound her hair with an oat coloured cap. Finally, she secured the headdress with a neck brace to support her neck, the ceremonial antlers were incredibly heavy. She hated to admit that it was the hardest part about being rí, attempting to walk with the weight on her head and neck without the big shoulders of a man.
The headdress was a grotesque yet impressive Clann creation, fusing differing antlers of wild stag together to create a ceremonial piece to adorn the rí. Two behemoth antlers stood tall atop her head, perhaps as tall as she. Tara gritted her teeth and prepared herself for bearing the burden for the remainder of the evening.
The sisters helped her steady and ran over the garment with their nails to remove lint and stray threads. Job done, she shuffled out of the tent, the girls hurrying to lift the poles on either side of the door to make the exit higher for her antlers. Unlike her elk skull for Calls to Session, this headdress would make her topple over if she had to turn to stop herself scraping the tent walls. She walked briskly, propelled forward by the sheer weight on her crown.
Her brothers set upon her instantly, always lurking in the corners ready to accompany. They peppered cautions about the evening's proceedings with usual slags, mostly appearance-related. Tara batted them away with non-committal sounds, overcame by the effort it took not to topple over.
They warned her not to laugh. Under no circumstances was she to laugh during ceremonies for her Clann, specifically purifying rituals, similar to funerary rites for the dead, a most solemn occurrence. As rí Tara was imbued with the honour and spirit of her predecessors, to laugh would laud the whole thing as a farce to their people and damage her image as a mature leader.
Solemnity was necessary. No, her brothers had emphasised solemnity as fundamental to Clann ceremonies. It showed the people how an exemplary Blood should act and legitimised all the solemn ceremonies practised before it. If she wanted to be taken seriously, she had to act seriously.
If she were honest, all that stuff went over her head. She cared little for religious rituals or the pomp of ceremonies. She preferred worshipping her ancestors and the Morrigan, more personal deities that did not necessitate a ritual every week and shoving her hands in animal guts.
These patron deities seemed logical. Her ancestors bestowed her with her weather affinity and the Morrigan (a goddess and a queen of war) had bestowed back-to-back victories in battle. Tara's dutiful worship of the Morrigan helped the reconquest of neighbouring territories she had inherited in name only, prone to rebellions during her father's rule. Thanks to this worship, she consolidated her territories decisively with her powers and people. These victories meant she was allowed to keep her life and the torques of Connacta.
This purifying ceremony held some other significance she had yet to pick up. There were so many elements to becoming rí and a woman she had yet to master. The history of the purifying ritual was one of them.
Her brothers peeled off as she mounted the earthen mound, a raised dais from which she could begin the rites in view of all. The crisp air tickled her skin, and her baby hairs prickled. She eyed Ethne and Esras, both now paired off with their respective partners. Druid Ernmas was lurking off in a corner at the back of the crowd with the other day-walkers.
She settled her eyes on Conn and Cuán, just below her, binding their forearms with well-worn leathers. This was the first purification ceremony they performed as a trio since their aunt Meadbh died. She was sacred amongst men and married the land of Connacht on her thirteenth summer. Meadbh personified duty to one's country, and Tara had balanced her queenship easily when Meadbh watched over her.
Ceremonies had lost their effervescence since her passing.
As had day-to-day Connacta life, in Tara's mind.
The bodhráns were struck, stoking the flames that crawled up the plum sky, a burning auburn off-set by wispy grey clouds. Bodhráns were necessary to purifications, providing the beats to help the concurrent movements of the Clann. They began slowly and sporadic. Isolated, then coming all at once. An indiscernible rhythm whilst her family's part began.
"A thousand welcomes to you, my friends. Here, as equals, we supplicate ourselves to the sacred flames and revered smoke of our victims. And revel in the good gods' feasting."
The crowd clapped their hands and cheered. "Good gods! Good gods!"
The boys began leaping over the flames, warming up their limbs. Younger boys joined in, racing towards the fires and whooping as they made it safely across. The flames danced higher, and the boys looped around to jump faster.
Her brothers did two, three leaps to warm themselves up, kicking out their legs and extending their forearms to pass the blaze, the leathers protecting their skin. Their performances accelerated until they were somersaulting over the conflagrations, the bodhrán drums picking up pace as the crowds anticipated their safe landings, unscorched by the flames. Children screamed Conn and Cuán's praises, aspiring to vault over the ceremonial fires when they matured, as her brothers had wistfully wanted when they were young.
Three young ladies moved to Tara's dais in a single file with well-practised grace. Their slender limbs and poise a necessity for communion with the gods, white necks elegant and bare of adornments. Their garments were similar to Tara's in muted colours, complimented by their cleanliness which separated them from the unwashed masses. They bathed twice a day in the life-giving energies of Lough Conn, reflecting their status as the Clann chantresses.
They transferred bloody victims from their hands to hers -- three hares she threw into the fire, signalling the end of fire leaping.
A hart, dragged up the mound by the lithe chantresses, Tara helped to lug into the flames. The chantresses squirted meat drippings into the fire from leather canteens to stoke it. People rejoiced at the spectacle, matching their dance to the increasing drum beats and grand conflagration.
Tara led the crowd through prayers of purification and the chantresses began their song, gradually rising in pitch and tenor, increasing their communal call to the gods for cleansing. Their harmonies rose in urgency, arms outstretching in their high-pitched invocations as if clambering up to the gods' otherworld.
The chantresses handed her unlit torches, one each to make three, and she lit them off the roaring fire below her. Handing them to the chantresses lit, they filed off down the mound and through the onlookers, children reached out their hands, holding chestnut tree leaves, stretching on their tip-toes to light them from the torches.
A gust of wind gladly helped their endeavours and children ran with the burning leaves, then letting them go in the wind, swirling into the sky before each large leaf turned to ash washing into the blue-grey night.
This lasted a while, more fallen leaves, more burning embers hurtling into the air. The chantresses smoothly sauntered down the crowd, parting them in two, filing off to the bog with the people falling in line behind them.
Tara watched the procession poignantly, yearning to follow suit. The revellers headed to the peatlands for bog hopping, running through the bog and its vice-like grip, losing shoes and children cackling as they face-planted the quickening earth. Ropes were tied from tree to tree down hills covered in bogland and pieces of cloth were bound over eyes despite the nightfall to make the journey down more thrilling. Blindly they would run down the boghills, spurred on by music and festivities to complete their yearly rite.
It was the type of silliness she was craving, a release from the shackles of repetitive ceremonies and tradition. Of which she had to spearhead but could take no enjoyment from.
Meanwhile, she wobbled off the earthen mound into the arms of Cuán and he peeled the antler crown from her head.
She groaned when the pressure eased, her neck and shoulders rising, giving her the feeling she could fly if not for her human shell.
"Nicely done," Cuán passed the antlers to an attendant who boxed it and bustled quickly off. "It's a warm night for it, bog hopping won't be as cold as I thought."
"I'm jealous. The whole Clann is heading down, and we're too important to go play."
"It's a child's game, Tara. Or a half-wit's."
Inhaling deeply, to bolster her patience, she turned away and dragged her bloodied hands through the grass. It did little to clean away the dried liquid from elbow to finger but wiped off the wetter blood.
Laughing and jeering could still be heard from down the hill, the celebrants on their way to the bog. She rubbed her neck and contemplated her lot in life and the horrible feeling manifesting in her gut at the fear of missing out.
The natural air stirred, embers drifting aloft.
She raised a hand the embers stilled and fell to the earth once more.
This gift is my only solace.
Her brothers looked to her, attention piqued at the still air. Two sets of green eyes peering, questioning, sizing her up. Perhaps she too looked that irritating when looking confused.
"Come," Her voice sounded harsh, biting. "We are needed at the Great Hall."
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It seemed like an age before anyone hampered the fun above Erik.
A plan hatched, the Soresons laid on their backs, chatting animatedly, eased by the drunken howls. The stomping, Erik and Sigtrigg had decided, was dancing. All the hulking men above were dancing clumsily around, throwing their weight here and there, covering them with dust.
As Sigtrygg crooned a seafaring song, a peal of thunder erupted blocking out all sound. He realised by now that meant the arrival of the little deer, her haunting skull dwarfing her feminine form.
The cloak did nothing to hide her womanly figure to the Sorensons. All fear had dissipated when they discovered their leader was a girl upon capture. Though none would admit there had been fear felt before, nor that her gift with lightning instilled terror in their breast.
In the days they had been held, his men whispered of her strength and how she was favoured by Thor, calling forth his very namesake; thunder. It was too difficult to process; a woman in a foreign land possessing the formidable talents of Thor and his hammer, Mjollnir, influencing thunder and lightning as his great forefathers influenced the elements in the gods' image.
Her shrill voice sounded above him, and he cringed at the sound. More so for what his brothers planned to do to her after their escape, they had been seafaring for weeks and captive for who knows how long -- the men wanted a go at the woman. Where Erik came from, a female leader was ludicrous.
Erik's thoughts were interrupted by the creaking of hinges. Before he could look, meaty hands grabbed his stained tunic and dragged him up through the human-sized grate.
White light blinded him, the smell of piss migrated to a stink of old beer and smoke that intensified as he reached above ground. A cold, hard force slammed against the back of his neck and he fell forward, caught by meaty hands, pushing his shoulders upright. A stunning uppercut to the chin came next and stars danced behind his eyelids.
Sigtrygg's dirge ended abruptly, but Erik could not hear much for a few moments. It seemed an age passed before he could steady himself and breathe tightly through the heavy collar clamped around his neck. He blinked his eyes open, and his vision swam into focus on the looming red-head gripping him.
He reached a hand to his jaw, rubbing the injured area. The brute in front of him bared his teeth before grabbing his wrist and wrenching it around his back, tying Erik up with his own limbs. The hulking man was strangely nimble and took his other wrist and roughly tied the two together, immobilising Erik.
His fortune was quickly turning and the Soren prince knew Valkyrie's body lay unburied where they were forced to leave her. Her death signalled a turn in their luck and their inability to bury her cemented that. The hall Erik found himself in, surrounded by strange enemies, highlighted the peril they were in.
Without the enormous brute in front of him, he could see the little deer, gaping eye-holes boring at his swelling face. Lightning sounded from the clear sky like a sharply cracked whip. His face throbbed, stomach clenching from hunger and nausea he could not help his flinch.
His captors barked out harsh laughs. The shackles pressed painfully into his aching body. Being cramped underground for days on end had crippled him, and the only strength in his legs came from the dimwit holding him up.
The little deer began speaking to the crowd, her voice strong and clear and reminding him of a melodic song.
The crowd roared in response. Erik angled his neck around to see a much smaller mob than he anticipated -- only several large men, armed to the teeth and clearly warriors. Their faces were wild in the firelight at the room's centre, enraged and desperate for his blood and well and truly drunk.
My blood. They cannot see my blood.
Panic gripped him hard then. He faced the platform, focussing on the little deer shouting to her men. She did not look at him. The black holes in her skull sought the warriors, with hands intermittently flinging from the ruffles of her cloak. Calling lightning bolts from the skies, singeing the earthen floor. The warm reds of the firelit hall exploded into white light. Her skull mask created a formidable shadow behind her, and despite himself, his panic increased.
She was a little girl, a puny thing he could easily take down one-on-one. But her incredible power to summon lightning terrified him.
She turned her body to the right, away from Erik and the hole in the ground full of his men, speaking some garbled language he could not understand.
With her head angled far away, he caught a glimpse of the hair tied back beneath the hood of her cloak. A brilliant red caught his eye in a blur.
The lightning streaked her hair gold and his heart stopped. Beneath all the textiles lay an unknown beauty, he could sense it.
He wanted to see who lay behind the mask.
The two stags beside the little deer peeled away from her, walking to either edge of the platform. She was raving at the men, riling them up. Her arms moved higher and higher, and the wind whipped through Erik's body.
He steadied himself, surprised at yet more power from the girl. Now she could call the winds what else had she under that cloak? Could she raise and set the sun?
He was not allowed to marvel at her any longer. The biggest stag stalked over to him, seemingly gliding across the floor, long robes cloaking his footsteps.
Erik squared his shoulders, teeth gritted for whatever his captors would throw at him. The stag had his arms extended, reaching out, paled and speckled with reddish-brown spots.
He tried to struggle, tugging at his wrists, wrestling to get them free. Moving back was impossible, his escape route blocked by the beast that dragged him from the ground, flanked by a hostile mob.
The men clamoured behind him, their voices rising as the stag grew closer. His ears began ringing, unable to discern anything over the deafening din. The stag grabbed him by the shoulders and his hands lit up.
A fire erupted through Erik's veins, a deep agony encompassing every part of his body. The stag's iron grip kept him upright, but unconsciously his legs slackened. A lightning bolt must have struck his entire body because he smelled cooked flesh. It must be him.
The stag released him, sending his slumped form to the ground whilst the crowd cried their praise.
Erik peered through a half-shut eyelid, watching the stag that grabbed him wandering to the edge of the warrior crowd, rousing their spirits further. Light flashed and danced across his fingertips as he threw his hands into the air, the people screaming in answer.
Erik's eyes were open, the only thing responsive as his body spasmed uncontrollably. He could not get up. Fingers convulsing, he tried unsuccessfully to clamber to his feet. His senses were overwhelmed. The room repeatedly erupted into white light from the little deer, or perhaps her male counterpart.
The Sorenson tried to call his power to protect him. His hands struggled to feel the earth to soak up its energy, but he was too weak.
Uselessly, he trembled on the ground.
He did not realise he was unconscious until Sigtrygg's shouting stirred him. Erik shook his head, trying to clear the blur over his vision and his cuffed hands clumsily pushed him to his feet. His clothes were stiff and hot on irritated skin, it escaped him how he still lived.
His guard gurgled something to him in his foreign language. Erik stared at him blankly, exhaustion creeping into the edges of his vision.
"Come on, Erik!" Sigtrygg screamed.
He shook his head, trying to hold on to his eluding consciousness.
Erik got ahold of himself but still struggled with his shackles. He needed his hands free to create power, but he still had very little strength, so there was no chance he could disable them himself or certainty his power would come if called.
Another lightning bolt sounded, and Erik winced, anticipating the pain.
No pain. He opened his eyes and followed the gaze of the little deer. Standing behind him was a frail and filthy man who could not maintain eye-contact with the lightning girl.
The dirty man stumbled forward another burly red-haired native was behind him, shoving him through the crowd. Another captive, was it? Perhaps Erik and his brothers would not be the only sacrifices.
The other captive looked fit to faint right then and there. His pale skin was blanched of colour and he quickly looked at Erik before his eyes darted away, skittish.
"Salve, novus homus."
The quaking man pointed his beady eyes at Erik and began erratically moving his hands around and muttering. The Sorenson staggered back, as much as his shackles and collar allowed. He was unsure if a lightning bolt was going to come next.
"Erik!" Sigtrygg hollered. Erik steeled himself for these savages' retribution.
"He's a Christian, Erik. A priest!"
His mind took a little longer to respond, what with the lightning strike and all that.
"And what do you want me to do about that?" He called back in exasperation, voice weaker than first thought. Their captors stared between them dumbly.
His cousin ignored him, roaring at their brothers underground. Erik was left staring at the snivelling man -- a priest -- in front of him.
He had enough worldly wherewithal to know they were like leaders in Christianity. The only thing he could remember about them was their chasteness. He had never heard of chastity before and Sigtrygg had assured him it was the worst kind of perversion.
The priest wiped the sweat coating his upper lip and forehead. Erik was accustomed to people shaking before him, he considered himself quite imposing when necessary.
But this man was not terrified of him. His wide eyes darted between Erik and the three intimidating figures on the stage behind him. The little deer now sat atop a large chair, flanked by the stag. The priest looked like he was near fainting, his heart practically throbbing through his thick grey garments.
"Over here!" Sigtrygg burst through the silence, shaking the grate over the hole. "We know Latin! Nostri scimus lingua Latina!"
Suddenly, it all made sense in Erik's head. Their captors were trying to communicate with them-- through the trembling Latin priest.
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Tara was dreaming about herself under the hawthorn tree. She knew it was a dream because of the haziness of the rosy dawn or dusk around her and the white flowers blooming on the hawthorn's thorny branches even though autumn was well underway.
Her legs dangled mindlessly over the edge, elbows cushioned by the grass. The setting was familiar and kept her at ease, helping her sink to the ground with a smile.
A movement behind her, the faint sound of bending blades of grass and breaking twigs. Tara's relaxed form tensed.
"Is that you, little deer?"
She opened her eyes and above her stood the earth-shaking hostage.
She slowly sat up and turned to face him. Her eyes swept up and down his form, drinking him in with no one around to see her. Judge her.
"Can you comprehend me, little deer?"
"Yes." Her voice sounded high-pitched. Nervous. She stood up.
His face broke into a surprised grin. "I understand you."
"How is that?"
"Because this isn't real, we're in a dream."
She knew it to be true. Yet, the confidence in tone surprised her. As did the visceral dream. Her setting was comfortingly familiar, her company was not.
She took a step forward, an impulse, and tipped her chin back to keep eye-contact. She would not let herself be intimidated. Not on her land.
"You should be careful," She warned, side-stepping to put him between her and the cliff's edge.
"Why is that?"
"You know why." She flung her palm out, calling thunder.
Nothing happened.
His rueful smile turned into a snicker.
"How do you know so much about meeting girls in dreams?"
The light-haired stranger began to move away from the precipice, yet kept his distance from Tara. In the hazy light that suggested both dusk and dawn, she could pore over his body without fear of notice from her Clann. He moved with great agility most of her fearsome warriors lacked. He seemed nimble, unimpeded by a fat belly or rippling muscles, his slender form, sinewed and svelte was leaner than that of his companions. Especially after time in a Connacta pen.
"My brother can move between dreamscapes and often visits me when I sleep." She moved herself to see his expression, he had a far-away look, even though he moved his head as if taking in the hillside. "Sometimes we fly."
All thoughts left her head, as did her breath in her chest. "We can fly?"
His head turned, and her stomach tightened, his eyes roaming her face... then trailing down her form. "What do they call you, little deer?"
She hated that he dodged her questions, ignored her voice as if she had not spoken.
He stared at her the way other men stared at her, hungry and impatient. A certain wild gleam in their eyes that betrayed their intention and the thoughts in their mind. You on your back or your knees. It usually made her belly clench and caused a panicked flush. Everything in her body would scream in harmony to run.
But this stranger's look made her warm, a different kind of heat that slowly consumed the lower half of her body.
"Tara." She said.
"Taa-raa." His forehead crinkled, thinking hard about the pronunciation. His seriousness made her laugh.
"Erik."
"Sorry?"
"Ehh-rick." He jabbed a finger to his chest. "They call me Erik."
Erik. The name reverberated around her head. She had never heard it, but it suited him.
Tara realised she had not replied and he was just there, standing in front of her in her dream. Grinning.
"Where did you come from?"
His grin hardened to something more false, casting a glance around the setting. "Somewhere far colder than here."
"This land can be very cold," She stuffed her hands into the folds of her nightdress. "I make it bearable."
He was nodding before she had even finished. "Yes, I'd wager you do. We'd love to have someone like you back home."
His hungry eyes were back, roving over her freely. Since she had succeeded to rí two years before, no one had looked at her that boldly.
Moreover, when she succeeded to rí she was fifteen summers, short, frail and unbreasted. The time since then had allowed her to mature and fill out her growing frame to become familiar with her own limbs, movements and desires. Yet no one had raked their eyes over her such as he.
She sat down, realising her bare legs were on show, pale and freckled below the nightdress. She did not feel the blades of grass beneath them, her senses were muddled in this dreamland, but everything about Erik was in hyper-focus. She believed she could feel the heat radiating from his body.
"Do they have... people like me, can do things like me... have a power I mean, back where you're from?" She knew she was nervous, even though she was asleep. Speaking about her abilities to anyone outside her Clann was new-- speaking to anyone new was new.
He grew quiet, angled his body away from hers and began to walk.
"People like us. Ya."
Maybe it was new for him, too.
She followed.
They talked about the things around them. Bright green grasses rolling for ages, divided by bogland to the east and mountains jutting by the west. Erik mocked the squatness of Irish mountains and her shock at the glaciers and mounts he described.
He was full of adventures. Full of stories about voyaging great distances to murky caves and unexplored valleys. His people survived in tough terrain which bred tough people whose skill lay in shipbuilding and seafaring, games and raiding, so he said. He described creatures she had never encountered and places in his lands that sounded straight from a nightmare. This was his first time away from his Northern territories and the fondness in his voice for his home made her pine for it too.
She described the bog and cutting turf and its smoke coating the air. He asked about their dogs, impressed at their size and intelligence. She told him to wait until the wolves came at night to fight the dogs. The wolves go whining away, ears and tails torn and tattered. Except when it was a wild pup like her dead Brian, he seemed saddened by that story.
Mostly, she adored how she was not rí with him. They discussed no politics, nothing about governance or responsibility. Or much of supernatural abilities. There were no lowered eyes and tones of intimidation. They spoke freely, gazing at one another in the eyes and beholden to no code of manner or tradition.
He said he was seventeen summers, and the eloquence of his language suggested he was high-born. He seemed learned and even though his eyes lingered on her lips and her hips she knew he was in a position of power, such as herself, and that his wiliness was inherent but not as a result of ill-breeding.
Truly, his interested stare excited the young rí and she fought the urges to fuss with her clothing or flick her hair. Erik's gaze made her stomach flip with nervousness, but she would not have him look elsewhere. She had never realised you could get the excitement of an adventure purely from looking at a person.
They finished by walking up the hills and rolling down like children. Arms wrapped around themselves, jostled by the grassy knolls, elated and free from watchful eyes and judgement. After multiple rolls and dizziness, gazing up, they marvelled at the cloudless sky.
"I don't understand why we're in each other's dreams." He breathed, accidentally bumping her shoulder with his. They lay flush together.
"Me neither."
Her body vibrated with nervous energy, quaking with his nearness and her inexperience. Tara had yet to kiss a boy in all her years. Without Ethne's veritable guidance, she did not even know what rutting really was.
That was not to change this night. They lay together, in comfortable silence, then chatting about things in their immediate surroundings, like long time companions.
Drowsiness tugged their eyelids eventually, the rosy sky still bright but their minds tired. Soon, they were asleep in their dreams and forced to wake up in the cold light of day, reality, by themselves.
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The next night, Tara skipped to bed, uncommonly glad for her brothers' departures. She thrummed with anxious energy, terrified he would not show up tonight in her dream and yet terrified that he would.
Her servants were elsewhere, directed by their rí to leave her alone to go to sleep early tonight. She claimed she had a splitting headache, a common occurrence for one who must focus a substantial amount of energy on holding up the skies.
She had no headache on this night, though. If anything, she felt weightless, drifting to her bronze mirror to see her reflection. She brushed her hair and pinched her cheeks to bring pink to the dull white. She gently chewed on her lips, hoping to plump them up.
Her fears overwhelmed her as she got into her bed, worried Erik would not show or that she would not be able to find sleep or find their dreamscape. Perhaps the last night was a one-off, never to be repeated.
She had not to worry for several minutes after she rested her buzzing head she was awaking by the hawthorn tree at the edge of the cliff.
Erik was nowhere to be found, so she wandered the familiar landscape and enjoyed the tranquillity of the place. Disappointment reared its ugly head, but she squashed it down determined not to let his absence ruin the peace in her mind. He was her hostage and she should not entertain anything like this.
But he made her feel like her insides were liquid. Despite the grime from imprisonment, his handsomeness was obvious. He was beautiful, as a girl, with a harsh angular jaw and facial hair to balance.
He appeared then, more haggard than the previous night and paler. When his eyes met hers, they brightened somewhat, but his mouth set into a fine line.
"Welcome."
He dipped his chin down in a silent greeting.
She absentmindedly worried her lower lip as he trudged over to her, unhurried. Her fears rose, but she squashed them. She had no supernatural ability here, but she did have her wits.
"You are upset with me."
Perhaps her matter-of-fact tone encouraged honesty. With raised eyebrows, he said accusingly, "You're keeping my brothers and me hostage."
She focused her eyes on a tree behind him, unable to meet his gaze. Nor her own actions.
"You have trespassed on our lands."
Surprisingly, he snorted in derision. "Not willingly."
A red flush licked her cheeks, and her silence lingered too long as she tried to come up with a viable excuse.
He saved her with his words, "I imagine the choice is not solely yours, I only wish to know if we will be allowed to leave, or are we victims for the slaughter?"
She could not help but laugh, breaking through her nervousness.
"We aren't savages. Human sacrifice was outlawed long ago."
Another snort as he started moving towards her, she felt a shift in him too, from the defensive. He wandered to her and she side-stepped as she noticed him staring out past the cliff edge, to the horizon. "Good to know."
Tara turned to join him in his survey of the sea. She mused over his words, searching for hidden meanings. "It's my turn to ask a question. How is this possible? Us, here like this in the same dream. How do we understand each other's languages?"
Another snort, perhaps a trait of his. "That was two questions."
She rolled her eyes, realising every conversation with this man may be a difficult one.
Her silence prompted his answer, "I do not know why we are in each other's dreams. I assume we can communicate because this isn't real..." "It feels very real, though."
He only nodded.
"You said before that we can fly."
"Yeah, my brother walks dreamscapes, it's his affinity, and sometimes he takes me flying."
She was nodding, wishing to discuss flying more but there was a bittersweet melody to his words, "Your brother, where is he? Is he one of my hostages?"
Erik jerked back from the cliff, startling her. She turned as he stalked towards the tree, tearing his hands through his hair. "No, but I almost wish he was."
There was disgust for her and her land in his words, she sensed, but before she could lash out, he said, 'He was on another boat. He's younger than me, he wasn't even supposed to be coming- it was my mission, to earn my braid. But all the months we built the ship, he was right there, building it with the men and training with me. He's almost as big as Sigtrygg, but...' His voice faltered. "He's only twelve."
Tara was taken aback by his frankness, even more so at the thought of a young boy lost at sea. "What is his name?"
He raised his head at that, 'Harald.'
Then her heart truly bled and solely for the boy being Erik's brother.
He heaved a great sigh, extinguishing his energy and sank to his haunches, leaning against the hawthorn tree. Feeling his sorrow, she followed suit.
"Sigtrygg, my uncle's son, assures me he lived, that he did not see the ship go down during the storm, did not see Harald's ship for half a day before we hit it. I've half a mind to believe him.'
"It seems the best way to move forward and ensure you return home to him."
He coughed up a laugh, wiping his nose and eyes of tears Tara had not noticed. "Home, yes. We are pampered princes, until the day we fight each other to the death and succeed our father."
Total disbelief, at his words and the thought some other family had it worse off than hers.
Her face surely looked a picture, for Erik burst out laughing, a kind of thick guffaw that made him clap his hands and bark like a seal. His novel hoots made her laugh too and then the pair were rolling on the grass, crying with laughter-- at each other, at themselves, at the pure absurdity of their existence.
Time passed, their laughter ceased and then one of them made a noise that caused the other to roar again, and they both fell into laughing again. They revelled in their shared giddiness and gazed at each other unabashedly, forgetting themselves.
Eventually, he said, 'I can't even remember why we're laughing.'
Her body betrayed her, and she let her head fall to the side, closer to him. "Me neither."
His head fell to the side too. "Does it matter?"
His eyes dipped down to her lips, then bobbed up to her eyes again.
"No..." Her voice was weak. Breathless. She craved to move closer to his warmth and inviting eyes.
They stared at one another, his eyes lingering on her lips teasingly long. She wriggled with desire, the dream doing little to dampen her emotions. So close, his eyes glowed and swirled a brilliant blue. His face was marred by small cuts and scratches and her hand unconsciously lifted to cup it, brushing aside an errant tear.
His mouth closed around hers, Tara's hand seemingly enough permission. She allowed herself to lean into it, hand sliding down to steady his chin. His hand cupped the back of her neck, fingers gently twinning in her baby hairs. She kissed him deeper, his fingers tightened.
Turning on to his elbow, he crushed himself into her and she was swept away, completely.
✦✦✦ ✝︎✞✟ ✧ ✝︎✞✟ ✦✦✦
PS. I'm not 100% certain that Latin is correct, I think it's mostly correct but if anyone happens to know Latin better please let me know! The English translation is: 'Greetings, strange man.' and 'We know Latin!"
- A