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.
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The Valkyrie, unburied and unmourned, had brought misfortune to the Sorensons.
She was their spiritual guide, the all-powerful seer whose rituals and incantations saved them from death in a shipwreck but could not save herself. None of the men would speak it, for fear acknowledging her fury in death would rain more misery on their camp.
After a plan was devised, Erik's sick brothers worsened. Their rattling coughs turned to wet and bloody sputtering, the weak sunlight faded into dusk with low temperatures dropping even further, taking chances of survival with it. Sigtrygg, Erik, Cnut and Sten, their remaining healthy men, were pressed against the far wall watching the sick men deteriorate. The cold wind doing little to stop their fevers.
Part of Erik was envious. These sick men would not be imprisoned and killed as lambs for the slaughter. They would succumb to illness much faster than that. He did not sleep much that night, volunteering to sit in the corner, glazed eyes locked on the sweating bodies of his ailing brothers. He feared their wet coughs would choke them in the night.And it was because of Valkyrie's unburied body. They had survived a storm because of her and none of his men had died since then of a fever, but the mourning period was over. Her body should rest in a stone tomb emblazoned with runes for her soul's safe journey. Up to the stars, the blazing campfires of the gods in the heavens.
Yet Erik had been forced to leave her on that beach as food for the crows.
His stomach churned at the thought. He had always feared her a bit, especially when she answered to his father. She was covered in black tattoos of runes and one-eyed, the sign of a seer. Terrifying to a child. Her presence guaranteed good luck for him and his crew. Her death signalled the end of that, and her unburied body guaranteed a fresh wave of bad fortune. Erik gnashed his teeth together with consternation, his mind screaming; how stupid he was for thinking he could earn his braid, for dragging all these men to their death, for being unable to get enough energy, physically and mentally, to shake the earth again.
"Valkyrie." He breathed, and with the utterance of her name came the certainty of his next plan, "I will mourn the Valkyrie, Woden. I'll find her body and burn it. I vow not to rest until her body is burned and journeyed home." It was the only way to change their fate, to stop this misery and turn the tide of fortune. With the Valkyrie's reverence restored, the men may survive their fevers and Erik's energy and power could be restored, allowing a neverending earthquake. An escape for his brothers.
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For the next three days, the Sorensons kept their rock hard bread and dried nuts and gave all to Erik. It was the only plan they could devise in their insufferable states, one which had no sureness of success. Erik, secretly, was grateful for the added nutrition. Especially if his strength helped battle his festering wound and he happily gorged himself at first on all the other men's portions, to charge him with enough energy to manage an escape.
As the days wore on, and day three and four came for his brothers without food, Erik's hopes sank lower and lower. His men were feeble, unable to hold conversations with the princeling. One succumbed to the feverish nightmares of his sickness, raving loudly for hours on end between fitful sleep.Worse still, their sacrifice seemingly had little effect on him. As dawn on day four began, Erik felt weak and miserable for agreeing to Sigtrygg's suggestion, fearing he had lost his affinity for earth, the grief magnified by the potential loss of his brothers. His eyes flickered to his closest cousin, dearest friend Sigtrygg. The great lump of muscle was shrinking as the days progressed. Sigtrygg's easy smile and bared teeth in between a laugh and a growl were gone, his face hollowed out, cheeks sunken from deficiency.Back when Sigtrygg was speaking, two days ago, he despaired over his fate. A Sorenson man destined for the great godly halls after dying in battle was instead to starve to death in some foreign mud-hut, away from open water and glory. Erik had to get them out of there and quickly.The only viable option was to speak with the queen. So defeated and humbled, he allowed his head to rest and searched for her in a dream. To beg for her help.
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It was dusk or dawn in her dreamscape. He did not really know. The ether was dusted with pinks bleeding into purples, oranges and blues. He saw both the sun and the moon, blinking his eyes open, he saw her too.
She had her back to him, sitting at the edge of the cliff by the hawthorn tree. Her hair, beautiful red tresses, were moved by the gentle breeze. Everything about the scene was perfect, a perfection the real world did not allow. In the dream, he thought of going over to her and then, suddenly, he was there. His feet traipsing over velveteen grass and outstretched palm grazing her shoulder. The vividness of his dreams with her (unlike the ones of his dream-hopping brother) was astounding. His hand warmed by her skin. He let it linger there, even as she startled, enjoying the smoothness. He did not know if he had ever felt something so soft, silken. 'I've been waiting here for hours.' She sounded accusatory. He didn't mind.
'Apologies, my queen,' He stooped real low to mock her, then sat next to her, dangling his legs, 'Much to do in that mud-hut of mine, what with the starving and the freezing and the rotting away.'
Her eyes narrowed, he continued: 'To be honest, I didn't know this dreaming thing was going to be every night. I... I kind of put off sleep, just in case it's a normal dream when I wake up and you're not in it.'
Her expression softened, just a touch, still remaining a haughty ruler. She cast her gaze out towards the sea, almost whispering: 'Yeah, me too.'
They lingered like that for a time, both watching an imagined landscape and the serenity of an ebbing Ocean. Erik loved how they enjoyed the waters, awash with purple and light blue, reflecting the skies above.
He considered how to ask her all the things he needed: to be set free from his pen, to be given healing roots for his leg and his men, for more food. But his mouth dried up.
All he could think about was the heat of her body, flush against his, arms and elbows touching. Both stared straight ahead, unnaturally still. Neither were comfortable, both trying to think what the other was thinking.Really, he was thinking about kissing her. And when the last time was that they had kissed. And if kissing in a dream was as good as kissing in real life. And if they would ever kiss in real life.
Erik angled to face her, about to fire off some quick-wit to diffuse the heavy atmosphere around them, but when he looked straight at her he noticed stained red cheeks, blushing furiously, hot like his own. He had this feeling she was thinking the same thing he was.
She angled her face towards him, and finally, unthinkingly, he cupped her face and kissed her. His bold move was rewarded when her hand snaked to the nape of his neck, and the other gently roamed his back. He encircled her with his arms, gathering her up, then brought them both gently to the earth, kicking a leg over and shimmying away from the cliff. Covering her body with his, deepening the kiss and tangling their hands in each other's hair, both letting their hands and lips wander where they wished.
Moments, minutes or hours later, he did not know, he awoke in the freezing mud-hut, kissing the dirt and fondling Cnut's back. Annoyed and realising he did not ask for help that his men so desperately needed.