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Time is a strange thing. It is a fleeting concept in itself, but in battle, it follows a completely different set of rules. And even then, those rules are never the same. The built-up to the slaughter of Dunholm is slow, even slower than usual, and it allows for fear to spread like a plague. Finan is no stranger to the anxiousness of waiting for someone to come at him with a sword, to try and take his life, nor to the ever-present question of will my luck finally run out. If they are caught before the time is right, Dunholm's sentries will not even have to leave their posts to squash them, much less draw a sword. A few arrows and spears from the high ramparts will do the trick.
He doesn't even have that much of a plan to keep track of while he waits for Uhtred's next order. There are not that many steps he had to memorize beforehand: climb the mountain path to the wall unseen, give the signal of attack, gain entrance through the door at the well, move to the front gate without getting caught, open that gate. Easy enough.
But there is so much at stake here, so many what ifs to their plan, so much to lose for either of them. His gaze wanders across his companions hiding against the wall, lingering on Sihtric for a moment. The young warrior hasn't tried to catch his gaze, and even now, he carefully keeps his head raised, eyes trained on the slowly brightening sky. It is a smart thing to do, Finan realizes that now. The longer he looks at him, the more anxious he becomes. The fear for himself is joined by fear for Sihtric, and he has to tear his gaze away with great effort. He follows his example, watching the sky instead, and slowly counts back from two hundred to focus his mind on the battle ahead.
Then there's the sound of laughter and women's chatter that easily drowns the patient murmur of the well, and Finan's eyes snap back to Uhtred, just in time to see his signal. Finan passes on the order to the archer, watches the flaming arrow streak across the pale morning sky, and then time suddenly accelerates, propels him forward into the fight at the well and beyond. And of course the Norns won't have them take Dunholm without a gruesome battle for their amusement.
Their small breaching crew doesn't make it across the yard undetected, and it truly becomes a mess then. With guards descending on them from all sides, he loses sight of Sihtric almost immediately, but he can no longer be afraid. There is only reflex and fight instinct left, and he strikes and parries without thinking, blood dripping down from the blades in his hands. He is shouting curses at his opponents without even knowing it, and barely registers the abuse they return to him.
And just as suddenly, time screeches to a halt, and the battle is over. Kjartan's men huddle at the far end of the town square, their shield wall a pitiful thing that wouldn't hold a mere minute. With death looming over them, they are done with insults, and the sudden silence is almost uncomfortable after the racket preceding it. Kjartan, wretched murderer though he is, accepts Ragnar's challenge without hesitation, saving the lives of his remaining men, and there is no unit to describe the strange lengthening of seconds until they seem to mount to an hour.
Which, in truth, is only mere minutes. Kjartan and Ragnar are both already tired from the battle at the gate, and the contest of life and death is short and vicious, fought with sheer force of will rather than finesse. Finan uses the unexpected respite and tries to find Sihtric in the crowd surrounding the fight. He doesn't see him, but he can't leave his post in Uhtred's front-line to go looking for him, in case Kjartan's men decide to go down with blood marking their swords after all.
And just like that, it is over.
Finan closes his eyes for a brief moment, tries to gather a sliver of triumph, but all he can find is bone-deep exhaustion. There's no time to rest, either, and so much to do in the aftermath of the battle: disarming Kjartan's men, witnessing the oaths they take to Ragnar, handing death to those who won't, securing the gate and the walls against any warbands returning to avenge their fallen lord, distributing food and ale and coins to the survivors.
By the time Uhtred shoos him off to find something to eat and a bed to fall unconscious on, food and sleep are the least important things on his mind. When he saw her last, Hild assured him Sihtric was well and uninjured, but he cannot rest until he has seen for himself. It is irrational, this fear, but he can't fight against it, not now that his mind is free of tasks, free to wander to all the what ifs he successfully suppressed before now. What if Sihtric had met his father on the battlefield? What if they hadn't managed to open the gate in time? What if some bastard still loyal to Kjartan had recognized Sihtric and decided to take his vengeance out on the traitor?
So maybe this fear is not so irrational. Finan quickens his pace as he scours the camp for any sign of Sihtric. Dunholm is not that big, it’s a fortress rather than a city, but it’s obviously big enough that he is still empty-handed after half an hour of searching. He has asked every warrior in Uhtred’s closer circle that crossed his path, has randomly checked side streets and houses if the doors were open, has even circled the ramparts to gain a superior view of happenings within the high walls.
No Sihtric.
Instead, there’s everything a just captured fortress has to offer. Drunk men, celebrating their victory, busy whores, celebrating flourishing business, desperate widows, mourning for their fallen husbands. In short, it’s a madhouse. The memory of a similar search not too long ago comes up unbidden, along with another bout of what ifs, but he ruthlessly pushes them away. They would only cloud his judgement. Not that it is helping any. The only idea he has left is a raid of Dunholm, turning the whole place upside down – which could lead to riots and therefore cost them control of the town. Uhtred will never favour this idea, as fond as he is of Sihtric and his well-being.
The only other option he can think of is to start from scratch. Swallowing the curse waiting on the tip of his tongue, Finan takes a different path away from the main hall, through an alley so narrow he has to go sideways at the end. But it leads him to a part of Dunholm that he hasn’t crossed before, where the houses turn smaller, shabbier, until they are mere huts, leaning against each other to brace against the elements. Windows are rare, and there are few doors, most entrances only gaping dark holes, as if the huts were frozen in a silent scream. It’s a daunting place, and Finan defensively draws up his shoulders, fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword. His caution is uncalled for, though. No one crosses his way, until he stumbles upon the one he has been looking for all along.
The path suddenly opens up on the right side to a patch of grass, wedged in between a few of those staggering huts and a wall that supports a sidewalk of the high rampart. Sihtric is barely visible in his black armour, sitting motionless in the tiny meadow all by himself. In the dark blue light of dusk, Finan may have missed him if it weren't for Clapa standing guard in the shadow of the wall, his roughly cleaned axe dangling battle-ready from his hand. “Brother,” Finan greets quietly. “No ale for you tonight?”
Clapa nods at him in greeting, but he doesn't smile at his jest. “No. This place is not yet safe for us.”
With 'us', he mostly means Sihtric, that much is clear. “He didn't want any company?”
Clapa gives him a mild look, and it suspiciously feels like he's debating whether to scold him for a stupid question or not. When Finan raises his eyebrows, asking for whatever is going on in his head, he sighs and relents. “It's not my company he needs.” And then he exaggeratedly inclines his head towards Sihtric and then back to Finan. Alright. So much for keeping secrets from their closest brothers.
Even though Finan should be satisfied that Sihtric seems to be uninjured, just like Hild said, the piece of concern wedged deep between his ribs won't come loose. This is not like Sihtric, to choose solitude when there is a celebration with ale and jokes and singing to be had, and certainly not in a patch of trampled grass that doesn't show any sign of significance. So Finan approaches slowly, making as much noise as he can, and settles in the damp grass next to Sihtric. He leaves a respectable distance between them – Clapa is right after all, this is not a friendly place. Not yet. And even if it was, he is not prepared to take any risks.
This close, Finan can see Sihtric is shaking, can see he has a tight grip on the hammer around his neck, as if lost in prayer. It seems like he hasn’t even realized he is not alone anymore, so Finan lightly taps his bare arm to let him know he’s there. “Goddammit,” he exclaims before he can stop himself. Sihtric’s skin is freezing cold. “You got to get in front of a hearth!”
Sihtric slightly inclines his head in his direction, but Finan can't determine whether he agrees or not. “This is where I buried her.” Ah. Finan doesn't even have to ask who. There was probably only one person in this wretched place who showed any kindness to Sihtric. “There were other graves here, before. Slaves, mostly.”
The following pause is longer. Finan still has no idea what he is supposed to say, but he is pretty sure he is expected to react. “Before?”
“They must have removed them. After I was gone.”
“I’m sorry.”
Sihtric only hums in response, and it suddenly dawns on Finan why his instincts told him to be wary of this strange scene he stumbled upon. Sihtric’s body language and his detached tone of voice suggest he is not really here, in this moment. He is caught in his memories, meddled with the more recent, blood-soaked images of his father’s death. Finan has seen warriors disappear into their own heads like this after a battle or the loss of a loved one, and they didn’t always come back unscathed. Or at all.
“Come on,” he says and pulls Sihtric with him onto his feet. “Mead first, and food. And then I’ll find us a bed.”
“M’not hungry,” Sihtric mutters, but it lacks all conviction and sounds like he’s half-asleep already. Finan doesn’t reply and guides him away from the meadow and this dark part of town with a hand hovering closely to the small of his back, gently prodding him on whenever he’s slowing down.
Clapa tails them on their way back to the hall, axe still at the ready, and combined with the sombre look on his face, the barely veiled threat keeps most men away. The few who dare shout at them to join them and share their barrels of ale are ignored, and – for their own sake – they don’t ask twice. What is more, they show the same respect to their leaders. Uhtred and Ragnar are alone in the main hall, huddled close to the fire, and Finan is of a mind to retreat immediately as well, but Uhtred sees them hover in the doorway and waves them closer.
“Don’t be shy,” he says, grinning. “Sit with us.”
Clapa grunts his thanks and obeys gladly, settling in on a fur-covered bench and accepting a jug of ale from Ragnar. Finan hesitates, and Uhtred instantly catches on to it. His grin dims to a frown as he takes in Sihtric’s unsteady stance and the far-away look on his face. His lord raises his eyebrows at Finan as if to ask what the matter is, but Finan only shakes his head. He barely understands what he is dealing with, so he can’t really put that strange feeling of dread in his gut into words. He knows it must also show on his face, because Uhtred serves him with the solution he wasn’t even aware he was looking for.
“You look tired,” he says, and his voice is not teasing as it would normally be when he accuses Finan of slacking. “The new Master of Dunholm-“ Here, he raises his tankard to Ragnar who smiles and mirrors the gesture. “-was kind enough to secure me a cosy chamber just through that door. But I won’t be able to sleep tonight, so you may have it.”
Finan carefully keeps his relief out of his voice when he replies. “Thank you, lord.”
The chamber is tiny and has just enough room for a narrow bed and not even a single window. That means it can’t have been Kjartan’s own chambers, which is the most important part right now. It also has a little hearth, which makes it indeed cosy enough for his needs, and Finan is grateful to find a pile of prepared logs right next to it. They are dry and burn quickly, and soon enough, the temperature in the room is climbing steadily. In the meantime, Sihtric hasn’t moved from his spot beside the door nor uttered a single word, and Finan doesn’t waste any time with trying to coax a response out of him and simply starts tugging off Sihtric’s weapons and various pieces of armour. He is met with no resistance at all, but Sihtric starts shivering again once he has been stripped down to his breeches, and Finan can feel the goose flesh spread across his bare skin beneath his fingertips.
“Just a moment longer,” he mutters and makes quick work of getting rid of his own scabbards, leather armour and mail coat. Half-naked himself now, he isn’t feeling cold at all, not with the fire blazing merrily in the hearth, but Sihtric looks about ready to shake out of his skin he’s trembling so violently. “Come on, let’s get you warm.”
Thankfully, Sihtric doesn’t need any more prompting, but his movements are still slow and laboured as he shimmies beneath the blankets and furs covering the bed. Finan watches him closely until he is settled in and then climbs in next to him. The bed barely fits them both, but he manages to keep a short distance between them. This is not a safe place, not safe at all, and even though the chances of discovery by unfriendly eyes are slim, they are still there. But Sihtric just won’t stop shaking, and he’s watching him with feverish eyes. Finan is pretty sure he would like to ask for comfort, but knows his opinion on public affection. Which makes him feel like a heartless bastard.
With a deep sigh, he reaches over and pulls Sihtric into his arms. All the warmth flees immediately from Finan’s own skin, and he has to grit his teeth against the surprised hiss that threatens to escape. Sihtric’s skin is like ice all over – except for his forehead, which is scorching hot against his neck. A fever is never a good sign, and Finan is starting to doubt whether warming Sihtric up with body heat will be enough to pry him out of the strange state of mind he’s fallen into and if a healer could be found among the survivors of the Battle of Dunholm. But there are surely others who are in dire need of medical attention lest they succumb to their wounds, and Finan doesn’t follow that train of thought any further.
Instead, he starts running his hands up and down Sihtric’s arms, his chest and his back in an attempt to chase the chill away. And that, at last, seems to work. Sihtric’s skin is slowly, but surely heating up beneath his hands, and their little cave of blankets and furs is now comfortable and truly cosy. Before long, the rhythm of caresses Finan has fallen into is growing sluggish and eventually slowing down until his hands finally settle around Sihtric’s waist and then still. His breathing is slowing too, calming and deepening, and he is mere seconds away from drifting off when Sihtric suddenly moves against him, pulling back from his hiding place against Finan’s neck.
In the blink of an eye, the calmness that had been surrounding them a mere moment before is gone. Sihtric is quickly sitting up, and the movement is jittery and anxious. Rudely shaken from his doze, Finan slowly forces his eyes back open, and finds Sihtric trying to entangle himself from the heap of blankets. “Sihtric?”
“I can’t sleep here,” he says and he sounds so desperate that Finan is instantly wide-awake again.
“Why not,” he asks, voice carefully calm. When Sihtric doesn’t answer, but is moving instead to leap from the bed, he instinctively aims to catch him, and only by luck manages to get a hold of his wrist. Sihtric himself moves out of instinct, too, and lashes out at him. Finan takes a painful knock to the jaw, but he just about succeeds in keeping his grip tight despite the ringing in his ears.
“You are safe here, Sihtric,” Finan says imploringly, and even though Sihtric is still straining slightly against his grip, he pauses to listen. There’s that at least. “Kjartan is dead. He is dead. There’s Uhtred and Ragnar and Clapa just beyond that door, and they will fight anyone who would try to harm you. So will I. As long as I am here with you, no one will get to you. They will have to do it over my dead body.”
It is not the best choice of words, Finan can admit that much. A flash of panic crosses Sihtric’s face, as if the mere thought of him dead is enough to plunge him back into the frenzied state Finan just talked him out of. “Hey,” Finan tries again, and thankfully, Sihtric immediately focuses back on him, the pull against his hold finally ceasing. “It will not happen today. You and I are safe today, do you hear me?”
Finan lets go of his wrist, but Sihtric immediately turns his palm and closes his fingers around his forearm, obviously unwilling to lose the contact. He is much calmer now – or rather exhausted, Finan decides as he peers at his face. The sudden shift from terrified to dead tired is startling, but not exactly surprising, in the end. They have been awake for almost two days, and with Uhtred’s nerve-wrecking plan and the battle at the gate, it’s astonishing that they didn’t fall unconscious yet. But Sihtric seems to be close, now. His eyes are half-way shut already, and the tension is slipping from his frame, approaching sleep softening the sharp angles of his face.
Finan tugs on his hand, and Sihtric follows willingly, lets himself be guided back into his arms under the heap of blankets and furs. His breathing instantly slows and deepens, and then he finally succumbs to sleep. Finan allows himself a sigh of relief as he settles in their embrace. The worst seems to be over, considering how close they came to disaster and death. They didn’t lose too many men and even gained a few, and all the people he cares about survived the day mostly unscathed. But this place is poison to Sihtric, and the longer they stay, the worse it will become.
The thought follows him into sleep, always lurking at the edge, shapeless and discomforting. His dreams are erratic and don’t make sense at all. Sometimes, he’s in a shield-wall, no house colours or coat of arms showing him who he is fighting for. Sometimes, he’s sitting alone at a large lake, the water eerily smooth and dark. Sihtric is never there with him, and yet he keeps looking for him, in the terror of battle and in the loneliness of the lakeshore. A few times, he is convinced he would be there if he just turned around, but whenever he does, there’s no one there.
Until there is.
Finan hasn’t dared remember his face in a long time, but he recognizes him instantly. There is no blood on his face, nor are there any injuries marring his skin. He’s wearing the familiar leather armour and his father’s elegant blade he’d been so proud of, the silver patterns on the handle gleaming unnaturally bright in the twilight surrounding the lake.
He hasn’t aged a day. That fact marks this as a dream, as wishful thinking. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. “Aodhán,” Finan greets him, and the name alone tears apart all the stitches he pulled tight across the old wound, over and over until he had eventually forgotten it was there.
Aodhán doesn’t acknowledge him at first, striding down the rocky shore to the water’s edge, gaze trained on the far end of the lake. Finan follows him as if drawn by a string, the pebbles beneath his feet clicking loudly. Even though he wants to, he can’t look away, mesmerized by the wave of longing flooding his heart. There had been a time when he had been wishing for a moment like this as much as he had feared it. Now, however, now he isn’t so sure anymore why he had been so afraid. They can be together now, untouched by hate and death.
Aodhán doesn’t seem to share his relief. When he finally turns to him, his eyes are full of anger. “You destroyed every memory of me that was left in this world.”
The accusation certainly dims the joy of hearing his voice again. Finan doesn’t want to admit to it, but the denial gets stuck in his throat. Instead, he hears himself saying, “I did.”
“As if I had never lived at all.”
“Yes.”
Aodhán watches the emotions flicker across Finan’s face, first the confusion at finding himself unable to answer like he wants to, then the rage at the realization that, here in this strange dream world, he cannot outwit himself. Finan exclaims, “What the hell?!”
Aodhán sighs and shakes his head. “Finan,” he says, gently now. “This is what you think I would say to you?”
Finan buries his hands in his hair and swears, then mutters, “You aren’t really here.”
“If I wouldn’t be real here, where would I be?”
“Jesus Christ,” Finan chokes out and drops his hands. He is absolutely livid now. “You bastard are an imposter. So don’t go about forgiving me, either.”
The imposter grins suddenly, and Finan is taken aback by how much it makes him look like the real Aodhán. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says easily. Then he snaps his fingers.
“Finan. Finan!”
Finan groans and clutches at his pounding head, struggling to take deep breaths against the nausea turning his stomach upside down. A hand touches his back, warm against the layer of sweat cooling on his flushed skin, and he latches on to the grounding feeling lest he loses what little he ate before the battle.
“Finan.”
He recognizes the voice now. For a wild and terrible moment, the urge to be sick hits him again as he desperately thinks I don’t want them to meet here. But then he finally takes in his surroundings, the glowing embers in the hearth, the bare walls, the furs pooling in his lap – and no lakeshore. The hand on his back falls away as Sihtric scoots around him and takes hold of his wrists instead, carefully tugging them down. For a second, Finan relishes the enormous relief of someone who realizes he has been fooled by bad dreams. Then he exhales heavily. “Did I wake you?”
Sihtric frowns. “No.” His tone makes it clear he wouldn’t care either way. He’s dying to ask about his dream, Finan can see it in his face, but he obviously doesn’t dare cross that line. It is a testament to how frail the trust between them still is, how many bridges Finan burnt not too long ago. But in order to rebuild them, Sihtric shouldn’t be forced to hold back for his sake, and neither should he.
It takes him a few attempts, but at last he manages to say his name out loud. “Aodhán.”
A flash of uncertainty crosses Sihtric’s face, but he quickly suppresses it. “Yes,” he prompts him, voice low and carefully unassuming.
“Aodhán,” Finan repeats, and it’s a little easier this time. “That was his name.”
Sihtric is silent for a moment, no doubt piecing together the things Finan doesn’t say, the things he had only been guessing at before. “He was killed?”
“He was.” He is prepared for the onrush of pain now, welcomes it even. It feels surprisingly good to let the ache run its course rather than fighting it and thus constantly prolonging the power it has over him. His breathing still quickens involuntarily and Sihtric’s hands tighten around his fingers. Finan squeezes back. “They murdered him because of us.”
He can’t bring himself to put the appropriate label on it, can’t talk of love, of a bond deeper and stronger than blood. Sihtric doesn’t ask him to. He must know this is already more than Finan was ever willing to share, and that he will not go any further. Not tonight. Without a word, he stretches back out on the bed, then pulls Finan down to lie next to him. The embrace they settle into feels much more natural than the first one, as if they don’t have to think about how to arrange themselves. Finan ends up with his head resting on Sihtric’s chest, face turned away from him, and once again, Sihtric doesn’t ask for it.
It should send him running, like it did before, being pried open and then left at someone else’s mercy. But Sihtric is not just someone else, and he has proven time and time again to be worthy of Finan’s trust, and of keeping his secrets safe. Keeping him safe. The least he can do is return the favour.
Decision made, he raises his head and pushes up onto his elbows above Sihtric who watches him curiously. “Guthred lacks support now that we are here instead of Eoferwic, don’t you think?”
Sihtric quirks an eyebrow, not sure where he is going with this. “I guess he does.”
“But Uhtred would not want him to lose his throne, would he?”
“Most likely.”
“So we should leave as soon as possible to make sure he will still be king when Uhtred returns, shouldn’t we?”
Sihtric is catching on now, a grateful smile spreading on his face. “We definitely should.”
Finan allows himself a pleased grin in return. “Good. Let’s do that. Today.”
Sihtric’s nod is halted by Finan catching his mouth in a kiss, for the first time since they left the safe walls of his quarters in Eoferwic to go to war. A wave of fondness hits him, smoothing over the gaping hole in his chest that is forever going to be there. The pain will remain, if muted like a dagger with blunt edges, despite the best intentions of Sihtric, the infuriatingly capable and handsome Dane that is going to be the death of him. Not an axe, not a sword, not the cross. The light touches, the confident kisses, the trust Sihtric shares so effortlessly. Knowing that Finan will never be able to give just as much in return, that’s going to do him in.
But not today. Today, there is work to do. “We should get up,” he says and pulls away.
Before he can swing his legs over the edge of the bed to rise, Sihtric holds him back, warmth instantly spreading from the hand he splays over his heart. His face is serious, but Finan can’t read any emotion in his eyes that appear almost black in the firelight. “Thank you,” Sihtric says quietly, “for finding me.”
Finan covers his hand with his own, then leans over to give him another long and thorough kiss. It will have to hold until they reach the next set of safe four walls. “Always,” he says, and means it. “I will always find you.”
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Thank you very much for reading!