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Snow fell, dusting the rooftops and worn pathways of Ravensthorpe.
When Eivor was here last, the trees were green. Birds sang as they pecked at Hytham's straw men. It wasn't the sweet of summer now—these were between days. Splintered seasons. Winter draped its blankets over the land, and autumn was a daydream.
Eivor leaned against a tree trunk, looking in on the settlement with an outsider's eye. It was late, too late for life, but he knew there were eyes on him, watching his approach. As it should be. Eivor put those eyes in the trees himself, when he left all those days and nights ago. With winter on its way and nights lasting longer, he'd wanted to be sure the settlement was safe. With Sigurd gone, and Randvi buried in her maps, he worried. The guards he'd appointed to stand watch were his torches, lighting the border.
Eivor sighed and stepped into the centre of the path, to see and be seen. That way they wouldn't rush him, burying an axe in his skull for the crime of being a Mercian. His beard was longer, his braided hair unravelled and matted, but he was still him. The same Eivor, with Sýnin a harbinger on his shoulder, to wipe away any remaining doubt.
No arrows came for his heart, so he considered himself recognised. Sýnin ruffled her feathers. Eivor's breath misted as he took one step, and then another, along the snowy path. He'd managed to scrape off most of the blood, cleaning his blades in the Nene. Bits were still crusted under his fingernails, his hands weighted down with taken life.
Away in the north, Eivor had done dark things. Killed, maimed, fought. Watched the hope fade from strangers' faces. He'd done it for a cause, for a future he placed brittle faith in. Hope, ever a cruel companion on the road.
I did it for this. For as long as this place stands, I'll keep doing it. My haven. If the settlement thrives, it was worth it.
Under the snowfall, let the ravens be well.
Eivor's hands shook. This creaking weariness would pass, replaced with a renewed zeal come morning. Commitment to the cause.
He raised a palm to the vikingr waiting on the log bridge ahead. They returned the tired gesture. Welcome home, it said without saying. We kept the buildings upright in your absence. Thank the gods.
He had no plans to announce his return at the longhouse. Eivor felt like there was no one less deserving of a victory feast. He was relieved to find Ravensthorpe quiet as he trudged through its outskirts, passing the Seer's darkened hut.
Would you look at that? She didn't see me coming.
There was no drama unfolding. No celebration. He was glad. Eivor, crusted with rust and matter, wanted nothing more than this quiet. He could have sent ahead word of his northern successes, as Randvi liked him to do—Sýnin a sure omen in the sky, telling of his latest campaign victory.
But Eivor, at heart, didn't want the fuss. He didn't want Randvi rushing to greet him with a harem of happy faces. Didn't want Hytham to lurk beyond, wanting words with found scrolls. It could wait. He wanted something other, something else.
Want. What do I want?
Quiet. Solace. Silence.
Warm arms—yes, perhaps I want that.
In particular, his arms around my waist.
In anticipation, his fingers on my back.
Eivor stopped dead, stomach curling with cold.
There, there was the one thing he could never deserve. He hardly believed it had ever been his, though he knew it had once.
Before he'd left the settlement this last time, Eivor had found love. The sort of safety and surety that made you never want to leave home.
He'd known Tarben, the baker, in endless ways.
He won't have waited. None of him was yours.
Eivor sighed. Again. It was a journey beginning and ending in sighs.
He ran a hand through the mess of his beard. He should've been back days ago, and days again before that. There were no excuses he could make, except that the killing had gone on, and he'd had no choice but to see the work done. Every time Eivor thought a reason to slip away south might finally unfold, there'd been another necessary raid for supplies to face first. Another convoluted quest that kept him off-track. Another hunt, another salvage mission, another little king placed precariously on a firewood throne.
For the settlement, he'd said to himself as the sun rose, and fell, and rose. This is for the settlement. To provide what I can whilst I'm able. To find Sigurd. To keep our campaign alive.
But he was avoiding it, he knew. The return. Something as good as Ravensthorpe and its baker was for other people. Those who didn't kill and maim and bludgeon the daylight away.
Yet here I am, Eivor thought, eyeing the dark calm of the longhouse as it took shape before him. A pair of vikingar passed, trading terse whispers. On their way to take over the watch. He stepped back into the shadows to let them by, and leave him unnoticed. They didn't even look up. Sýnin swayed, a statue on his shoulder.
The moon, hung above, was a silver wound in the sky.
Please let it be late enough. Please let the doorways stay dark.
Once the voices had faded, Eivor resumed his slow walk, edging around the longhouse. No sight or sound of Randvi, no barking Dwolfg. He didn't approach—there was a different destination he had in mind, and it wasn't his echoing, straw-stuffed room amidst the maps.
The bakery. That was where Eivor wanted to be. It wasn't its official name—it was a man's house before all else, and it was the man who lived there that Eivor was hungry for. He wouldn't say no to warm bread, either, but the man. The man. Tarben had won over the settlement with his bread and Eivor with those hands.
Imagine it, Eivor thought as he trudged. The snow was turning to slush underfoot. There had been more footfall here, in the heart of the town.
Making bread for a living. No more killing, no fighting. All that, given up.
Tarben was the better of them both, Eivor knew. He needed to see that kind face. Hear kinder words.
Tell me I'm no more a monster than a man.
It was the hope of it that kept him going, on his final approach. But he could see from ten strides away that the bakery was empty—no fire lit within, no tempting smells drawing him near. Eivor found, as he climbed the slope, that the door was closed. There was nothing outside but ice and empty sacks.
Eivor stood in the dark, chest heaving. He felt hollow, like an empty house.
Tarben. Have you gone? Did you see sense and flee?
Quietly, quietly, until he couldn't deny it even to himself: He was something to me. Too much. I was human with him.
Eivor, numb and chilled. Had he sensed this was coming? Tarben had made no promises. That was true. Only soft words, shared in the dark.
Sýnin called overhead. She was retiring for the night. Sleep well, fly higher.
Exhaustion swept over him. This, the day's final defeat, was the worst of them.
See. There you are.
This is what you won, with each swing of the axe.
Cold, creeping winter. And my love, gone.
Eivor drifted away from the desolate bakery, to hushed corners of the settlement. Further in and tucked away. He passed the fowl farm, which had expanded considerably since he was last here. More mouths to feed, more trade to conduct. The Raven clan were once invaders, but they were carving out a home. Settling in. What at first had felt like sticks and rubble was now nearly permanent.
This side of Ravensthorpe, next to a stream that would soon be iced over, was not as populated. Soon it would be. Eivor could already see new structures, half made under moonlight, springing up between the trees. He passed one, likely destined to be a workshop of some kind, with blocks of uncut stone piled outside. Perhaps an extension for Octavian's growing glut of artifacts.
Even further back, where a path hadn't yet been cut, was a small house, snow gathering on its slanted roof. Eivor stood and watched for a moment, admiring the plume of smoke spiralling from a small fire laid outside, recently stamped into embers. He heard the shuffle of feet, then saw the shape and shadow of a man as he shifted logs, and rocks, and debris.
Eivor didn't dare approach. Stay in the shadows, watch from a distance. Return to the longhouse and sleep alone. That was the wise thing to do.
But the figure hard at work stopped his lifting, noticing Eivor's silhouette. A hand was raised in welcome, beckoning him over.
“A stranger in the snow? My fire's dying, but you're welcome to the last of it.”
“Not a stranger,” Eivor murmured. But fire. Yes, fire. Enough left living for two.
“Eivor, is that you? You were supposed to send us word!” the man called, his voice deep and cracked with cold. This, this was a voice Eivor would know anywhere, and it sent a shiver spiralling down his spine. Through snowstorms and war, he would know that voice meant home. “It was a surprise for you.”
Eivor let the baker's words echo around him, stitching under his skin.
Tarben. Here he was, away from the bakery. What was he doing out here? Hidden from flour and salt.
Before he could step into the clearing to ask, an ugly thought wormed its way between them.
You're right, my love. I'm not supposed to be here. That last quest was supposed to swallow me whole, until I drowned in the blood I spilled. That was Odin's design.
Eivor shivered. Was he really here? No, he'd died in the north. Run through with a spear, and here was his reward. No Valhalla, only this beautiful man in the snow, nothing around them but the embrace of a winter night.
“You're building a new house,” Eivor said when he finally found his voice. It was barely a scratch, a hoarse whisper, but Tarben heard.
“I am.”
Eivor could no longer feel his legs, but they moved somehow. Through untouched snow, through the brush to a baker's half-made house. He would weather far worse for this man. His heart.
“What for? Was there something wrong with the old one?”
“Not really,” Tarben said in his sing-song way. So familiar, so warm. If Eivor weren't already shaking, he would be now. “I thought it would be nice. It's quieter out here, by the water—more rest to be had. It's getting busy, down by the docks.”
Eivor looked around. Tarben had found a good space. The trees overhead provided cover—the bustle of the longhouse would be a faint hum at best.
“It is nice, but what about your bakery?”
“Our bakery,” Tarben said, gentle but firm. Eivor was close enough to trace his smile, a slash beneath the hood he'd fashioned to stave off the snow. “And don't worry, I'll be there before dawn to set the fire. What would Sýnin do without her crumbs? No, this is just for us at night, so we can be apart from it all. So you can rest, love.”
Love. What an idea.
Eivor breathed out. He hadn't realised he'd been holding it in, a mixture of frost and exhaustion.
“You're building a house. For us.”
“Even better than a house—a retreat,” Tarben said, drawing near. His nose was red with cold. Eivor wanted to kiss it. One kiss, another, a trail of kisses from north to home.
Tarben's arms folded around Eivor, and oh, how nice it was to be held without being choked or struck or threatened.
Retreat. He liked the sound of that.
Eivor had lived a life of perseverance, but to come here... to sink into this space between, after spilling red across countryside green... this was more than he was worth.
“You're cold, love,” Tarben whispered in his ear. “You've walked the whole world. Let's get you inside—the outside needs work, but the roof's on. There's a dark enough room to sleep in.”
Eivor laid his head on Tarben's shoulder. From behind, he could hear remnants of night life as it stirred. There was no feast, but a handful of others were awake and making their way along the same paths Eivor had walked. Heads pressed together, midnight whispers. He didn't turn to face it; he let Tarben lead him into the house, instead.
There he went further, ushered down into straw and fur.
Down again, arms holding, warm palms pressed against chilled skin.
Eivor let himself be undressed, a slow unveiling, dried blood wiped from his skin as from memory. He was covered and pulled under, and he wasn't asked to speak. To explain himself. They would talk in the morning—Tarben would listen. Tarben would be there, resilient.
When the sun rose, Eivor stirred. He'd slept soundly, a bone-deep tired, and the buzzing in his head had spun itself out. Even his demons were exhausted.
Outside birds sang, and sunlight filtered in through a hazy gap in the roof. It was blissful, so sweet, to lie here in this patchwork of peace.
Tarben was still beside him, rumpled and creased. Late to start the bakery's fire, to knead his dough and greet the day with breakfast. It could wait.
It was morning, and though Ravensthorpe rippled around them, trade and fight and laughter, all Eivor could hear was that birdsong.
He deserved it, he knew. He'd fought his way back to this. To the calm of the storm's eye.
He'd earned this retreat.
Stay a while, stay a moment more.
Eivor reached out for Tarben's hands.
I surrender, I surrender.