Stitching The Night Away

Your whole relationship with Frankie had been like chasing a storm from the beginning. Despite living in Florida, the sunniest place either of you had ever known, the rain always found you faster than you could prepare for it.

Some storms arrived quietly.

Others kicked the front door off its hinges.

This one had come in the shape of a tiny plastic bag tucked inside the pocket of his jeans.

***

Frankie was dead silent the whole drive. While the first traces of sunrise bled orange into the sky, turning it into something that looked like a watercolor painting, you couldn't bring yourself to appreciate it today. His knee bounced the entire drive, his foot tapping relentlessly against the floorboard. His shirt clung to his back, damp with sweat despite the air conditioning blasting at full volume.

"You know, you don't need to do this. You could just... drive home."

You shook your head immediately. "And then what?"

"I can do the rehab at home."

"Like the last time?"

He flinched at the memory, just a little.

"I don't do this to punish you, Francisco."

He scoffed, thumb rubbing over his bottom lip as he stared out the window, watching the landscape blur by.

"I don't see what's gonna be different there than when I lay in my own vomit at home."

"They're professionals, Frankie. You can talk to someone who can really hold you through this without falling apart alongside you."

"Mhm."

"Frankie..."

He shook his head. "Don't use that tone on me."

"Which tone?"

"The pity one."

"I don't—" You exhaled. "I'm sorry."

"'s okay." And he sounded honest. "I'm the one who should be sorry."

"You're sick, Frankie. You didn't choose this."

"I am a fuck up, cariño."

Your eyebrows furrowed. You bit your lip before blindly reaching for his sweaty hand, squeezing it while keeping your eyes fixed on the road—even as your vision began to blur with uninvited tears.

"No, you're not. You survived things most people couldn't even imagine surviving. Somewhere along the way your brain found something that quieted all that noise, even if only for a little while. It may have chosen the wrong thing but that doesn't make you wrong. You're still you."

"What if this is all I'm gonna be now?" His voice barely rose above a whisper. "This washed-out version of me. I'm farther away from the man you fell in love with than ever..."

"Hey, hey," you reined him in gently. "No, that's not true. He's still in there. He just needs a little help finding his way back to shore, hm?"

You squeezed his hand again. "And there's nothing wrong with needing help sometimes. The strongest people do. And you, Frankie Morales, are one of the strongest people I've ever known. I'm so so proud of you."

You weren't able to look at him as the sun climbed higher, promising another day of scorching heat. But you heard a small, broken sound that sounded suspiciously close to a sob. Without thinking, you took the next exit, still twenty minutes away from the rehab center. Gravel crunched beneath the tires as you pulled onto the shoulder and finally looked at your boyfriend.

Despite his broad frame, he suddenly looked so unbearably small in the passenger seat of his own truck. He looked hollowed out by the weight he carried. By the guilt clawing at him for failing you. He looked lost.

You unbuckled your seatbelt and leaned toward him, still holding his hand before pressing a kiss against his knuckles.

"Look at me," you pleaded.

He shook his head stubbornly. So you cupped his cheek with your free hand, gently guiding his face toward yours. His soulful dark eyes shimmered with tears, red-rimmed and exhausted. The sight hit you straight in the chest.

"How can you..." His voice cracked. "How can you still stay? Why didn't you just leave already?"

A watery smile tugged at your lips. "Because, unfortunately, I love you a shit ton."

A weak laugh escaped him before his face crumpled again. He took your hand between both of his and kissed it with all the devotion only he had ever shown you.

"I'm scared."

"I know you are."

You brushed your thumb across his cheek. "I am too."

Silence settled between you for a moment. "But I think we just need to do it anyway. Even if we do it scared."

He closed his eyes. "I can't do this for you. God, I wish I could." Your voice wavered. "But this is something you need to do for yourself. For the man you've always told me you want to be. Not only the one scarred by war and loss."

You rested your forehead against his. "And I believe in you."

A tear slipped down his cheek. 

"I'll always be here, rooting for you."

"You're truly too good for me, mi amor."

You smiled—a real one this time—and shrugged. "Maybe."

Another shrug. "Guess you're just a lucky bastard then."

"The luckiest on this fucking planet," he murmured.

Like magnets finding their opposite, you drifted toward one another. Your hand rested against the back of his neck, your thumb brushing behind his ear, tracing the small letter tattooed there for you. Matching the one you wore in the same place, even if you'd gotten yours weeks later. Your foreheads touched in a grounding gesture.

He let out one long, shaky breath. "I love you."

And you knew he meant it. God, he meant it with every bruised piece of his heart.

"I love you more," you whispered. "Always more."

You smiled through tears. "And now I'll drop you off for your very expensive extended holiday."

That earned you the smallest huff of laughter.

"I'll be right here picking you up when you're ready, okay?"

You felt his nod more than you saw it.

***

A few minutes later, you watched him disappear through the doors of the rehab center. Only then did you realize your hands were still gripping the steering wheel so tightly they hurt.

For a long moment, you couldn't make yourself put the truck into gear. Watching the biggest part of your heart walk away was hard. Trusting that he was walking toward himself again was harder.

The whole drive home you cried, singing along to your shared playlist between shaky breaths, selfishly wishing that, when all of this was over, you'd get the love of your life back whole instead of only living with the fragments addiction had left behind.

thanks for reading 💌

main masterlist • ko-fi

Hours must've passed, and Pero's hands opened and closed as he tried to calm his breathing. The energy running through him made them tremble as he paced the small building he'd been thrown into. It was used for either sick thralls, or those who were being kept in isolation, and was never meant to be comfortable. But now it was colder than ever, and not just for the lack of a fire in the hearth. His head thumped, his ribs ached, but luckily not broken, and he could feel blood drying on his face as the cut on his cheek slowly stopped bleeding. No one came to check on him, but he hadn't expected it. He knew he'd made probably the worst mistake of his life, risked everything for both you and himself.

He sank down with his back against the wall, facing the door that he knew was barred from the outside. Closing his eyes, he tried to calm himself again, and think through his next steps, what he'd do in every scenario he could think of. If they came to execute him, he'd fight. If he was that close to death, he'd rather take his chances at fighting his way out of Ulvehi than to go meekly to slaughter. He'd take some of them with him before he succumbed.

If he was to be kept alive he'd be back in chains again, he was sure of it. Then he would have to find another escape once he knew what had happened to you. Or maybe he'd be sold, he couldn't imagine the Jarl keeping him at Ulvehi now. But most likely, he'd hang, or however the Norse men killed thralls. If he could, he'd fight his way out, but chances were slim, if it came to that, he knew he'd probably die here.

With a deep sigh he slumped down against the wall. He'd promised he'd find you, but in truth, he didn't know if he'd get out of this alive. He may never see you again, and the thought made him clench his fists again, forcing back the tremors as something caught in this throat.

I'm not dead yet. And they won't see me go quietly. But, please, let me see her again. Let me at least see her safe.

Nicholas hadn't been back since his hurried visit to this temporary prison. All he'd had time for was to scribble a few words on the parchment and tell Nicholas where the small statue was hidden under his bedding in the thrall's quarters. Hopefully he'd been able to get it to you, but Pero wasn't even sure of that. You might've been shipped off to England without another word from him or Nicholas. And for the first time in his life, Pero was afraid of dying. Things were unfinished, his life was unfinished. He'd had a brief spell of some sort of happiness, even here as a thrall, and he was afraid to lose it all too soon. And he had a promise to keep.

And a child…

You'd told him, and then everything had happened so fast, he'd barely had time to tell you what that meant to him. But there was a child growing inside you that shared his blood, something he thought he'd lost any hope of many years ago. But you said it, a part of him and a part of you, a small family. A small family for him again.

The thought made him squeeze his eyes shut, a sharp feeling rising in his chest as his nails dug into his palms.

Our child…There has to be a way, somehow, to keep them safe.

Sleep did not come easily, but he forced it upon himself the same way he had when he was a mercenary. His body and mind needed rest for the next few days, no matter what came. So he would take any sleep he could now even as his mind flitted back and forth, drifting back to your face whenever he drifted close to sleep.

The next morning it was the heavy steps approaching his prison that woke him from an uneasy slumber. He was on his feet in a heartbeat, rolling his stiff shoulders and flexing his hands. Whatever came next, if they meant to kill him, he would not go without a fight.

But there was no chance to fight, Thorsten stood in the doorway with a satisfied smirk on his face.

"Put his legs and arms in chains, beat him if he resists," he ordered the four men who'd come with him, "But don't break any bones, he won't sell if he's damaged. Although…" he added as two of the men roughly grabbed Pero's arms and forced them in front of his body, "A broken nose probably won't make much of a difference now. She'll never see you again, and I'll make sure you never see any other woman again. No women where you're going, thrall."

The last part he said with a grin and Pero bit his tongue, the sharp iron biting into his wrists as the lock clanked shut. If he was being sold he would wait for his chance, better opportunities for escape would come, he was sure of it. Thorsten was baiting him, hoping for a fight, but behind Pero's scowling face, he felt almost elated with relief. Being sold was the best outcome right now.

A ring of iron snapped shut around his neck too, and shackles were fastened around his ankles, a chain running from feet to neck and making his steps hobbled. One of the hirdmen tugged at the chain, and Pero shuffled forward, struggling to clear the high threshold out from the small building.

"Move, thrall," Thorsten spat, clearly not pleased with the lack of reaction from Pero at his needling, and gave him a sharp shove as Pero managed to step outside. The short chain pulled up short between his feet, and he fell, landing heavily on his arms, his face smacking down into the mud. Sharp pain stung his nose, and he felt the taste of warm blood in his mouth as someone grabbed his neck ring and yanked him up again, making him choke and cough as the force cut off his breath.

"Fall again and I'll drag you by that ring all the way to the dock, thrall," Thorsten snarled, as Pero took another stumbling step. Cold mud was sticking to his tunic and his skin, blood dripping from his lip, and maybe his nose, but he tried to keep his balance, focusing on the ships down by the fjord.

It took all his self control to not rage against the chains as he had when he first arrived, or to rage against Thorsten, at being called 'thrall' again like it was his name. One short step in front of the other, the way from Ulvehi lay on that ship, there was no escape just now. But soon…he kept that thought in his head as Thorsten yanked on the ring again, making the sharp metal cut into his neck.

Pero was roughly shoved onboard, pushed down in a corner of the deck and left to shiver in his wet and mud caked clothes. He watched Thorsten join the crew, and he wasn't sure if he was pleased about that or not, and for a moment he thought the Jarl would join them too, but he only jumped aboard and stepped up to Pero.

"I considered having Thorsten whip you until you bled out, like I should've that first time," he said, fixing Pero with his cold blue eyes, "But it would've been too easy. You'd die too fast, Hauknefr. For how you betrayed me, this family, I want you to die slowly and in pain. And I'm in luck, the foreman from the Falu copper mine comes to Skiringssal every spring to buy any strong thralls for sale," the Jarl said, pausing as he waited for Pero to react, leaning closer, "Do you know about the copper mines, Hauknefr? Did the other thralls ever tell you about them?"

Pero didn't reply, he just looked at the Jarl, fighting to keep his mind calm, but he could feel the scowl on his face, his tight eyebrows pulling at fresh cuts and bruises.

"The mines are where we send thralls to die," the Jarl told him when he realised Tovar wouldn't reply, "Forgotten by everyone, left to rot when their breaths give up from hot fumes and cold rocks. You won't die fast, you're too strong for that, but you'll die, and you'll never see my daughter again. Tell them this is what Jarl Agnar Björnsson does to thralls who dare to cross him."

"No moriré. Mi hijo crece en ella, mi sangre es ahora suya," Pero replied, spitting out the words he knew the Jarl wouldn't understand, but he still wanted to tell him; I will not die. My child grows within her, my blood is hers now.

The Jarl paused, as if trying to work out how he'd been insulted, and then pushed to his feet, sneering, "Your foreign insults won't do you any good, Hauknefr," he said, scowling as Pero forced himself to grin in defiance as the old man's knees protested, and the Jarl huffed.

"Thorsten! Get a good price for him, but not too good, won't do to let him be too valuable."

Thorsten nodded as the Jarl jumped off the ship and on to the dock again.

"I'll send the ship back with the money from the sale, Jarl, and then I'll ready Blodormr and set sail for Vinland."

"It'll be a great adventure for you and your crew, and I know you're worthy of this."

The Jarl paused and put his hand on the pommel of his sword, the great long sword he'd bought from the same man that had sold him Hauknefr. He'd told Hauknefr he'd kill him with his own sword if he tried to run, but this seemed more fitting. As Thorsten watched, he pulled the sword from its sheath and held out the pommel towards him.

"You're taking this treacherous thrall to his well earned fate, and then you're sailing on to your own. You should have the sword that was his, take it to Vinland and win us new land and wealth. He was not man enough to hold on to it, it's only fitting that you have it now."

"Jarl…" Thorsten said, bowing his head low, "This is a great gift. I will ask Thor to give strength to this blade and honour you on my journey."

The Jarl nodded, as Thorsten held the sword, looking at the sharp blade.

"The gods approve when we use the swords of our fallen enemies to win new victories, and this blade is thirsty, it hasn't seen blood in a long time."

Thorsten bowed again, and ran his hand over the steel, scraping his thumb over the cross on the pommel.

"I'm honoured, my Jarl, but I might need to scrape off this Christian symbol."

The Jarl chuckled, clapping Thorsten on the shoulder, "Do what you will with it, Thor will always give your sword arm strength enough to kill our enemies. Now, ready the men, they have many hours to row before their, and your, adventure really begins. Bring us home stories worthy of the sagas, Thorsten, Sigurd's son."

Thorsten grinned and stepped on to the ship's deck, Pero's sword at his waist, and he missed the look of rage that passed across the chained man's face at the sight of the sword, "I won't fail you, Jarl, we'll come back with stories and wealth."

Soon the ropes were cast, and Ulvehi began to shrink behind the ship as the men's oars dipped into the dark water and gave speed to the slim ship. Pero glanced back at the farm, craning his neck to see over the ship's edge. He'd hated the place since he first saw it, but at the same time, it was the place where he'd first met you, and, against all reason, fallen in love with the daughter of his captors. The kitchen garden looked fresh with the early spring green, the place where so many conversations between the two of you had taken place. He couldn't hate it anymore simply because of the memories it held with you, but still, he didn't want to return. You were no longer there, and more than ever he knew that he would need to find you again, to find some sort of peace. To see you disappear across the ocean and into the hands of some Anglo-Saxon lord was not how he intended to let this end.

He looked away, closing his eyes and leaning against the rough planks. This was not how he'd imagined his departure, but this was where fate had taken you both. Now he needed to remember, quickly, who he was before his thralldom, and call upon his years of experience to survive the next few weeks. His muscles would need to remember how to fight, and kill, without hesitation if he was to survive this, and reach England. And reach you.

The thump of the ship's side bumping against the dock at Skiringssal was what roused Pero from his uncomfortable slumber many hours later. It was late afternoon, and the sounds of the bustling trade port drifted up to him. The ship had been tied to the dock and soon rough hands pulled him to his feet. The long spring evening was turning into dark blue night, and after his chains were removed, he was shoved into a cage similar to the one he'd spent his first night in Skiringssal in. There were other men in it, and women in the next cage over.

As Pero tried to find a spot to rest in the cage, more men were brought in, shoving for space as it got crowded. A large dark haired man squeezed himself down onto to the wooden slats next to Pero, grunting as Pero scowled

"Tuck your elbows in, friend, we ain't gettin' more space than this," he said in English, "But don't worry, if you don't get sold tomorrow, they'll find an even more uncomfortable spot for you."

Pero shrugged, and pulled his thin cloak up over his arms, but the Englishman nudged his side, and nodded towards a couple of the men at the front of the cage. They were trying to get the attention of the guards, who were pointedly ignoring them.

"Must be their first time at the thrall market. As long as we don't freeze to death, those guards won't do anything," he said and then looked over at Pero, "Not your first time being sold I think?"

"No," Pero grimaced, "Second."

"I'm on my fourth I think", the Englishman replied, "Can't seem to find a good owner."

He said the last with a chuckle as if it was a big joke, and Pero glanced over at him, wondering if the man might be soft in the head. But the man caught his look and chuckled again.

"I'm not daft, friend. But either I laugh at it, or I wallow in despair and die."

"You have a point," Pero said, "Do they hold these markets often?" he asked and the man nodded.

"In the spring, almost every day. When the snow and ice gives up its grip they all sail to the big trading ports and trade for what's needed for the new seasons, including humans. You haven't seen the market before?"

"Only once, when I first got here two years ago. But I was too busy trying to find a way to escape than to notice the market."

"I see that the escaping bit didn't go too well," the Englishman commented, tugging at his own cloak as the noise at the front of the cage died down.

Pero shook his head, and rested his chin on his arms, "Not yet," he replied.

The next day Pero learnt exactly how far and wide the Norse men traded as he watched men and women arrive at the market, and merchants began to fill up their stalls, both permanent and temporary, with wares.

The cages with thralls were strategically located just next to the main market square, and as the day warmed up he watched how even here, on what was the edge of the world to him, goods from almost every corner of the world were put up for trade. Stacks of pelts and furs seemed to be of interest to the men who were dressed like the Franks he'd served many times as a mercenary. The Franks in turn traded finer silks with the local lords, amber and silver changing hands.

Nearby three dark skinned men were trading spices. He could smell the dried thyme and garlic, so familiar from his childhood, and even a trace of cinnamon. It reminded him of his journeys far to the east, Constantinople and beyond. He never would've guessed that the vikings commanded such far-reaching networks.

A Norse lord strolled down the market, and stopped by the stall, pointing to the bulbs of dried garlic. He was dressed in fine wool clothes, and looked wealthy, like he had money to spend on some luxury to brighten his day. The edge of his cloak was trimmed with a pattern that looked more Byzantine to Pero than anything Norse, and he thought Nicholas could probably tell him more about the man if he'd been there.

The three spice merchants recognised the wealth too, and were immediately bowing low to the lord, waving him closer, and lifting up delicately carved spoons to let him smell their ground herbs.

Pero watched the display, the merchants smiling and flattering the lord as he haggled for the price. He was too far away to hear what they were saying, but anywhere in the world you would recognise the body language of a deal being struck. The lord and the merchants finally seemed to agree on a price, and the lord waved behind him, calling over a servant to settle the accounts.

Pero straightened up and grabbed the bars of the cage. The servant, dressed nicely and with an important air, was Godric, his friend from England who'd been taken as a thrall at the same time as Pero. He was standing just by the lord, holding a tablet and a purse of silver while an armed guard waited nearby. The two or so years since Pero last saw him hadn’t made much of a difference to his old friend, and he must have fared far better than Pero when he was sold here at Skiringssal at the end of their journey across. He looked well fed and well dressed, a thick wool cloak over his shoulders.

He was too far away for Pero to call out to without everyone noticing, and no matter how much he willed Godric to look over, he didn't turn. Godric handed over the silver, scribbled something on his tablet, and took a number of small bags from the merchants. They in turn bowed low to the lord, and then Godric and the lord turned and walked away. Pero ground his teeth in frustration as his old friend disappeared into the throng of people, but at least now he knew Godric had survived, and survived well, it seemed. Maybe Godric would spot him when it came time for selling the thralls, but what good it would do Pero, he didn’t know.

Towards the middle of the day, when the bright spring sun was at its highest, the men’s cage was opened. One by one the male thralls were led out, chained together, and pushed towards a rough hewed dais. Pero clenched his jaw and pushed down his urge to fight against the chains again as it was his turn to be forced to the front, this was not the time.

The auctioneer prodded him with a cane, forced his head back to show off his neck, and rapped it across his leg as if to gauge the quality of the flesh. Pero felt his temper rising, and glowered at the man, his fists closing. But the man only glanced over his features, prodded his shoulder, and lifted the back of his tunic, exposing the scarred flesh.

“A strong male, but dangerous and disobedient, fit for hard work in chains,” he said in Norse, calling out to the crowd of prospective buyers. “Will the mines take him? He’s already been whipped once.”

“We’ll take him,” a man replied. “Put him with the rest.”

Pero's gaze snapped towards the voice, it was the wealthy lord he'd seen earlier, with Godric, but from where he stood, he couldn't make him out in the press of bodies.

“Anyone willing to outbid the Falu men?” the auctioneer asked, and when no one replied, Pero was pulled to the side, unchained from the rest of the men, and shoved into a new cage. He gripped the bars and craned his neck to see if Godric would be the one paying for him, but there was no trace of the Anglo-Saxon.

By the time the sun had begun to slope westward, more men had been thrown in with him. Some snarled and spat at the guards, straining uselessly against their irons. Others said nothing at all, their eyes wide and hollow. Pero marked them without thinking; the ones who might fight, the ones who would break. Some would not last a day in the mines. Some would not even survive the journey there.

He shifted his weight against the wooden bars. Solid. Thick. No give in them. But he needed a way out, just not now, not while the guards watched every movement, not while he was penned like an animal among dozens of others. Any attempt now would end with him cut down before he took three steps. Better to wait.

Once the journey back to the mines started, there would be more opportunity to break free, or at least he hoped so. He had no other plan apart from this, and there were many unknown parts to it, too many. He leaned against the sturdy poles of the cage at the very back, watching the rest of the auction while his mind worked through his options. He didn't have many, and the ones he had were filled with holes. For now his best choice seemed to be to simply wait, and hope for an opportunity soon.

The market wound down as the sun began to sink, casting long shadows over the stalls. But people still milled around, fires were lit, and food was sold. Some food was brought to the men in the cage, but it was certainly nothing like the fat pork ribs Pero could smell being grilled on the other side of the market. A bowl of thin gruel and rough bread was shoved into his hands, but his belly still felt empty when he was done with it. The Falu miners didn’t seem to feed their thralls very well.

Crouching on his haunches in the back corner, he tried to keep off the wet mud seeping through the slats. He tipped his head back, just for a breath of rest, and glimpsed a face he recognised.

It was one of your family from Steinvikr. The one you'd said you’d grown up with, spent long summers with as a child. Pero couldn’t remember her name, but he remembered her standing at your side during the funeral, and the stories you had told him with a grin, the things you used to get up to with the hirdmen at Steinvikr.

A memory rose inside him, a stolen moment in the tack room at Steinvikr as you teased him, crouching down on your knees, his cock swelling, and he forced the memory down. It was almost too painful to think of you like that now, now that you were gone…

Pero watched the woman as she wandered between the stalls, touching some of the wares. She seemed to be on her own, but there were plenty of guards around Skiringssal, and he presumed there was no danger for a woman to walk alone here in the light spring evening. And she reminded him of you. The cut of the dress, the way her hair was bound, it pulled something tight in his chest, and he couldn't look away. She was your blood. The closest thing to you he might ever see again.

As she drew near, it was as if she sensed his eyes on her, or perhaps she simply caught a glimpse of the way he was staring from the corner of the cage. Her head turned, and recognition flashed across her face. For a few moments she met his eyes, staring at him too. Pero thought she would come over, but then she turned and continued to walk between the stalls, not changing her pace.

Pero looked down at his hands, clasped between his legs, and closed his eyes. He needed rest. Another hard night was coming, and he would need whatever strength he could keep hold of.

Twilight settled over Skiringssal, and Pero fell into an uneasy sleep, but when a hand touched his shoulder lightly, he jolted awake and stumbled to his feet . The market was still filled with people, rowdier now, but night had properly fallen. The cage was dark, and most of the men were huddled together in sleep.

"Shh, quiet," a woman's voice whispered close to his ear, and he turned his head towards it.

"You're Pero Tovar," she said, "I'm Saga, I know you."

"You're…" Pero began, but Saga shook her head.

"I don't have much time. I saw Thorsten earlier, she's on her way to England. He told me he caught the two of you at Ulvehi."

"I was reckless," Pero muttered, "And I've been sold to the Falu mines. I need to escape and go after her."

"I agree, that's why I'm here, Pero Tovar," Saga said, glancing behind her, "I need to find a way to get you out of here. My brother Assar is also in Skiringssal, he knows about you, and he swore to her that he'd help if he could."

"He knows?" Pero asked in surprise, and Saga nodded, smiling for the first time, and he saw that her lips curled in the same way as as yours did.

"He saw how she looked at you," she said, "and how you looked at her. You two were not very good at hiding it."

Pero groaned and dragged his hands over his face, but Saga grabbed his arm.

"It is done, Pero Tovar. Now you need to save her from that English lord. Help me find a way to help you out of here."

Pero looked around the dark market and the thralls sleeping in the cage, "I saw an old friend earlier, a man called Godric. He was with a wealthy lord who was buying spices. He had a cloak with a foreign pattern on the trim, with gold thread. He's the one who bought me for the mines."

"Halfdan Austrfarar," Saga replied immediately, "he owns the mines."

"If Godric works for him, maybe he can help. Can you find him?"

Saga nodded, "I know where he is staying. But what are you thinking?"

"If Godric can unlock the cage so that all the thralls escape, I can disappear in the chaos and hide on a ship to England. With all this trade, there must be many heading west."

"I'll go now, I need to find an excuse to talk to Godric," Saga replied, "I'll send Godric here, but I can't be seen with you, so be safe, Pero Tovar, and keep my cousin safe. And make sure you are worth all that she is giving up for you."

The last she said with a firm voice, squeezing his arm as Pero met her hard look, "Don't make her regret leaving her home behind for you."

"If she does, I'll bring her back, and she can sell me as a slave again," he said, meaning every word.

Saga studied him for a long moment, then nodded once.

"The Norns have set your path," she said, "Now walk it."

With that she hurried off, and Pero could only watch her dark cloak disappear into the shadows and hope that she'd find Godric in time.

All that was left now was to wait, and watch the guards move across the market as it emptied out as the hour grew late. He was too tightly wound to sit and relax, even though he knew he should conserve his strength. The nerves creeping along his limbs were familiar, always the same tingle as a battle drew near, his body preparing to fight, or be killed. He hoped he'd be able to sneak away without a fight, but something told him it would not be that easy.

Suppressing a wide yawn, he shook his limbs, trying to shake some warmth into them as the night grew cold. The sudden yell startled him, one of the guards calling to the others and pointing. Against the dark night sky flames could be seen in the town, just a street or two away. Shouts went up, and the guards began to run towards the light just as the first hint of smoke in the air reached Pero.

He looked around outside the cage as the other men began to wake, stumbling to their feet and mumbling as they spotted the fire. Calls could be heard from around the town as word spread, fire in a town made of wood would be a disaster.

Suddenly Pero saw what he'd been waiting for. Across the now empty market a dark figure came hurrying towards the cages. It was a moment's work for the man to unlock the cages and release both the men and the women.

"Hurry, help with the fire, we need all the hands we can get to pass the water buckets," he called to the thralls as they streamed from their enclosure.

"Why would we?" a man called back to him as he took off at a run, away from the fire, clearly set on escaping rather than helping. And almost everyone else of thralls had the same idea, like birds set free they scattered.

Pero was the last out of the cage, and the man grabbed his arm and quickly dragged him around a corner, into the darkness of one of the market stalls.

"Tovar! I thought you were dead. I didn't know what to think when Saga from Steinvikr came to find me!"

"Likewise, friend," Pero grinned, grabbing hold of his old friend's arms and looking him up and down, "And you've done well for yourself it seems."

"Better than you at least," Godric replied, "You look rough."

"I would tell you all, but I need your help to hide on a ship heading to England."

Godric nodded, and pulled off his cloak, handing it to Pero, "I know, but you won't need to sneak. I've bought you passage on Aelfric's ship, he's a cloth merchant, and I know he's sailing at first light, he had bad news from York."

"Godric, you're a true friend," Pero replied, he couldn't believe his luck as he pulled up the hood of the cloak, hiding his face, "If I can, I will make it up to you."

"I hope so, because I'm coming with you. I can't exactly set free my master's thralls without consequences," Godric said, reaching into a simple cloth bag hanging from his shoulder, "I've got some gold, hopefully enough to bribe Aelfric and his men to not mention a dark faced man with a scar. Come, we better get going while the fire still burns."

Pero nodded, and followed Godric as they set off. He knew the streets of Skiringssal well by now it seemed, and he led them through back alleys and dark paths down to the docks. The many ships moored were quiet, but around a few of them men were moving back and forth, preparing to set sail as soon as the wind picked up. Godric led Pero to one of the largest, a broad hulled sailing ship with a ramp leading up. As they approached, Godric hailed a man standing on the deck overseeing the loading.

"Aelfric, are you ready for us to board?" he called, and the man waved at them, urging them to cross the ramp.

"As soon as the morning easterly wind picks up, we're off," Aelfric replied, "Get yourself tucked down, I don't want any trouble leaving."

Godric and Pero did as he ordered, hurrying across the gangway and dropping into the sunken hold. Most of the space was taken up by cargo, but there was some space carved out for provisions and sleeping space, and they sat down next to the hull, huddling down to not be seen from land. Pero pulled his hood down further over the scar that made him so damn recognisable, and silently urged the wind to pick up.

Soon, very soon, he'd be back on the ocean and finally sailing west, following you.

"Aelfric! Alefric!"

An all too familiar voice called up towards the ship, and Pero lifted his head as Godric looked over at him.

"Someone you know?" he asked in a low voice.

"Thorsten," Pero whispered, "He's the leader of the hirdmen at Ulvehi, the farm I was sold to."

"The tall blonde who was there that day? I remember him," Godric replied, "Keep your head down, we can't let him see you."

"But he has my sword," Pero growled, "I need it."

Down on the dock Thorsten was talking to Alefric about the thralls that had escaped, and the fire that was still burning.

"It's almost out, it only took two houses and a barn, the town was lucky. But now we must get men together to chase after the thralls who escaped."

"I'm setting sail to England as soon as the morning wind picks up, I don't have time to chase after some dumb thralls," Aelfric replied, "You should trade in cloth, Thorsten. Cloth bundles don't have legs, and they don't need feeding."

"I'll remember that the next time you need protection for your ships," Thorsten said, and even from up on the ship Pero could hear the annoyance in his voice.

Aelfric must've waved him off, because soon they heard the merchant call orders for more supplies and goods to be loaded as Thorsten stalked off.

"Your dagger," Pero said to Godric, holding out his hand, "Give it to me."

"Tovar, don't…" Godric replied, but Pero snatched the dagger from his belt and carefully stood up, glancing over the railing.

"I'll be back in no time, I just need to get my sword, and kill him if I can."

"Aelfric won't wait, you can get a new sword in England," Godric hissed, reaching out to grab his arm, but Pero shook it off.

"I'm not letting that bastard walk around with my sword," he replied, "I'll be back soon, just stall Aelfric if the wind changes."

"Tovar, he won't wait!" Godric protested, but it was too late. Pero jumped over the opposite edge of the hull and landed with a soft thump on the dock planks. In the distance he could see the dark shape of Thorsten disappear down one of the narrow pathways leading towards the edge of town.

This was rash, too rash, he knew it, but the sight of the sword, his sword, at Thorsten's side had filled him with rage. And now this bastard was within range, and Tovar was unchained and armed. This opportunity wouldn't come again. He could kill him, take the sword back, and leave with at least a small sense of revenge for the past two years.

His fingers flexed, finding a good grip on the dagger hiding under his cloak, and he felt his body changing, his mind finding its focus as he slipped back into his old self.

The mercenary followed Thorsten down the path, sticking to the shadows and keeping his steps light and soundless. He needed to choose a place to call out his challenge, a spot for a quick fight, and a swift retreat. The narrow road ran between the rocks at the water's edge, and a few sheds. Narrow enough to make fighting with a sword difficult, but perfect for a fight with daggers.

"Thorsten!" Tovar called, stepping out from the shadow of the shed as he shook off the cloak, the dagger held behind his back as if his arms were still tied.

The tall Norseman turned around, his surprised look turning to a grin when he saw Tovar standing behind him.

"Hauknefr, I knew you were behind this, but I thought you'd be hiding in the woods by now," he called back, taking a few steps towards Tovar and drawing his sword, "Or are you trying to get back to Ulvehi?"

"Where is she?" Tovar asked, his voice grim, taking a step back as Thorsten moved forward.

"Not at Ulvehi, dog," Thorsten snarled, his face turning dark at the mention of you, "You won't see her again, and you should've kept running."

He took another step, pointing the sword at Tovar's chest, "But now I can kill you, and keep the money for selling you."

Tovar let him move closer, the dagger behind his back tight in his hand, "She told me about you, that you wanted her and she spat in your face. It must sting, amigo, to see her choose me instead. The thrall, huh? The dirty, unwashed thrall with nothing but his cock to boast of."

Thorsten snarled and lunged at Tovar, who swiftly stepped to the side, bringing up the dagger and jamming it up into the other man's side with a satisfied grin. Thorsten grunted and stumbled as Tovar tried to push the dagger in. But it caught on the chain mail hidden under the tunic, and Thorsten shoved Tovar's arm away, swinging his sword. Only the close quarters stopped the sword from slicing Tovar open, it bounced off his hip as he yanked the dagger loose.

Now the element of surprise was lost, and Tovar stepped back as Thorsten lifted his sword, his other hand patting down his side where the dagger must've bruised him.

Tovar watched Thorsten's steps, circling around, aiming to get him too close to the slippery rocks by the sea shore. But Thorsten wasn't an inexperienced fighter, and he grinned as he realised that Tovar only had a dagger and no protection, taking a step closer. He kept him at range, forcing Tovar back, step by step.

"This is more poetic, thrall," Thorsten said, "Don't you think? The gods love a good fight!"

"I don't give a shit about any gods," Tovar snarled, "I just want to see you dead."

Thorsten attacked, fast and hard.

Tovar stumbled back, barely dodging the blow. He jumped over the slick rocks, scrambling back onto the path. He felt the air move as the sharp blade rushed past his ear, but it didn't hit.

He was slow, too slow. Two years away from the blade showed in every step, even now when the rush of the fight had his blood hot, he could feel the sluggishness in his limbs. Finding his balance again, he held the dagger up as a shield, ready to block or dodge when the big bastard Norseman attacked again.

Thorsten was still grinning, and he gave no pause. Attacking again, and again, he pushed Tovar backwards. Twice the long sword struck the dagger, making Tovar grunt as the hits made the bones in his arm tremble. But he was pulling Thorsten in towards the back wall of one of the sheds that lined the path. With a quick step to the side at the next attack, he managed to dodge the sword and in the opening, his dagger slid across Thorsten's cheek, splitting it open and drawing blood.

Thorsten roared and swung his sword wildly, but Tovar had already jumped back. Under his breath he was cursing. Thorsten was tall, and the dagger was difficult to get in where the chain mail didn't cover him.

With the sword up, Thorsten charged on Tovar, forcing him back across the path, towards the rocks and the ocean. He carved the air with brutal swings, any one of them would've sliced his arm clean off, and Tovar scrambled back, trying to find an opening. The ground under his feet turned slippery, sea weed wrapped around his ankle, dragging him off balance. He stumbled, going down on one knee, catching himself with one hand as he held up the dagger against the next wild swing. Behind him the ocean lapped at his feet, and he threw himself in as Thorsten stabbed towards his chest.

The sword caught him this time, but he kicked out, connecting with Thorsten’s leg as pain bloomed across his arm.The other man lost his balance and for a moment, he teetered on the edge of the slippery rocks, and Tovar jerked himself up, out of the water, scrambling clear of the blade.

Panting he found his footing again on the shore line as Thorsten turned to him. His face was triumphant now as Tovar suddenly realised; the dagger was gone.

"So much for the mercenary," Thorsten mocked him, "How would you like me to kill you? A cut to the front and watch your guts spill, or in the back, as you try to run?"

A trickle of fear ran up Tovar's back as the wind suddenly picked up, and Thorsten advanced on him. The way to the dock, it was behind Thorsten. Behind Tovar was only the edge of town, and then the endless forests.

He took a step back, and Thorsten's grin widened as he lifted the sword.

"Tovar," a voice suddenly called, heavy footsteps coming down the path as Thorsten frowned and looked behind Tovar at the newcomer.

Tovar risked a glance behind himself. Another Norseman was jogging down the path, his sword already drawn. He was tall, towering over both of them, and his wide shoulders seemed to fill the narrow path behind him.

"You know this dog, Assar?" Thorsten called in surprise, but the tall blonde man ignored him.

"You shouldn't be here, Pero Tovar," he said.

Tovar's brows rose high as he recognised the man. He'd only seen him at a distance at Steinvikr, but he knew who he was.

Your cousin.

And Saga's brother.

It dawned on him as Thorsten called out to Assar again.

"He's about to die, Assar. He's claimed our Jarl's daughter in secret, as if he were her equal."

"I know what he did, and what our Jarl did to my cousin. And if you try to stop Tovar from getting her back, it will be you who dies here, Thorsten," he replied coldly. His sword arm was up, and the sharp tip aimed at the man did not waver.

"What…"

Thorsten glanced at Tovar again, and Assar gave a small shake of his head.

"You were always a rash fighter, Thorsten."

That seemed to shift his focus, hesitation rather than rage as he looked back at Assar. He took a step back, but his heel found only wet stone beneath him. It gave way under his weight, and the moment his balance went, so did his control.

The wind rose along the shore, sharp now, pulling at their cloaks, and filling the narrow path with salt and noise.

Tovar moved before any thought could catch up, closing the short distance while Thorsten still tried to find his balance. It was the only moment he needed. His hand closed around the hilt of the sword, the other shoving Thorsten back, into the cold water and rocks.

His sword.

The weight of it in his grip was almost disorientating, like something long lost snapping back into place, and for a heartbeat he simply held it while Thorsten realised what had happened.

Thorsten’s expression stayed with Tovar; rage breaking into fear as the mercenary lifted the blade and drove it through his throat. Slipping in just where the chain mail left him exposed, dark blood gushed out as he gave a choked, broken cough. He collapsed onto the wet stones, his eyes emptied, turning blank.

For a moment, Tovar stood over him, breathing hard, sword still in hand, and then reality of everything beyond the fight returned.

Then the wind pulled at him again.

The ship would be leaving.

And there was no more time.

Chapter 17

Another cliffhanger! But at least now Pero is free, and Thorsten is dead. Some small revenge at least...

I really went back and forth over this chapter, writing and re-writing the final fight between Tovar and Thorsten, and I hope you enjoyed it and that it was as tense as I wanted it to be! Writing fight scenes is really fun, but it's also hard and I try to make the visuals clear so that you can see the fight in your head as you read it (I hope).