Grór breaks her leg — sometimes, boredom is worse than broken limbs. Part 2/3 for @mrkida-art
Grór stared at the ceiling, her eyes once again tracing the molded ridge around its edges. The ghaspar-powered lantern had flickered out and died an hour ago, but she hadn’t bothered to re-light it again even though it would have taken her a couple of moments to find a match. Instinctively, she flexed her right leg and her knee bumped against the boot cast that encased her shin.
One more week of this, she thought. One more week of just lying here doing nothing. She could walk without a crutch now. She could run (well, she could canter along awkwardly, but the point was that it didn’t hurt anymore). She could do everything that Old Fram the healer had told her father that she was not to do until the bone knitted itself together completely — to Grór, it was simply an arbitrary number of weeks that Old Fram had pulled out of his arse.
The door of her room creaked open and Grór blinked as bright light from the hallway cut a patch across her bed. Ixil’s brown eyes glowed in her direction like Tiger’s Eye lit up from behind and the points of illumination remained as he crossed the room. She couldn’t even be bothered to greet him but turned her head listlessly as he rummaged beside her for the matches and lit the lamp.
“How’s your leg?” he asked. The bed sagged as he sat down and he tucked his legs to his chin.
“Fine. It’s been fine for a week now, but father doesn’t care. He still thinks I’m an invalid,” she ground out. She looked over at Ixil and a rush of jealousy bubbled inside her. He had gone out on hunting and scouting expeditions, while she was due to die of boredom at any moment.
“Want to punch something?”
Grór blinked. “Always,” she said slowly, raising her eyebrow. Ixil swung his legs down and snatched up Grór’s pillow, holding it in front of his stomach. He grinned at her and nodded down at it.
“And you think some feathers are going to protect you?” Grór snorted and jumped to her feet — at least, one leg jumped, whereas the other dragged behind her.
“Aye. That, and my rippling stomach muscles, prince,” retorted Ixil quickly.
Grór cracked her knuckles and shifted her weight to her one unbroken leg. The two dwarves circled one another like predator and prey, Ixil’s eyes gleaming brightly. She quietened her mind and focused, making a few fake passes to get Ixil’s back up.
“Just fucking punch me!” the Stiffbeard snarled. Grór grinned and feinted to the side.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you—”
The blow landed square in the middle of Ixil’s stomach, but he was ready for it. Despite stumbling backwards, he flexed with the punch and only a fleeting grimace told of any real pain.
“See your arms haven’t lost any strength during your bed-rest,” he wheezed, and Grór laughed. Part of her wondered if he was just doing this to make her feel better, but she really had put all of her frustration into that one. The Stiffbeard tossed the pillow to one side and instead spread his arms wide as if he were about to pick her up like a bear.
“Come on then,” he said. Grór didn’t need to be told twice.
She rammed him, shoulder smashing into sternum like an uncontrolled minecart ricocheting against a rock wall, and Ixil dropped with the prince on top of him. Grór didn’t need to work hard to pin Ixil to the floor, leaning her full weight against him and gripping him tightly with her thighs like an encircling snake. Through gritted teeth, Ixil panted and groaned, eventually getting enough leverage to grasp Grór’s broad back. His fingers entwined together and elbows clenched around her ribcage as he tried to prise her off him, but she held fast and her one good knee jabbed forwards into the soft spot over the other dwarf’s kidneys, eliciting a sharp yelp.
With a surprising turn of speed, the Stiffbeard surged upwards, driving the prince away from him and back onto her feet. Perhaps he had just faked being pinned to the floor, lulling her into a false sense of security before striking? Grór didn’t have time to mull over this, but was annoyed nevertheless at how easily he seemed to free himself. They stood with arms locked like the horns of bulls doing battle, brows mere inches apart, grunting, pushing and pulling in all directions. Sweat dripped down Grór’s forehead and into her corners of her mouth, slicking the black, angular outline of her royal tattoo, and Ixil’s own facial markings, bands of dark ink across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, were pulled tight as his face contorted in effort.
“Give up,” he grunted.
“You first,” she replied.
They both broke apart as though branded when the door flew open behind them. Instinctively, Grór knew who it was without turning around and her stomach plummeted to the bottom of her cast.
The tongue lashing they both received from Old Fram was legendary, even to Grór, who considered herself a veteran of Fram-bollocking. Neither of her brothers had been berated this hard for this long, and Frór and Thrór watched with gloating expressions, ducking behind their hands to whisper and chuckle when they were sure they wouldn’t be heard. She glared at them, knowing that they would lay into her as soon as she got out of earshot of Fram, her father, and uncle Borin. She dared not to look over at Ixil, whose tawny skin had paled. His eyes glistened and he looked as though he was about to cry or faint. Grór knew why, though: his formidable-looking mother, Bivrik, stood just behind the king and looked like a ravenous hound straining against a leash — her face puce and her lips moving silently with curses. Once Fram had decided he’d had enough of them, and left the royal reception room to a ringing silence, Grór rolled her shoulders and turned to face her father. She fixed her face into what she hoped was a mask of solemn contrition.
“Am I free to leave?”
“Sire,” King Dáin said, his eyes flashing at his daughter.
“Am I free to leave, sire?” Grór replied, trying her best to keep her voice neutral. Prodding the bear that was Fram was bad enough without riling her father more than he was already. Dáin nodded stiffly and pointed to the far door, which Ixil was being dragged out of by his mother, his arm held aloft in a pincher-tight grip. Bivrik’s furious whispers were as loud as a nest of angry cockroaches, and Grór knew it would be a long while before he was allowed to see her again. Ignoring a couple of choice, snide comments from her brothers, she stumped to her room and slammed the door behind her, breathing heavily. Why did limbs have to break? Why did everyone still treat her like a child?
She threw herself back down onto the bed and screwed her eyes tightly shut. The ghaspar lamp slowly dimmed into darkness, until she once again lay in the black and silent bedroom, her pillow forgotten where it had been thrown aside.
Another week of this. One entire bloody week.
And this time, there would be no Ixil to break her out of her mood.
