#hytham x reader

The voice laughed loudly as you opened your eyes with a gasp.

"Hytham, I'm about to sleep..." You mumbled, puckering your lips against the boy lying next to you. Grinning, Hytham turned to you and shrugged.

"Are you a cat that you have to sleep after eating?"

Turning your nose up, you tongued your companion and nudged his shoulder as you snuggled closer to his side. Hytham let go, making room for you, and when you were both comfortably seated, he reached his right arm up as if to catch the leaves.

"Guess what I have, and if you guess it's yours." He said, twisting his wrist.

Huffing, you turned to look at him from the side, then back to his hand.

"I don't want a cricket jumping on me….again." You snarled at the boy, but he just smiled at you, his eyes sparkling as if he wanted to show you some magic.

"I brought you a present." He answered more quietly so as not to disturb the other sleeping children.

Raising your eyebrows, you turned onto your stomach so you could look up at his face, leaning on your elbows.

"A gift? What kind of gift? Where did you get it from?” You waved excitedly, your previous annoyance lost in the mist.

The boy chuckled again, then shook his still raised fist with a knowing smile. "You just have to answer and you'll find out."

Sleep and tiredness fade away from you like a faint smoke, replaced by an excitement of anticipation and curiosity.

"Well! Tell me! Please Hythem please!” You urged, tugging on his shoulder now with full alertness.

Hythem scoffed with a smile, then sat up himself, lowering his palm to your face.

"Guess it." He teased again, gently pushing your shoulders.

"Food? Money? Oh! You found a cake, right? Isn't that a cake?" You asked, watching the mark

Ignoring your guess, he continued. "Close your eyes and give me your hand." He reached for yours with his free hand and gently opened your palm, then turned it over.

"But if there's a bug, I'll really throw it at you!" You warned, closing your eyes.

"You won't, you certainly won't." He said and placing his palm on yours, he released the surprise lurking in his grip.

At first you only felt the warmth that the clenched fist gave to the object. Then, folding your fingers over it, you rolled it in your palm.

There were three round things, maybe the size of an olive seed.

"What are these…?" You morphed, closing your fingers as a test, but the orbs didn't compress, they stood the test firmly.

You almost gave up on opening your eyes and asking the boy for help, when a solution occurred to you.

"Glass balls?!" You shouted cheerfully as Hythem started to hush you.

“You can look at them.” He assured me cheerfully.

In your hand lay three sky-blue balls, the light shining on them made their whole insides shine. You hissed in surprise and between your squeals of joy you closed them in your palm and turned towards the boy and jumped on his neck.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you very much Hythem! Oh, they are wonderful! I love it, everyone!” You giggled as you jumped, happily hugging the boy who put his arms around your shoulders in response.

"When I saw them I thought you would like them. That way we'll have something to play with."

"Shall we try them?" Letting go, you snapped his neck and he followed with equal enthusiasm.

Your daughter woke you up from your dream, gently stroking your arm.

"Mama, mama, get up! can we go mom? The sun is about to rise.”

You yawned as you blinked the sleep from under your eyelids, turning onto your back with a grunt. You squinted at your daughter, seeing one of your childhood friends in her for the first time, as you remembered who you were and where you were.

Have you ever dreamed of your childhood? Or was it your daughter you were talking to? You saw the blue glass balls.

This thought woke you up completely, and while your daughter went to the table to pour water, you sat up and grabbed your neck.

Your fingers slid along the chain, and you felt the weight of the small spheres on your skin with relief.

"Wh- where do we want to go Ameera?" You frowned, trying to remember your conversation last night.

"To the bazaar mother!" Your daughter answered, emphasizing the words. "You said we could look at the scarves today."

“Oh, yes. You are right.” You smiled, nodding. The images of your dream at night moved further and further away from your mind, the details faded into obscurity, and by the time you got dressed, all you remembered was that you felt carefree and happy in your dream. Happier than you've ever felt lately.

"Let's hurry, because they will buy the best from us!" Your child urged, grabbing your hand and pulling you towards the door.

You obeyed with a laugh, holding your hand and letting your daughter lead you wherever her heart desires.

Let her be as carefree as you have never been.

The desert sun hung low over Baghdad, casting a warm, golden glow across the city Hytham once called home. Years had passed since he left with Basim, and although he had ventured across lands and seas, the city's familiar scent of spices and sand filled him with a bittersweet sense of nostalgia.

A few gray hairs had begun to weave through his dark locks, and the lines around his eyes told stories of battles fought and missions completed.

As he made his way through the bustling crowd, Hytham sniffed the air deeply, letting the swirling hurricane of spices, oils, skins, and food fill his senses. The sounds, the colors, the smells all brought up long-forgotten, obscured memories in his heart.

He well remembered the day when he and his master had first met Sigurd, when the tall prince had initiated them into the wonders and secrets of his country, so that he too would have the opportunity to inquire about Basim's secrets.

Twenty years have passed since then, Hyhtam has already seen half the world in that time. From the icy peaks of the North, through the rain-soaked fields of England to the sunny gardens of Iberia. And wherever he went, with whatever people he made lifelong alliances and friendships, even though he felt like one with the Crow Clan - he was still a child of the East, his heart longed for his long-left home.

So, leaving the fraternity he had built up in England to his student, and saying goodbye to Sigurd, he set off to the south, and then, reaching Poszportus, to the east, so that he could finally see his native land again.

Not that you have to worry about returning in a hurry.

At home, the Brotherhood network was in good hands, the clan was enjoying the most peaceful times since its sojourn on Saxon soil, and Eivor set off for Vinland, trying to further spread northern influence.

It was time for him to live a little to himself, to finally do what his heart demanded of him.

He stopped at a perfume seller, lingering to examine the bottles that held the scented oils. The man was devotedly examining the contents of all the bottles lined up, where they came from, what the ingredients were, how they were made, what wonderful powers they can have if someone applies them to himself, while Hytham turned the bottles with more and more beautiful motifs in his hands, with so many colors and sizes. Amidst the murmur of the crowd and the man's crude narration, Hytham noticed a voice that somehow stood out from among the chaotic sounds.

A child's loud laughter rang out from behind the perfume stand opposite him. A girl was shaking, clutching her stomach among the fabrics and silks, clutching the hand of an older woman, while the mustached vendor jokingly tied a scarf around her stout waist, pretending to be a woman.

Hytham watched the scene with a soft smile. He was somehow captured by this happy moment taken from the life of this family, as the child hugs his mother so tightly, as they laugh together, carefree.

The woman's shoulders also shook, and her scarf resting on her hair slipped back from her hair due to the movement.

The blood froze in Hytham's veins at that moment, his fingers pressed against the bottle in his grip.

The woman's scarf slid down, revealing her rich crown of hair and the glittering jewelry in her ear. A small, shiny, sky-blue sphere bobbed forward - back, right - left in the woman's ear.

Suddenly a strange image popped into Hytham's mind.

A bittersweet joy, seeing the face of a familiar friend; the interruption of the cloudless life of childhood; and as if he had found a relic he believed to be lost.

Something began to form in his mind; feverishly trying to break out from behind the thick gray fog.

Stopping everything - even breathing - Hytham tried to catch that something in his thoughts, and for some reason he felt that watching this mother-daughter duo, he would succeed in it faster.

Her torment was interrupted when the girl, turning her back to her mother, turned to face the perfume stand to show her parent the back of her scarf.

Hyhtam seemed to have been struck by lightning, dropping the bottle from his hand onto the table, he staggered back, blinking widely and watching the girl with his mouth open.

She bore an eerie resemblance to a childhood face, a little girl who was dear to Hytham's heart and who could have meant an awful lot to him if their paths had not diverged so far apart.

And then something snapped, exploded in Hyhtam, flooding him with a numbing, terrifying heat. He knew this face, he knew this girl. Or rather, the woman standing next to the child.

He knew those blue glass balls.

And she knew there had to be a third one in addition to the two earrings.

After your daughter had chosen with great difficulty the scarf she liked best, you turned to the nice seller.

"I think I finally have what I want to buy." You smiled, trying to fish out your wallet. The man gave you a pleasant freshness with his funny stories and even more clownish acting. You appreciated that he was so attentive to your little girl. "How much will the silk scarf be?"

The man's eyes widened, then he frowned with feigned seriousness.

"Yes, yes! I don't want to disappoint the dear child, since he was so kind to me. Our conversation between these disgusting people made my day! Here, take it. My gift!” The man smiled, pushing back your fist with the coins in it.

"Oh, I can't." You objected. "It's a valuable commodity, I don't want to shorten your business."

The man shook his head and bent down to wink at your daughter.

"That's how it goes between good friends, isn't it? You will honor me by accepting my gift! And your mother should consider that her husband blamed you for your debts.It is paid.”

You smiled in gratitude, gently shaking your head. "Unfortunately, we can't. My husband is dead, so he can't repay you for this kind gesture."

The bucket raised his hands at this, not allowing you to hand him the money.

"Then I am all the more certain that I will not accept the money. A mother needs as much as possible to support her child. Please. Let this be my thanks for your kindness.”

Your eyes filled with tears from what you heard, you were so touched. You nodded with a bright smile and let your daughter take the cloth offered to her.

"We are terribly grateful for it." You nodded. "Isn't it, Ameera?"

Your daughter hugged the chosen piece amid intense nods and giggles.

“Yes, yes! Thank you very much for your uncle's generosity!" Your happy daughter.

"And if you've been here another time, please come here! I hope we will have many more such great conversations.” The man waved goodbye to you with a wide smile as you stood there, heading for your next destination.

During the day you visited the huge bazaars of Baghdad. You bought lunch and dinner, talked to a couple of weaving women about when you could work for them again, and handed over the pieces you had made so far to your customers. The day passed quickly, and navigating through the anthill of people, you felt as if you were walking in vain among a thousand and one pairs of eyes, one was following you continuously, drilling a burning hole in your back.

The sensation of being observed was difficult to ignore. It was not an unfamiliar feeling, especially in the bustling bazaars where people's gazes tend to linger. The question now was whether the staring was merely happenstance or deliberate.

Slightly adjusting your path as if casually browsing, you subtly veered towards a shop window that seemed to provide a suitable view of the path behind you. While pretending to admire the wares, you carefully observed the area through the reflection, keeping an eye out for those seemingly endless eyes on your back.

Your eyes darted to every passing face, scanning the bustling crowd for any signs of interest. A man loitering near a food stall, a woman browsing jewelry next to you, children playing an impromptu ball game in the distance – all appeared to be engrossed in their own activities. However, despite the numerous people in your line of sight, none seemed to exhibit any particular interest in you; if they were the ones following you, they were adept at feigning nonchalance.

For a moment, you felt a flicker of uncertainty, doubting your earlier intuition.

"Maybe I'm just imagining things..." You sigh rubbing your face before you turn to your daughter, now leading her a bit quicker out of the bustle of the crowd.

Before long, the crowd thinned out, and the stalls in the streets were replaced by yellow walls and doorways. The crowd of people dwindled until finally you only met scattered residents who greeted you cordially.

"Mom, why are we running like this?" Ameera asked with raised eyebrows, clutching the loaf of bread you had entrusted to her, accompanied by a basket of figs.

As if you only realized it now, your anxiety got the better of you, you slowed down.

"Forgive me dear. I'm just tired, I want to get home as soon as possible. By the way, you have to help with the cooking too.” You smiled sweetly at him, then stealthily glanced behind you. She nodded, adjusting the basket in her grip, but followed your gaze back.

"Did you see something?" He was interested.

“Nothing. Let's go, we're almost home."

She walked past you with a doubtful look, leading the way.

Hytham turned the corner slowly, noting with a sigh that he hadn't lost sight of you. A big lump rose in his throat, and he felt guilty that he had resorted to such vile tricks, just so he could keep watching. The sight of his old childhood friend had a stronger effect on his homesick heart than the calmness of any medicinal potion. As he followed her, from house to house, from ledge to roof, he wondered if he had lost his mind. I wonder what he will say to you when he finally faces you someday? I wonder what you will say? Do you still recognize your old friend at all? How should he approach you, how should he introduce himself, what should he do?

He clenched his fists. Act first; reveal your identity and only then worry about the following.

And yet, Hyhtam's legs struggled forward, he would have wanted to step out of the shadows at any time to reveal himself to you. Instead, like a nimble cat, he darted from one street to another, up to the roofs on one ledge, down to the ground again on another tarpaulin, as the road took him without having to stop. That way, he can at least keep an eye on you and your daughter better, watching your ways from the vantage point of the heights, sometimes scanning your surroundings with a zigzag eye, against possible danger. Fortunately, he was the only one who wanted to follow you that day, so he calmly rested his knives on his waist belt and his hidden blade on his arm.

After a short wait, a more spacious building appeared at the next street corner. The square house, built of red brick and clay, provided a sharp contrast to the small garden in the middle, with a peacefully bubbling fountain, an orange tree and a rose bush in their colorful glory. Hytham watched as you let your daughter go ahead, then, looking behind you one last time, scanned the area and followed you to the safety of your home.

The man stopped, hands on hips.

He can't just walk up to you and introduce himself. However, he didn't think it was a good idea to knock on the front door either. What should he say if you open the door for him? I followed you all the way from the bazaar, do you remember me? And he didn't know what to say if he met your daughter for the first time.

So Hytham sighed heavily and sat down on the corner of the roof with pursed lips, his elbows resting on his knees. He needed some time to think.

Sitting on the edge of the roof, he continued to observe as the evening began to settle. He leaned back, propping himself up against the wall, his eyes firmly fixed on your home.

He wrestled with his thoughts in his head, weighing the options. Would it be best to wait until you were alone to talk to you? How could he approach you without raising alarm or concern? Was he overthinking this whole thing?

He let out another sigh, a mix of frustration and uncertainty, as he leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. The evening breeze tugged at his hair, and the sound of distant conversation and laughter from the neighborhood filled his ears. It seemed like the entire world was carrying on as usual, oblivious to his inner turmoil. He knew he had to make a decision soon, but the right course of action continued to elude him.

You knew something was wrong, that this frustration didn’t come from the mere books and scrolls.

You set the book aside and focus on him.

He’s pacing, one hand on his waist, the other occasionally on his chin or hair.

“Hytham.” You call gently, he doesn’t respond. You repeat his name a little louder, which does end up catching his attention. He looks annoyed, perhaps at you, but you do not let it rouse you. “Something wrong, love?”

He sighs and nods his head, walking closer to you. “I feel like I trouble Eivor.”

You raise an eyebrow, gesturing for him to elaborate. It causes him to sigh again, even if explanation was inevitable. 

“Eivor already has a lot of work to do on their own, but I tell them to assassinate any Order of the Ancients they see and gather clues along the way. That must be a lot of work.” You shake your head, sometimes Hytham worries too much. “Not to mention--”

“Hytham,” You interrupt before he can worry his little head too much. “sit down.”

Without objection, he moves to sit at the end of the bed, it’s a small bed and you’re sitting up on it, but you stop him before he can. “On my lap.”

“O-On your.. your lap?” He flushes a pink you love to see.

“Yes.” You laugh. “You know, we’ve done worse things.” Hytham gulps, clearly embarrassed.

He reluctantly sits down and boy is he awkward. “Hytham, do you need to relax?”

“Yea..” He whispers.

You slowly and gently push him down to lay his head on your chest, allowing him to back out if he wanted. He absolutely loved cuddling, yet he was too timid to initiate it. You’re delighted to feel him wrap his arms around you himself. “Eivor is not burdened by you.” You stroke his hair to calm him. “I’m sure they’re fond of fighting, or more so the thrill of it. Eivor is perfectly capable, and if they were burdened, they would at least inform you.”

Hytham nods and lets out another sigh. This time, as you’ve learned, it is one of relief and comfort. Ironically enough, it makes you let out one of your own.

“Thank you.” You’re sure he’ll worry about it again someday, but he will have you with him. That’s a given.

“Look at me.” He lifts his head from your chest to look at you. You surprise him with a peck on the lips, which you separate from quickly.

He throws his head back in surprise, a blush quickly forming on his cheeks again. “D-Da-Darling?”

You shoot him a confused look, innocently tilting your head. “What, you want another?”

“Yes, but--” Before he can finish that sentence, you give him another kiss. He’s glad to find it last much longer, with actual movement.

You pull back, putting your attention back on the old letter you were reading. “Now, we both have work to do, I assume. Unless you’re in need of a break.” Hytham nods at the mention of a break. He deserves one, especially after his thoughts of troubling Eivor. “You can stay here, then. I have a question though,”

“Mhm?”

“My wayward apprentice and his charge.” He clasps Hytham’s outstretched forearm and the grin that follows turns to something genuine that warms the black of his eyes.

Hytham looks to one of the Danes, a woman, tall and with hair the color of frosted straw. 

“Eivor, this is the healer we found on the road, the one I spoke to you about.”

She smirks and tosses her head with a chuckle, sending her war-braids spilling. “With the spark in your eye as you did? Yes, I remember the story.” She ignores Hytham’s spluttering and turns to you. “As Hytham has said, I am Eivor, of the Raven Clan. If you can mend scratches, you are welcome.”

“I can mend more than scratches,” you assure her, “But I hope it will not be needed. Thank you for allowing a stranger in your midst. It is a generous offer.”

Eivor nods, though her attention returns to Basim and the other Dane. The latter is an immense bull of a man. He has been quiet thus far, his face serious. Something about it bothers you the longer you look at it, until you are staring, and you are sure recognition is only a thought away.

Something in the eyes, the hair, the chin...

Warm breath on your cheek draws you from your thoughts. Hytham is near, very near, leaned over the distance between your horses.

“We will ride soon.” His eyes find yours. Blue, you decide. Today, they are blue and gilded like a king’s crown. You cannot look at them long, glancing downward to see his fingers flex. They hover in the air, as though he may reach for you. You wish he would. A steadying hand would do you good right now. You watch, disappointed, as that hand falls to his thigh.

What does he read on your face, you wonder? Fear? You certainly feel it, you have since rising this morning, and doubly so when you and Hytham had arrived at the camp.

You fear being recognized atop your stolen mare. 

But of the two dozen faces you count milling about, none belong to the Dane who had set you on this path. You don’t dare ask after him. As the others speak of plans, you remain silent, intent on looking disinterested, even as you listen.

Hytham’s promise holds true. Within the hour, you are riding. Basim guides his horse to the other side of yours, and you find yourself caught -- guarded -- by these pretend monks. It sets your jaw to grinding, even as you remind yourself to be grateful for their protection. The Danes stop watching you as the two men close ranks. Maybe it is the threat in their curved swords or the seriousness of their faces. Either way, no one bothers you.

Hytham, you understand. You have never made friends quickly, but the man is as close to one as you have. But Basim? He owes you nothing, no matter Hytham’s claims. When he watches you, it isn’t with a man’s interest, as you had first assumed. He seems curious. Like a cat watching a bird before deciding whether or not to crush it under a paw.

There is as much danger here as you would have found had you kept to the road alone.

The reins protest between your fingers and you realize that you are squeezing the leather tightly enough to color your knuckles. 

Wilting flowers do not survive as long as you have, but there is nowhere to run should you catch the wrong eye. You are eased when Basim informs you that most of the party will follow the large Dane tomorrow, parting from your smaller group that is bound for Ravensthorpe. 

Riding a little farther in companionable silence, Basim catches your eye. His face is free of the road-dust that cakes so many others, and he lets you have your moment’s study. The cracks and crannies reveal no secrets, however, and you eventually look away. 

“He is not here,” Basim whispers, “Do not look so worried.”

The words do not land as Basim perhaps hopes. There is no feeling behind them, and you are left frowning at the road ahead. That uncanny knowing will not settle -- something is amiss, and if it is not yet so, it will be.

Is this a mistake? Am I a fool? Not long ago, you would have called such a neatly presented gift as this one a trap. But the years you have spent in motion, never lingering until arriving at Fremedeleigh, are weighing on your shoulders. The frown settles into the lines of your face as you squint into the early autumn sun. 

But it shines brightly, and if it knows what lies ahead, it keeps those secrets to the heavens.

.

………….

.

Something is wrong.

Fitful dreams weave webs of a dangerous face full of teeth and hateful eyes. They stir you, until you are pulled from their depths by fear and the night’s encroaching cold. For a moment’s time, you do not open your eyes to the blackness. Instead, you listen. A fire crackles beyond the flaps of your tent, the sound warm enough to chase away some of the chill. Softer still, voices murmur in the rough tongue of the Dane’s. You hear no breathing from the opposite corner. The woman who had agreed to share her tent has yet to come to bed.

But despite the gentle sounds of a well-guarded camp, a tickling in your bones tells you that all is not as it seems. You have heard the quiet before, and you know the danger that comes with it. 

You open your eyes to darkness, unable to feign sleep any longer. 

And for the first time, the knowing fails you.

It has come too late and met a cannier foe. 

You see nothing, but you feel a weight sweep over your face as a heavy, callused hand cups your mouth and presses hard. Breath is driven out of you on a gasp, but the air meets the resistance of a palm and you are forced to swallow it back down. Cold, gripping fear balls in your chest, and you flail, striking at the body that settles above you.

Thighs press on either side of your middle, lifting only as your left arm is wrenched down and caught under one knee. You strike again with your free right arm, aiming high, clipping the intruder around the head. A voice hisses at you in the darkness, the sharp sound of sucking breath through teeth, and when you strike again, the hand that holds your face shifts to dig its nails into the skin of your cheeks and jaw.

“Found you, foxling,” says the voice. It’s sound is harsh even in a whisper, like the noise of a body dragged over rocks. 

‘Foxling’. You know at once who has you - the mad Dane. 

“Next time, find a hole farther from your hunter.” He titters softly, and through the darkness, you think you can make out the gleam of teeth. “Now, how shall I skin you?”

A sudden effort from you sends him forward, loosing his hand enough for you to sink your teeth into the meat of his palm. He tightens his grip, lifting your head in the span of his large hand, and then sends it cracking back against the ground. Sparks burst behind your eyes as, dimly, you register his weight shifting, moving to better subdue you.

He leans low over your ear, his breath hot at your neck. “I think I will kill you,” he hisses, “What our Raven-feeder doesn’t know won’t hurt her. Let’s start here --”

You don’t need to see it to know steel when it presses at your skin, the tip of a dagger digging into the flesh below your jaw. You squeeze shut your eyes, pressure mounting as you try again to throw him off. A rustle of fabric at the edge of your hearing stills you for a single beat of your heart, and you feel the Dane go rigid atop you.

A woman’s voice cracks out, “Oi, what’s this? Find your own tent for your business -- oh, it’s you, Ivarr. I didn’t realize.”

Light from the campfire spills past her, chasing away the shadows from the tent’s interior. For the first time, you can see Ivarr above you, his weathered face and neck flushed, his lank hair obscuring half his face and the snarl that forms on his lips. 

“Can you not see I am busy?” he growls, one hand still tight over your mouth, the other poised with a jagged little knife, the end of which you can just barely see.

The woman hesitates, glancing back over her shoulder. The sounds of campfire chatter have ceased, replaced by the noise of quick steps crunching over stone and dirt. Ivarr sighs, sitting back to rest on your knees. His weight is heavy -- you had learned as much during your struggle, and you know that you had been right in your brief observation that he is a larger man than his build and movements would have you believe on a glance. 

A second figure appears in the opening and a grin curls around Ivarr’s lips. “Ah, Wolf-Kissed! I found a --”

“Get off the woman, Ivarr.” Eivor steps forward and when she is near, the fingers of one hand curl in the back of Ivarr’s shirt. A moment later, he is lifted off of you, Eivor sending him stumbling back. 

Ivarr rights himself with fluid whirl, so smoothly you would think he had not just been tossed away like refuse in the wind. “She is a straggler, Eivor --”

“A survivor,” the woman snaps, “She has escaped you. What rock did you emerge from under, Ivarr? I thought you had returned to Shropshire.”

“I smelled a rat,” his cold blue eyes turn to you, “Had to come check the larder.”

You try not to let him see the shudder that runs through you as you pull your cloak around your shoulders. But he sees past the movement and smiles again. He is almost ugly, except for the moments when the light catches his eyes and the glint in them distracts you from the scars and deep angles. There is a depth in them that frightens you -- it dawns on you that those eyes are not those of a madman, as he first seemed, but rather a very singular personality, one that revels in the sort of violence that nearly left you cut from ear to ear.

A crowd gathers beyond the walls of the tent; you can hear their shuffling and their murmurs and see their shadows playing through the cracks. Two men push past, and a breath leaves you in relief as Basim appears with Hytham at his heels. Hytham’s worried gaze finds yours, dragging over your face to land at a spot near the left side of your jaw. He scowls at what he sees there and it is only then that notice the trickle of warmth running down your neck. Ivarr’s cut had been a nearer miss than you had realized. All over again, the rising, frozen fingers of fear grip you tight.

Basim gestures between the two glaring Danes. “I see our new friend yet lives. Perhaps we can move our arguments outside?”

“Piss off,” grunts Ivarr. He sweeps past Basim. “Unless you want to argue with the tip of that curved sword.”

“Entertaining as that would be, it would be a mistake.” Basim’s eyes shine with a look that would have most men stepping back, but Ivarr only waves a hand at the man.

He calls on his way out, “Somebody get me a drink! If I can’t kill horse thieves, I will drown myself in ale instead.”

At last, the tent is quiet, save for the quiet shuffling of feet. With Ivarr gone, Eivor turns to you. Her eyes run from your feet to your head, her lips quirking. She gestures to the wound left near your jaw. “Seems you’ve a scratch to mend already.” 

At that, she slips out, Basim following her. Only Hytham remains. He looks grim, as he so often does, his eyes on the ground near his feet. 

“Frown much harder and you will dig a hole,” you say, though the words are difficult to get past your lips.

“Good,” scoffs Hytham, “Someone can bury him in it.”

Harsh words, but hard to disagree with. The bite in them surprises a grin out of you. The fear and panic are fading, and you find yourself moving on steady feet to Hytham’s side. The press of your hand at his arm draws his eyes up to yours. He seems to at last catch himself, shaking his head. 

“I am glad Eivor was here,” he says with a gentleness you feel in your chest.

“You and Basim were not far behind her,” you remind him.

“Cutting a throat is a quick thing. If he meant to do it, I think we would not have been here in time.”

“If he meant to do it?” You raise a hand to your neck, fingers sliding over skin tacky with drying blood. 

“Even Ivarr knows better than to kill a woman in the middle of camp.”

“So he meant to frighten me then?” He had done a fine job of it. He had snatched up your life and held it between his hands on a whim.

Hytham shakes his head again. “I think he likes to play with his food.”

“Must we call me that?”

Hytham laughs, even as your stomach churns. “You are right. I am sorry. A poor image.” His cheer sobers quickly, his eyes settling on you once more, though the shine in them remains. When you had joined him at his side, you had placed yourself nearer to him than perhaps you should. He has somehow closed the distance further still without you noticing, the heat from his body warm across the small space. So close, you can see the freckles across his cheeks, remnants left from a time in a sunnier climate than England’s. He appears to be considering something.

“Here,” he says after seconds have passed, “Take this.” With one hand, he reaches for you, his palm soft over the back of your hand. With the other, he reaches around to his side and frees a small, sharp-looking knife from his belt. He presses it into your outstretched fingers. “In case Eivor is not around next time.”

“What of you?” The question leaves you without you meaning it to, and your cheeks heat mercilessly. Hytham’s gaze softens in the light.

“It is my knife. Think of me when you stab the man with it.” His fingers run over the back of your hand, so light it could almost be imagined, and you shiver at the touch. He pulls his hand away.

“That’s very cut-throat of you, Hytham.”

“You would be surprised how cut-throat I can be, healer.” At this, something passes over his expression, but it is gone before you can name it. “Now, get some rest.”

“Goodnight,” you tell him. He slips out of the tent, pausing before the flap can fall. He catches your eye, smiles once, and then is gone.

.

…………….

.

The next morning, your mare is already saddled when you find her. 

Ivarr sits atop her, grinning down at you as he braces against the saddle. The mare tosses her head, snorting when he pulls her reins tight. You frown as you watch his fingers wind their way through her silver mane, twirling the hair, taunting you. 

“You’ve taken good care of her,” he says when you come to a stop safely out of his reach. “So kind of you to return her to us.”

It is another cold day, cloudier than the one before it, but anger heats your face as you glare at him. But what can you say? She is not your horse. She belonged with the Danes to start with, not quite stolen, but it’s a near enough difference that you won’t argue it. One glance at him tells you that Ivarr knows this, as he knows that you are snared by your helplessness to protest. 

He nudges his heels into her sides. She comes to you, her velvet nostrils flaring as she noses your arm. As you reach to pet her, heat spreads behind your eyes, unreasonable and traitorous. She is a horse. Nothing more or less. Still, as you feel her warm breath on your palm, it feels as though Ivarr is taking something more from you.

And when you find the nerve to meet his eyes, you know that has been his intention from the start. 

He smiles, all teeth. 

“They say you are a healer. Or did they call you a witch?” He tilts his head - mocking you. “Dark seidr, that. So, tell me, witch, why is it that you did not heal all those people? What good are you if you cannot attach heads back onto shoulders?” His voice rings with the sing-song sound of a child’s rhyme. It echoes in your ears like bitter wind. He digs his heels into the mare’s sides once more, circling her around you. Her dark eye watches you as she passes, and somewhere in your heart, you think that the beast is sorry. Ivarr continues, his voice rising loud enough to turn heads. “Instead, you ran. Like a coward. Do you know what we do to cowards?”

The blood in your veins goes cold as you glare spitefully up at him. You want to spit at that grinning face, or claw at it, or sink Hytham’s knife into the socket of one of those eyes. Ivarr leans closer, craning down until his face is only a foot from yours. He studies your face and his eyes glimmer at the boiling wrath he must read there. He raises a hand, runs his thumb over his lip as though to taste the air as it sours between you. 

When you do not answer, he says, “We polish our blades with their innards.”

Coward. Witch. They are only names. But as they slither out from his lips, they sound like curses, echoing in the back of your mind. Hands clenching at your side, it takes all your effort not to reach up and drag him from his horse. He likely won’t fall for that trick twice. 

Instead, you raise your chin, and try not to think about how your insides feel as though they have turned to water. 

As levelly as you can, you reply, “You did not manage it the first time, nor the second. Do you want to know what they say about you? They call you ‘boneless’.” You peer up at him, unblinking. “I wonder if it is because you do not have the spine to back up your words.”

A boom of laughter fills the air, startling the mare and sending her prancing. He snatches her reins and pulls her back around to face you. 

“You,” he levels a finger at you, “you, I will skin cunt first. The Raven Clan and its strays will not protect you forever. Rest easy knowing that your fate is already sewn. You won’t be my finest kill, but I am a man who can find joy in the little things.”

He pulls at the mare, rounding her with a bellowing whinny, and leads her away.