The secret of Sherlock's shoulder bag was revealed to John that same evening. The thick reliable backpack held an elegantly curved lyre. The wood was polished with hands of generations of skalds. John assumed that Sherlock must have been a skald's apprentice before he was taken as a prisoner but when their owner ordered his curly friend to play it became obvious that Sherlock, though young, was an incredibly skillful skald himself already.
He never sang, however. Their master was furious, Sherlock got beaten again, and again. But no matter how hard he was punished, he never sang. He would play amazingly beautiful melodies, his lyre placed firmly on one knee while long masterful fingers were caressing the strings, but full lips always remained pressed tightly together and his eyes were incredibly sad as if he was killing himself with his own music. After the third or fourth beating John even toyed with an idea to ask his friend to sing as a favour to himself. It's not that John was tired of patching up the translucent pale skin that was black and blue most of the time. He just thought it terribly unfair to treat his unbelievably talented friend in such a way. But at the same time he believed he understood why Sherlock couldn't sing – it was for the same reason some birds don't sing in cages.
Sherlock wasn't only talented as a musician. He noticed things other people missed by mile as he successfully proved by finding Thorgrim's heritage. It didn't do any good for the heirs, of course, who ended up killing each other over the stone. Rumors of it spread across the island very quickly and from time to time people started to come and ask for Sherlock's help with finding lost or stolen things. That mollified their owner a little but not enough for him to stop thrashing Sherlock altogether.
Summer came and John went to the mountain meadows with the herd. He thought he wouldn't see Sherlock again till the frosts settled. However several days later he found an unexpectedly fresh loaf of bread on a stone near his cave. He even suspected one of the dairy maids who seemed to have a crush on him at first. When a couple of days later a new fresh loaf appeared on a flat stone John decided to crack this mystery. As he needed to be away from the cave on the mornings, taking care of his cows, he ordered Gentle to stay and guard the cave entrance. For two days John would return to a noticeably bored of sitting on the same spot dog. On the third noon John heard soft sounds when he was nearing the cave as if the wind was rippling the strings of a lonely lyre with the blades of grass. He crept closer, already sure of what he would see but wishing not to disturb Sherlock's playing. When he stepped around the stone wall shooting upwards to the very top of the Eagle Mountain he saw an apologetically waving his tail Gentle who was holding Sherlock's trouser leg in his teeth. The curly skald was sitting on a flat rock, a small package wrapped in a clean cloth was lying nearby. What stopped John from showing himself at once was the fact that Sherlock was not only playing, he was singing. Rich low baritone was a little hoarse from disuse but strong and warm like a summer breeze.
Through the mists of cold seas
Dragon longships will go.
Steady hands never miss
Holding deftly the bow.
Gods will smile overhead
Though blood rivers will flow.
Praise the living and dead
As together we row.
We will keep on the fight
Salty waves will us mourn
But through darkness and light
Dragon ships will go on.
John froze in place forgetting what he meant to do. He felt cradled by the strong and confident melody, wrapped in rich folds of Sherlock's voice. He could feel the salty taste of waves on his lips, could see warriors leaning on the oars as one, brothers of hard work and glorious battles. Something clenched mightily in his chest, making him dizzy with longing. He realized with certainty he would use any chance the fate would provide to get to the Vikings ship and become one of them. John also found himself several steps closer to the clearing, staring right into the bluish depths of Sherlock's eyes. The skald was smiling, his fingers moving slower and slower across the clearly sounding strings.
"You must have been there," John breathed out, "on board of a drakkar, with the Vikings. You were no wandering skald, you went into battles."
Sherlock sighed, fingers jerking suddenly, causing his lyre to weep. Gentle whimpered in sympathy through the still clenched teeth. It got John out of stupor at last, he whistled and the relieved dog skipped to him merrily. The skald put the instrument into the backpack again and secured the straps. John was watching him with slight amusement that surprised himself.
"Thanks for the bread," he recollected suddenly. Sherlock hemmed under his nose, "Whatever, it's terribly boring down there." John nodded slowly, playing along. However coy Sherlock acted, he still could see his friend's true care behind the seeming nonchalance.
Sherlock kept coming almost every day, sometimes empty-handed, other times carrying some simple but fresh food that he coaxed out of the cooks, no doubt batting his impossible eyelashes at them, John thought. The young skald sang to the shepherd boy from time to time, each song captivating and at the same time breaking John's heart a little. He could see Sherlock still wasn't singing for their owner. Bruises and abrasions were never completely healed between two fits of master's anger. Sherlock was playing his lyre in the master's hall but the man wasn't used to getting only half of what he paid for, so beatings were coming more and more often. Nevertheless it seemed only John suffered more because of that. Sherlock smirked at his body, deigning it too base to pay his attention to pain. He only snorted in derision when John tutted over his wounds.
It was a clear and breezy morning at the end of summer when John woke up with strange apprehension. He didn't see Sherlock for two days in a row and was starting to miss his friend and worry about the state he would find him in, when Sherlock would finally show up. The boy who was quickly becoming a man stretched his muscles lazily and went to the edge of the meadow to take a look at the bay as usual. He kept waiting for something that never happened but this morning was clearly different.
Two battleships were slowly gliding towards the shore where the settlement stood. John rubbed the remnants of sleep off from the corners of his eyes and felt giddy with excitement. Everyone knew these red and white sails were Gregory the Brave's trademark. John could see people from most homesteads running away from the shore with hastily packed things, thin trickles of scared freeholders and slaves mixing in a wider stream of refugees clearly visible from above. He knew the shepherds would remain in the mountains and hide as well. He didn't intend to do any such thing.
John fished his bow and arrows from an inconspicuous niche in the cave wall, whistled for Gentle and began his descent into the valley.
The longhouse was full of laughing and talking warriors. Ale was foaming in mugs and fists were slamming on the table, beating time of a merry song. The Vikings didn't exactly marauded the village, they simply imposed themselves as unexpected guests. They never took more than they could eat and drink. Usually while the house owners were cowardly hiding in the forest.
No one paid real attention to John as he loitered about a bit. He was looking for Sherlock but also listening to bits of conversation here and there. It seemed one of the ships was indeed led by Gregory the Brave while the captain of the other was his brother-in-arms, Olaf, son of Anders.
Although several braver slaves still remained on the premises, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. John finally decided there was no use in procrastinating, ordered Gentle to stay by the barn and, gathering his will, barged awkwardly into the smoky hall of the longhouse.
His hopes to see Gregory there at once were futile. Only one man of a rather ratlike appearance was sitting at the head of the table. The guards by the door tried to stop John rather lazily but the boy darted past them and stopped in front of Anderson.
"And what do you want, boy?" Anderson scowled unpleasantly. John tried not to show his disappointment, "I came to ask Gregory the Brave to take me on board his ship. I am strong and I am a good archer. I can be useful."
Merry laughter prevented him from saying anything else. Anderson was laughing as well, wiggling heavy eyebrows. John bit his lower lip not to whine in distress, but he couldn't stop his ears reddening from embarrassment. Still he tried to be calm and reasonable, "Test me, if you don't believe I can shoot well."
"Why not," Anderson smirked, "Bring some scarecrow for the boy to show off at." The laughing guards left. Seconds were creeping past endlessly. John fought with himself, breathing carefully, fingers clutching at his bow. Heart fluttered desperately in his chest when the guards dragged a long thin man into the hall. John tasted blood in his mouth when his jaws tightened convulsively but he never moved. Sherlock was barely conscious, it seemed, he was hanging on the guards heavily, and his backpack for once wasn't with him. John noticed a swollen eye and realized his friend must have gotten himself another beating the night before.
John pulled three arrows from his quiver without haste. He stuck two of them in the earth floor near his foot and drew the bow with the third. The point of the arrow looked in Sherlock's heavy-lidded eyes he couldn't keep open. Then John suddenly turned around, the arrow aimed right at Anderson, "I didn't think Vikings' chieftains are cowards, playing with people's lives in a low way like that. Would you, son of Anders, like to be a scarecrow for me to test my skills on?"
Anderson got paler but he was a warrior after all. He waved off the men who stepped forward to get to John and sat more comfortably, "Get on with it then, boy," he hissed.
John thought it was rather easy, actually. Trying to catch one arrow in flight with another was difficult, but long months of training got him there eventually. In this darkened hall he never hesitated before quickly releasing three arrows one by one. The silence thickened and then exploded in a roar. The warriors circled John, clapping him on the back approvingly. The Vikings loved skilled men.
Anderson didn't move, he couldn't, not if he wanted to remain unscathed. Two arrows were stuck in the wall on both sides of his neck, so close that there was not an inch for him to move either left or right, and the third arrow was trembling atop his head, having cut a strand of his hair.
"Well, kid," Anderson finally laughed too, "you seem to be true to your word." He raised his hand and dragged one of the arrows from the wall with effort. A thin stream of blood rushed down his throat but the chieftain didn't pay any attention to it. He stood up and strode towards John, "I would like to have such a good archer on my battleship."
John felt an enormous weight drop from his shoulders and bring open a floodgate to all the emotions he had been stifling: anger, fear, humiliation. Tears stung his eyes when he turned away from Anderson and shuffled to Sherlock, who finally managed to stand on his own. "And I don't want to be on board a ship with someone who tries to make people shoot at the defenseless." He grabbed his friend's wrist and dragged him to the door. He only made a few steps when the door swung open and Gregory the Brave stepped in, followed by a tall stranger with an aquiline profile, dressed in a priest's cloak. Warm brown eyes of Gregory engulfed John with an intensity he couldn't expect. The warrior hugged John, crushing him against his broad chest, "I went to the Eagle Mountain, searched the cave and meadows, where were you, shepherd boy? I haven't even asked what your name is."
John let go of Sherlock's wrist and finally relaxed, feeling hot tears stream down his cheeks onto Gregory's flaxen shirt. As if in a dream, afraid to move so that not to wake up, he heard the red-haired priest say to heavily breathing Sherlock, "I was deeply concerned, brother dear."