Welcome to the next chapter of Barbarians Healer! I hope you enjoyed the last, suspense and all that it was! I'd like to thank MalinChan, yotzie, Ruusu, kooliobutterflyhahaha, Sine-k, Another Mad Swiss, Lillens, DianeLeBlanc99, and Sarai Onyx Vainamoinen for being my excellent Translators! Much love to you, wonderful friends! Also a extremely grateful thank you to I eat souls for breakfast, who I will call upon to aid me soon! I do not own Hetalia but I do own this story! For this chapter I recommend listening to the song Älvornas Dansar by Fejd.
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"It is done!" Nikolas screamed with a joyous laugh as stones and pebbles fell like drops of stars from the sky that shone a perfect blue against the horizon. The sound of the small boulders shook the ground at they smacked hard atop beast and man alike - shying both into submission and wild fear that coursed through their veins.
Magic was in the air, they could feel it.
The first one to be struck down by the pelted moss colored stones was the man who had first approached Nikolas with soured breath and menace - the man, leather cap lolled to the floor, was clutching his sore pink head with his hands. He was whining and howling like a dog who had just been beaten into obedience, cowering into the moldy pine needles at the floor.
Nikolas sneered down at him for a mere few seconds before he threw the rowan branch to the ground, watching with delight as the horses around him began to buck and skid, their eyes rolling to show white, tongues hacking against bits as they shrieked something awful.
It was music to the Norwegians ears. The chaos he had created, the danger he had wrought against those that would do more harm to his family. Revenge coursing through his veins tight and hot in his blood. It felt wonderful.
But his love of this moment was soon cut short, severed by the knife of a Slavic as Ivan began to roar out commands, backing his horse up skillfully with his hands, pressure placed on the reins.
"Steady! Stay Steady, damn you!" He snarled, his own mount frothing at the mouth as the saddle hoops jingled and sang, his voice a roar below the mountains that shook from the breath of man and beast alike.
But no command could hope to calm his men and their horses, so steeped in superstition that they were, they began to scream from fright as pebbles no bigger than their thumbs struck them atop their temples and snagged along their horses legs - some of the stones bigger and shattered heavy bones in their wake. Crack, Thwak, Shk!
Then, all control was lost to Ivan as Mathias, leader of the Danes, stood up from his crouched and cowardice stance from before to rise like a great grey wolf, teeth snarling and biting as he brought his fingers to his lips and blew. A shrill noise burst forth from his mouth, a whistle of wind and rain and storms that reeled in the enemies horses ears and caused their heads to shake and their knees to wobble and buckle.
The animals that were not held tight by hand or rope - bolted forth and were lost to the woods, the trampling of their hooves would echo along the cave walls for days.
The Slavic's, so it would seem, had been bested - yet not for long.
Not taking a second to revel in the glory of their wits and ability, Mathias scooped up his son, Tino doing the same with Peter before all five of them began a hasty retreat into the saw grass that cut and ripped at their arms and legs, burning their skin with stinging nettles before they could barely even see their eyes were so blurred with pain.
They couldn't have been running long - a few minutes or so before they heard feet and hoof a few paces behind them, the roaring sounds of anger and embarrassment tickling their ears red.
Their own soldiers, Dane and Swede had caught up to them and were flanked upon them on either side, some shooting arrows of bone blindly into the thicket, others to pause to hack at forest thrush so that Mathias and Tino could better carry their precious cargo ahead and away from danger.
But a few minutes of stumbling, of wheezing and trembling, could only get them so far.
For soon, they were blocked by the walls of shields tinted high with metal, wood, bone and leather - fearsome birds with black eyes and yellow beaks, with red fluttering bodies approached them from all sides, all corners.
Men barked and growled, their faces welted slightly from the rocks that were thrown out at them, cheeks red from aggravation at falling for such a petty trick of a witch.
Aggravation for the whole lot.
Tino felt his face grow pale, breath dying in his throat as he watched the oval shields advance and smooth out any escape route - the brush around them thorny and impassable. The trees too high to climb, the slopes at their backs too steep to roll down.
They were trapped once more, at the mercy of the phoenix's wrath and rage.
The Nordic party didn't even flinch as ropes were lassoed over them, woven from flax and willow - knots held tight against them as arms were bound before the great broad trucks of pine, their faces shaded by dust and the leaves of the yew.
Like ragged dolls they were, huddled tight by corded leather and rope, knees pressed into the dirt that smelled musty and much too rich. It made their noses sting.
"Make sure they are tied nice and snug. We shall not want them to get any ideas about escape, yes?" Ivan's voice purred over the captives, Tino's own teeth grounding painfully against each other as he fought off the urge to spit at the Slavic's groomed leather boots.
However, it was when Ivan tilted his head, cheeks slightly a blush from barking and yelling out orders from before, that Tino wished he had his knife to gut him like a freshly caught fish - still alive and very much conscious.
Because, at that moment, Ivan seemed to remember who and what he was dealing with. "Also, to protect us from further…insult…." Ivan smiled softly, quietly, "Cut out the witches tongue."
Nikolas' face grew white, his pretty blue eyes looking watery and dirty as tears streamed slowly over his cheeks and chin. He opened his mouth to protest with anger but not a word came out, his lungs too starved from shock. He could not even speak.
However, Mathias could.
"What?!" The Dane hissed, his own gaze not much better, heated and fiery like the sun, but as pale as the white snow before December reached it's end.
Ivan sighed in a manner that almost showed that he was regretful of his words, but yet still he said them, if soft toned hushes as if trying to explain to Mathias that all was well, everything was fine.
"Well, what would you have me do? We cannot have incantations to do us harm floating in the air!" His lips curled upward in a soft grin, hands folding themselves over his stomach.
"He might not even die from it - though he most likely will. Blood loss is quiet common these days, I'm afraid." He shrugged, causing Mathias to bristle with rage, his bared mouth showing his teeth to the Slavic Chieftain as he screamed out his protest.
"You would not dare!" He yelled, warned as he pressed his shoulder closer to Nikolas, the Norwegian sobbing softly, hiccups of breath that he tried to wipe away on his shoulder, face bent to the ground, eyes vacant of all fire that it once held.
Ivan did not respond, did not care to look at either man, stamping out any inklings of mercy he might have for the pair of lovers.
Instead, he motioned with a soft swipe of his hand to a nearby general, decorated finely in a gold torch and a red leather cap studded with chain mail at it's ends.
With a flicker of his pale wrist, Ivan commanded the death of the Norwegian, the witch, the Bride of the wolves.
Like an animal led out to slaughter to be put out of it's misery.
At the sound of a dagger being unsheathed from a flake of wood and leather, Nikolas finally threw his head back and wailed shortly, his eyes vacantly open as he looked upward and over the trees, mouth swallowing as words came to him in a rush.
"Lo! I See my mother! Lo! I see my father!"* he screamed, and sobbed, cries rushing forth from his mouth spoken raw.
"Nikolas! Don't - don't you dare say those words!" Mathias warned his lover, barked at him with distress as he tried to nuzzle the cheek of his beloved, the Norwegians hot tears warming his face so sadly.
Yet Nikolas would not be deterred, he began to rock back and forth, stuttering with sadness and sorrow as his mind raced and his lips shook pale and pink.
"Lo, they do call to me. They bid me to take my place among them, in the halls of Valhalla!" His eyes were growing wider and wider, fear trying it's very best to ensnare him in it's icy chill.
"Nikolas, my love! My sweet! Please!" Mathias cried, pressing his cheek to his husbands shoulders and neck, kissing at his skin, murmuring words of courage, to stop speaking, stop seeing, stop crying.
But he would not stop.
Onward the Slavic general descended, like a hawk with shining gold feathers come to pick clean at the downed animals carcass, to feel the blood swash heavily over his talons in a sea of salt. And onward Nikolas cried and chanted the prayer of a sacrificial death.
His brother, his son, Björt wailed and crooned till snot ran from his nose and his pink gums grew to biting at his lips. He cried Nikolas' name, and only his name.
Tino too began to feel his eyes water as he begged for his captures to take mercy upon them, instead of such a painful death, instead of such excruciating torture, just slit his throat - all their throats to be slit instead so that they may not be forced to see and watch such travesty. To feel it sink painfully into their hearts until they too were laid to rest violently.
A strangers hand came to grip at Nikolas' chin, tears staining it wet and warm as fingers pressed none too gently to open that mouth that held inside enchantments and hex's and curses - yet none did the Norwegian speak, ready for the slaughter was he. The Gods had decided this was the ripe time for him to be plucked from the tree of life and descend into Hel. He would go with courage, he would die like a warrior.
"Take me to the halls of Valhalla - where the brave may life forever! Take me!" He screeched at his executioner as the knife was laid under his tongue, the blade tasting foul and bitter and metallic, or perhaps that was his own blood being spilt. The Norwegian did not know.
"Stop! No!" Mathias grappled and tugged at the binds at his side, wrenching his neck painfully against the elbow of the strange man who would slit Nikolas' body to pieces.
"Take me instead - I am the Danish Chieftain! My tongue - my head - slaughter me, not him!" Mathias thrashed, his voice great and booming as his rang in the generals ears, startling him some so the knifes blade was laid against Nikolas' cheek instead of the inside of his mouth where he was sure his life would be then severed.
At the cool touch of the blade to his skin and not his tongue Nikolas sighed chokingly, a dry upheaval of breath that helped him to remain absolutely still lest his face be shaved off.
But before Mathias could beg again, for him to take his place, Tino felt his heart beat furiously in his chest before he open his mouth to shout out the words he knew he could never regret - not if could save the lives of the people he loved the most.
Even at the cost of his own life.
"Ivan, Lord of Slavic's - I beg, I plead - spare them!" Tino shouted with insistence as his cool amethyst eyes gazed into plum, the Slavic's gaze surprised at his outburst.
"Oh? And why should I spare them, little lion?" He cooed, a finger coming to rest underneath his chin as he pondered this turn of events that, if handled correctly, could topple down an entire empire and provide him with enough entertainment just before supper.
"Because," Tino furrowed his brow in scathing submission, "I wish to take my cousins place in execution."
Long silver lashes blinked back astonishment before a curved smile could take it's place upon the Slavic leaders fine lips.
"Is that so?" He asked, mouth parted in happiness. Like a cat that had just come upon a trapped mouse.
Tino swallowed thickly but nodded, feeling his shaking body forsake his once courageous stance. He was slowly slipping, slowly breaking at the prospect of dying in this instant, at this very moment before his family, his loved ones. Yet it was better he die first, in his own selfish way than to watch them each one by one die by cruelly.
Yes. He was doing this for selfish reasons mostly.
"It is." He bit his lip and nodded stiffly again in assurance.
"Mamma…?" Peter sniffled beside him, mouth hung open as he gazed as his parent, the first inklings of betrayal peppering his little delicate face. Betrayal that he didn't understand. He could not fathom why his mother wanted to leave him so, why his protector would abandon him at such a point in his life.
"Honey, I am so sorry - but if this will buy you all more time… And…And I cannot bare to…Oh, my baby…" The words shook as they tumbled over his lips, as he tried to compose himself as best as he could. As best as the moment allowed for.
"Tino…" Nikolas stuttered, his body quaking, not believing what he was hearing. That his younger baby cousin would give up his life first. The child who he had watched grow up sweetly, the short little blonde who was always crying and fighting and laughing was choosing to die. The little boy who was always crying, fighting and laughing. Nothing else but that.
Nikolas felt his eyes bleed water, his gaze rimmed red with sorrow and sadness. Next to him, somber, was Mathias - surprisingly silent for once.
Even the men, their men who had their faces pressed to the ground after being capture and restrained by rope and blade of knife, sobbed quietly into the dirt. They could not help but weep - could not help but pray to the Gods for quick mercy for those who were about to die today.
It was Ivan's eyes and pearly teeth peeking from behind his lips that broke the tears from their own gaze.
Ivan breathed in the warm late summer air, feeling the freshest hints of fall fill his nose. Of leaves dried into a fine powder at their feet, of the musky smell of animals dying and being killed in the distance as food for predators, of the early autumn frost creeping over everything in sight, chilling white spider webs upon the dew.
He smiled and breathed in deeply, gaze catching burnt purple once more.
"Yes. I have changed my mind. The witch may keep his tongue."
The Nordics shoulders slumped with mild thankfulness, soft murmurs of praise paid to the Gods as they began to breath more easily, tears drying slightly upon their faces. That is, until those next soft curved words formed from Ivan's throat, accented with blood and mirth. A combination so sickly it made Tino's face flush with horror and nausea.
"I want his instead." He gestured to Tino with a slim pointed finger adorned with jewels much like the ones Mathias and Nikolas wore. They only gleamed just a tad bit brighter.
Within an instant three men, one to cut him free, the other two to drag him fell upon the Finnish man like great bronze swooping birds until Tino was left screaming and thrashing against the fleshy arms that gripped him tight and threw him to the ground before the Russian Prince, the Lord of Slavic's, the master of a birds flame.
Ivan the Terrible.
Witnessing such a thing, of his mother being treated less than a slave Peter began to wail and cry for his Mamma, only to be quickly gagged by rough cloth and smacked across the face - the corners of his mouth red from the burns and cheeks slightly purple.
"Now, Men. We do not harm children, what have I always said, Yes?" Ivan lightly scolded his men before he turned back to the Finn at his feet, Tino catching his breath painfully as he resisted against the hands at his back and neck, trying to break free to comfort his child, to coddle the freckled boy. To tell him all would be well when he knew easily in his heart - this was the end of the Barbarians Healer and his little makeshift family that he had come to love so sweetly.
"I am truly sorry for their behavior, young Finn. But my men are restless and not the best at controlling their anger." Ivan tilted his head as he smiled, his pretty violet eyes deceivingly cheery as he lightly took Tino by the forearm, shying off the other men who backed away slowly, eyes floored to the ground in obedience.
"I excepted nothing less of Slavic's." Tino spat at the ground, barely missing the deep rich brown of Ivan's ridding boots.
The Russian nodded swiftly, rolling his tongue behind his teeth before his whole face fell, the edges turning softer and sadder, sullen to the touch.
It caught Tino off guard, like a deer caught in the blind sight of an arrow before it is released.
"I wish it hadn't come to this. I really do hate putting on a show, and you do really seem like a lovely person." He sighed quietly, only for Tino's ears, his tone regrettable before he pulled back and a grin quickly flashed back over his features, wicked and menacing.
And entirely fake - yet only Tino could tell from his spot before him, utterly confused beyond belief. The words sounding less and less planned, more real and straightforward than ever and it suddenly made Tino angry, quiet angry in fact that he tried to yank himself out of the iron tight grip of Ivan's arm. Yet, unable to break free, he settled for snarling like a caged animal instead.
"Do not act like you feel Mercy for me. Do not act like you care. We are the spoils of war. So reap your reward, coward." He spit, this time the saliva peppering across Ivan's face like little drops of dew.
The Russian, wiping his face with one quick stroke with his free hand, then brought the same hand across Tino's face in a brutal slap that rang clear across the copse of trees that stood a silent vigil for the trapped Norsemen.
Everyone flinched. Nikolas wailed, the Soldiers moaned, Mathias raged and the children wailed.
Tino did not cry nor seethe nor beg. He fell with the hit, bringing his hand to his cheek as he steadied his other against the cracking bark of an ash tree, a sacred tree like the one of Yggdrasil, it's roots and limbs bubbling up to the heavens and down to Hel bellow. It would be a fitting place to die.
But apparently Ivan had another idea, swimming with vengeance that he was.
Fingers cold and hard yanked at Tino's knotted amour that was already specked with the Russians Kinsman blood, causing rage to boil within him even greater, like a cauldron set to fire.
And with that anger came action as swift as a ravens talon.
A short and stout dagger was soon unsheathed, the handle of bone, delicate carvings of horses and birds and ferns delighting it's pommel. Yet the blade still shined laughingly at the Finn, who could only swallow at it's fearful beauty.
Gripping then at his hair Ivan hugged the Finnish man to his chest, Tino's back to the bronze plaiting of the Prince's strong chest - the cool metal reminding the Finn of what was to come.
His neck was then strained, presented to the sky as a silent offering to those who watched upwards, those who demanded whomever's blood - it did not matter. The Gods and Goddess of war, who delighted in any carnage. Tino was ready to grace them with his greatest gift. His life.
Beside him, around him he could hear the sobs of his countrymen, of his family and friends. Like a roaring waterfall against his ears, it was hazy and yet so clear, the sobs. He did his best to ignore them.
"It is a pity to kill you - all of you. The pretty little Lioness with fire, the lovely Elk with tricks, and the strong proud Wolf with venom. Shall be an even greater pity to kill the pups." Ivan murmured slowly, holding the Finn's chin up delicately with his fingers, the blade nestled nice and tight against his throat, his pulse fluttering rapidly against the metal.
The Russians words could not longer affect him, so afraid yet so calm was he.
Like nothing mattered any more. He would die for love, the love of his kin, of his family - of Peter and Berwald. He would make them proud by dying with courage for what else could he do but to lay his life down regally with fight still swimming in his veins to prove to Ivan that he was strong?
He would die like a Damen Lejon.
"But that is war. Ashamed of either side, I am, yes. But that is war." Ivan sighed as he pricked the point to the skin, a small pearly drop of red coiling at it's edges. Tino hissed through his lips, eyes fluttering as he dared not to move to make the cut worse.
He could still hear his men, damning the Russians to an eternity of slaughter, of melted out eyes and peeling skin, of bones being chewed by dragons and pissed on by dogs.
He could hear his family wail and struggle against their binds. He could hear it all.
And so, Tino, forgetting where he was, who he was - began to fight back.
His mouth ripped open a shattering cry as he tried to push the knife from Ivan's hands, neck craning backwards to miss the stinging blade only to have the Russian pull him back roughly and grip his arms behind his back in a bony grip.
For struggle had only fueled Ivan's purpose for hurt and harm as regrettable as he found it. And so the knife bit softly, teasingly against the Finnish mans shoulders, his collar bone scarred with two strips of raw red that would leave scars for the rest of his life. Ugly marks of remembrance.
Tino felt white hot pain grip him as he shook, tears falling freely as the pain was just too much. And yet in continued, the knife dragging shallowly back to his throat, barely leaving a prick on his throat till Ivan was steady and ready.
"Now, now - let's not make this difficult. Sit still or the knife will hurt." Ivan chastised. He wanted the Finn calm - to die quickly. It was the best gift he could give to his enemies Bride. A wedding present of sorts.
Tino shut his eyes tight, resulting in him not being able to see Mathias, wet eyes and all shielded his body over Peter's so that the freckled child, no matter how hard and heatedly he screamed, would not be able to watch his mother die. Nikolas himself tucking his body over his little brother, his eyes so very fearful as they could not tear themselves away from the sight of his cousins soon to be death.
"Such smooth skin, like the moon, yes? Well - it shall be as red as the sun when the knife kisses your throat." Ivan stared at the milky white skin, the thin strips of red a reminder of what was to come.
He is deranged, Tino thought suddenly with sickness, like a cat playing with the sparrow it has caught before devouring it.
But not long Tino's thoughts soon escaped him as the knife flared up again to press against his pulse. Tino cried out with sudden pain as a thin scratched plumed red along his flesh. Deeper…Deeper…Deeper.
I am going to die. He thought with pity before he felt some whisper against his ear, a soft breath of the wind tickling his cheek before he heard the heavy sink of an arrow right by his eyesight.
An arrow, an arrow long and comforting wedged against the scarf of Ivan the terrible, right near his neck yet unpinned in the flesh. A warning flare against the Russian's own head.
Ivan froze, Tino quieting his sobs as the forest grew deadly silent all around him.
Suddenly and without warning, half of the Russian soldiers slumped dead, falling to the floor into the mud with gurgles and half screams as swords are pulled from their still warm bodies - the faces of friendly and triumphant Swedes and Danes behind the corpses.
A surprise attack sought in silence.
The rest of the men still alive, the Nordics own kin were then cut free with jagged flint and knife. Wrists were rubbed free of bruises and hands were clasped in gratitude. Before long every captured man of the Northern and Southern tribes was free. And every spare Russian soldier besides Ivan the Terrible, lay dead on the ground, fodder for the crows.
Because, standing before Ivan, bow and arrow aimed rightly at his silver tipped head, stood Berwald Oxenstierna, Leader of the Northern Lions Tribe and Husband to the Damen Lejon.
Ivan grinned.
"N'xt t'me I won't m'ss..." Berwald growled out, his two fingers plucked along the shaft of the arrow, ready to strike.
"Berwald…" Tino barely whispered before his throat began to throb, paining him to even breathe as his fingers clambered up his neck to feel thin strips of blood.
"Tino, don't try an' talk." Berwald ordered, the Swede's careful glare set upon the Russians lovely smiling features, knife still poised threatening against the Finn's neck.
"Oh, it is the leader of the Swedes, yes? Here to rescue your ramshackle family?" Ivan smirked, tugging Tino upward and into his arms, knife ever glinting with red, feeding off of the blood like some silver serpent of the earth.
Berwald shivered.
"Let him go." The Swede demanded then, eyes growling hard as his fingers, stubbed with dirt and carnage began to itch themselves to weaken, to let the arrow fly loose into the Russians skull - to which he would later hollow out the cranium and use as a drinking cup. The spoils of war as it were.
"I do not think I want to." Ivan tittered childishly, pressing the dagger slanted tighter to the Finn's neck. Tino dared not breath any longer. Nor did he dare to move or stutter with words. He knew if he did, if he made any break to lurch away, the knife would surely find it's mark.
Berwald stiffened.
"However, I will agree to a proposition. You let me go free to my camp, I return your bride unharmed," Ivan looked to Tino and then laughed sadly, "Well - at least partly unharmed."
Berwald growled, feeling Mathias himself snarl behind him, the Dane and his Norwegian Lover pressing the two sobbing children close to them like protective barriers, wishing no more bloodshed in this already carnage soaked forest.
But Berwald sighed, gazing his jade eyes to the Finn who, through a watery glance, seemed to smile softly at Berwald with hope and love.
It is not your fault. Tino seemed to say with his eyes, those lovely eyes.
Berwald felt his heart beat rise and his throat grow dry with each passing breath as the decision loomed in the air.
Finally, he sighed.
"Fine. Let 'em go and you will ride off free." He snapped out tiredly, the arrow still raised, still as threatening as the knife.
Ivan nodded swiftly in agreement, loosening his hold on the knife and the Finn, causing Tino to whimper as the painful grip on his arm was finally growing lax.
That was how Tino found himself being dragged to a horse, Ivan's hand still on his arm, knife aimed to his heart until the Russian was safely on his great big mount, Tino's legs feeling weaker by the minute next to the giant animal.
"Now release 'em!" Berwald snarled like a lion ready to rip another animals throat out, his own body tensing up and winding itself all over again.
"Aye, I am letting go. But first…" Ivan smiled wickedly to the Swede, a glint in his eye.
"Come out from your den little lion, when you really want to play with the big monsters..." Ivan sneered to Berwald, his teeth grinning like the jowls of a wild bear as he threw Tino away from him and his horse, the Finn nearly falling to the cold floor if not for Berwald grasping him tight and hugging him to his chest.
By the time the Swedish Chieftain looked up from where he sat crouched with his injured beloved in his arms, Ivan was already gone, in a whirl of dust trailed by his horse.
Ivan the Terrible, had fled.
…
Tino closed his eyes shut and let out another shuddering sob that wracked his whole body, fluttering his fingers to his throat, as his hands came back watery and red.
The scars were not too deep but not thin either, Nikolas had said at that moment, bolting forward to tend to his injured cousin who was wheezing and breathing heavily. Blood stained the collar of his tunic, deep into his armor that had to be removed it was so tight - restricting the Finnish mans breathing.
"If we do not get him to the camp soon, he will die of blood loss." Nikolas said as he ripped a strip of linen from his robe's sash and wrapped it snug against the Finn's neck - the press of the coarse cloth hurting him blinding. He began to claw at the air and moan pitifully.
Berwald nodded wearily, swiping his thumb across his lovers forehead as sweat collected and dripped down from the Finn's face. As his cheeks grew clammy and his body enflamed.
Gathering up the light man in his cloak, Berwald, wordlessly sat the Finn atop the Swede's horse, the bay perking her ears curiously at her master before she simply snorted softly into his shoulder as he wrapped the reins around her pommel.
Then, still silent, silent as stone, Berwald, the father, the warrior, the husband, gathered up his sniveling and wailing child in his arms and sat him behind his Mamma. He gripped the childs soft soft hands and wrapped them around Tino's waist, the Finn sighing softly, a small smile dipped upon his face before it was wiped away with pain and fatigue.
Then, with a slowly slipping mask of coldness, Berwald raised himself atop one of the Slavic's horses that had neither spooked nor became slaughtered in the chaos. Righting the reins and squeezing the horse softly in the stomach Berwald set the two animals to riding, clutching his own mares lead with his squeezed fist.
"Keep his head up as high as you can, Peter. Or else he will start to loose consciousness." Nikolas murmured to the little British boy, the small child sniffing but did as he was told, trying his best to get his Mother to stop leaning forward or back to much, but perfectly still.
The ride back, Mathias, Nikolas and their child riding to the aid of the scattered people all around the mountain to bring them back home was wrought with silence as they bade farewell to the Swede and his family. As they promised they will meet them later before the sun sets in the now gloomy sky.
The journey back was silent for the party of three, the clops of the horses hooves along stone and sand and dirt the only noise for the longest time before, with a pained whisper, Berwald finally let his first tears fall.
"I promise my love, my sweet - I will never be late to your aid again. Never."
…..
Oh wow, am I a dick or what?! Sorry about Ivan, I tried to portray him as regrettable as I could, because really he is a swell guy and I hate that I always make him out to be the enemy. Well, that wasn't too bad - was it? Was it? Review and tell me what you think!
…
Authors Notes:
-"Lo! I See my mother! Lo! I see my father!"* - This is supposedly an old Viking prayer for victims of sacrifice or those who are about to die in battle - or who are just plain about to die. There are recorded instances of it being said by a slave girl who is about to be sacrificed and laid to death with her dead master in, Adam of Bremen's eyewitness account in 1070 in Old Uppsala where he describes the funerary preparations of a dead Chieftain.