Thirteen
Carlisle the Saxon slave has to sleep somewhere and since Iza is the one who traded for him, tradition dictates that she has to decide where that somewhere will be. It is not ideal. As tempting as it is to place Carlisle with Whilhelm or with Mik's family, the strangeness of Alise's request that Iza even make a trade for the Saxon prompts Iza to take full responsibility herself.
Carlisle will come home with Iza. He will sleep in the Chieftain's longhouse until Iza can prepare a tent. He will be with Iza at all times, unless she can find some other place for him to be useful.
And, inevitably, the Saxon slave will also be introduced to Eko. There is no way around it. The only saving grace in the entire situation is the fact that the Saxon does not communicate with ease yet. Hopefully, by the time he does, the issue with hiding Eko's existence will be resolved.
It all feels a little precarious to Iza.
Carlisle follows Iza to the longhouse on the highest hill, both of them ignoring the incredulous stares that follow after them. Once again, Iza has done something unconventional. She is used to the stares by now. And for his part, she thinks that Carlisle is too exhausted and malnourished to pay much mind to the eyes that follow after them.
Or perhaps he is simply confused, she thinks as she watches him hesitate in the doorway of her home. He does not look like he wants to follow her in. Is it because he is Saxon and his people have certain customs? Or is it because Iza is a Viking woman? Does he not realize that he is her slave, now?
Iza sighs, startling the meek creature that is now under her ownership. "Carlisle," she says in a tone between stern and soft. She instantly captures his attention, his head snapping up and the chains around his wrists rattling sharply. Iza gestures toward herself and says, "Come here. Come."
Carlisle hesitates for only a moment more before he shuffles into the house. Iza closes the door behind him, resting her forehead on the wood and closing her eyes for a moment. She does not know what to do just yet. But…
Sometimes, for Iza, it helps to focus on small problems before she can focus on bigger problems. And it is certainly a problem – for her – that Carlisle smells as rank as he does. This is something that has a simple solution and, really, it would be best if she could get the Saxon settled before Alise somehow manages to smuggle Eko home.
Iza turns and steps around Carlisle, who is gawking at the inside of the longhouse with wide eyes. In an instant, Iza knows that he had never been allowed in the abode of his previous owners. It makes her stomach twist – even slaves should be treated humanely. It is obvious to her that Carlisle has been treated as less than human for a while, something her traitorously soft heart will seek to rectify.
Iza sets to work, briskly setting an iron pot of water to heat before the hearth while she rummages around for clean clothing, soaps, and a short blade she can use to do something to Carlisle's matted hair. She knows there is no way those tangles will come out just by looking at him.
It takes some coaxing before she can get the Saxon to sit on the floor in front of the fire and the moment Iza kneels behind him, hacking at his hair with the knife, he tenses as tightly as stone. She feels pity for him, so strong it makes her lungs clench, but she forges on as surely as she does anything else. Iza shears off his hair as close to the scalp as she can, the cut artless and messy but also much better than before. Then she moves around to the Saxon's front and does the same to the beard on his face. Even before washing, the slave looks much younger than before. In fact, he looks only a few years older than Iza – the same age as Edvard and Jaspar, maybe.
She wonders when the Vikings abducted him. If he is a healer, then surely he was enslaved after he had already been learned, otherwise he would not have been kept alive. But she is not sure and she has no way of asking. The Saxon can barely follow even the simplest of commands – there is no way he would be able to answer the questions burning on her tongue.
Iza sighs again, firmly banking her curiosity as she leans back, satisfied that Carlisle has a hope in Hel of being clean now. At that, she fixes the slave with a firm look and hands him a rough cloth and a cake of soap. "Wash," she tells him. When he stares at her a little blankly, Iza huffs and makes more gestures, mimicking the movements of washing her arms and hair. "Wash," she says again, this time scooting the warmed water in front of the slave.
He blinks, seemingly shocked, and then rushes to comply.
Iza snorts.
She has heard from traveling Vikings that the Saxons do not bathe frequently – or at least not as frequently as her own people. But perhaps Carlisle is different from other Saxons, having survived Vikings for so long. Or maybe he has not ever had a bath since being abducted. Iza would not be surprised. All the same, she has never seen someone look so grateful for soap and water before.
When it comes time to clean his body, the slave shows enough discomfort in taking off his ruined clothes that Iza pointedly puts clean clothes on the table for him and leaves the longhouse altogether. She loiters in the yard, arms crossed over her torso, and allows her mind to roam freely until she feels enough time has passed that Carlisle ought to be done by now.
When she goes back inside, she is gratified to see that the slave is clean and dressed and had even cleaned up after himself, having placed the iron pot on the table and cleaned up his hair from the floor. Currently, he stares up at her like a small child for a moment before his gaze wonders to some berries sitting in a wooden bowl on the table. He stares at the berries with such longing that pity cuts through Iza again.
But instead of giving him the berries, Iza hands Carlisle a small hunk of bread. She has no idea when he last ate and the last thing she wants to do it clean up vomit. She also has no idea if the slave has a strong enough stomach for the tart berries.
The Saxon is happy for the bread though, smartly making an effort to chew and swallow slowly without Iza even having to instruct him to do so. Maybe he really is a healer. He even sips at water from a ladle with a certain caution.
Left with nothing else to do, Iza finds herself sharing the bench at her table with her Saxon slave. They exchange a few glances, each of them curious about the other but both of them muted by a language barrier. Iza frowns after a long moment, realizing that she had not introduced herself.
She presses her palm flat to her sternum. "Iza," she says. "My name is Iza."
Carlisle perks up, seeming to recognize the word name again and repeats her name back to her. It sounds odd in his accent, more crisp than she is used to hearing it, but she decides that she doesn't mind it overmuch.
Encouraged by the slave's comprehension, Iza taps the leftover scraps of crust that Carlisle gave up gnawing on. "Bread," she tells him, moving on to tap the bowl of water he's been drinking from. "Water."
"Bread. Water," Carlisle parrots back. There's a sheen of intelligence in his eyes that tells Iza he is easily grasping these simple concepts. She's right to assume that he'd picked up more of their language in his time as a captive than anyone would have thought. He will be speaking Norse as easily as Wilhelm in no time, Iza is sure of it.
Is that why Alise was so adamant about the trade? Because Carlisle is intelligent? Because he might have useful skills? For another reason?
Intuition tells her that not even Alise is fully aware of the reason. Iza wishes she could be surprised about that – but having known Alise for their entire lives, she has come to expect the patchwork predictions. There is often no rhyme or reason that can be understood, either in the moment or ever. Iza can wryly recall some instances from childhood where Alise's insistence had proven to be without cause – that is, unless they are still waiting for the day when Alise's determination that Iza use only raven fletched arrows will come to fruition.
Having little else to do and no desire to leave her home while she awaits the delivery of her dragon, Iza putters around the hearth to create a stew for the evening meal. She makes herself speak aloud, pointedly tapping on objects as she uses them for Carlisle's benefit. He mutters to himself behind her, repeating the words and phrases back to himself, sometimes in Norse and sometimes in what she can only assume is the Saxon language.
It all feels absurd, but as with most things, Iza pushes ever forward.
Not particularly gifted with cooking, Iza manages to set an iron pot to boil in front of the hearth, more or less satisfied with the root vegetables and the hearty broth she has managed to put together. There will be enough for all three of them, she thinks, especially since she has little appetite and Carlisle should not be eating too much either way.
It is only when the meaty, pungent scent of the stew begins to waft through the air that a knock interrupts the simple instructive conversation Iza has been holding with the Saxon. Iza pushes up from the bench immediately, wood scraping against the floor in her hurry to reach the door.
On the other side, Alise is waiting with a sanguine smile, her arms weighted down by a basket of herbs collected from the forest. The basket is in poor condition, probably something a child had left behind at some point, and is just barely large enough to hold Eko, whose nose pokes out from between two ferns. Alise does not seem bothered in the slightest as she slips into Iza's home, not even sparing a glance to the Saxon slave who observes them silently.
"I came across some wonderful witch hazel that I thought might be useful," Alise says conversationally. "And yarrow – it's not even in season yet, so I consider myself quite lucky. Do you have any use for dandelion root, or should I take it back home?"
"You can take it back," Iza tells her, digging into the basket until her hands close on the familiar feel of smooth, slightly warm scales against the palms of her hands. Relief to finally have her hands back on her dragon is strong enough to almost make her knees buckle, but Iza steels herself and lifts Eko out of the basket and into her arms.
Carlisle makes a choked sound, his eyes wide and round as he promptly falls off the bench.
Iza and Alise share a look over the top of Eko's head, who is nuzzling happily into Iza's neck. "I cannot believe you told me to trade for a slave," Iza complains. "What am I even supposed to do with him?"
"He must play a role," Alise says, cryptic as ever.
Iza sighs, glancing down at the slave who trembles against the partially ruined stone of the hearth. "If you're sure," she says skeptically. Because intelligent or not, Carlisle is still a Saxon and now he is a Saxon who knows about her dragon. She cannot imagine what kind of role he's supposed to play in whatever future the Norns have shown Alise.
"I should be heading back," Alise says after staring intently at Carlisle for a few seconds. "I am sure my brothers are in a state. Edvard especially."
Iza narrows her eyes. "You are the one who told me to trade."
And she does not know why the orphan adopted into Alise's family would care either way, but she does not say that out loud, weary of the way Alise's eyes dance in the firelight.
"And it is a good thing you have. I am sure you will figure it out," Alise says reassuringly. "Be mindful of how you hunt tomorrow."
"What?" Iza asks, but Alise does not bother to answer as she glides out of the longhouse. The door shuts firmly behind her and Iza sighs again, adjusting Eko in her grip. Her connection with the dragon blooms with something like curiosity as Eko notices the man who is still cowering on the other side of the room.
Iza purses her lips together, looking between the two. "Eko, this is Carlisle. He's a Saxon slave who is now…in my custody, I suppose," she says to the dragon, who tilts her head in a birdlike fashion by way of response. Iza catches Carlisle's eye and slowly says, "Dragon. My dragon. Her name is Eko."
Carlisle stares, his eyes even rounder than before.
"She won't hurt you," Iza says. "Carlisle. Say dragon. Dragon."
"D-d…Dragon," Carisle manages. He swallows heavily. "Eko. Dragon Eko."
"That's right," she says tiredly. "Eko is a dragon. And we do not talk about her ever outside of this longhouse. Do you understand me? We do not talk about Eko."
"No…talk?"
"Right," Iza confirms. "No talk."
Eko chirps, wiggling in Iza's arms until Iza relents and puts her down. Somehow, Iza is not the least bit surprised to see that Eko makes a beeline for Carlisle, ignoring his shaky attempts to get away from the dragon. Eko manages to crawl right into the slave's lap, which makes the man freeze so thoroughly he scarcely breathes.
Eko's wings flutter. Carlisles makes a strangled sound. Iza rubs at the sudden ache in her temple.
But then her eyes land on the chains still around Carlisle's neck and wrists, the flesh around them rubbed raw, and her stomach twists again. Iza has a dragon – if she wants to keep her slave in line, she doesn't need chains to do so. And no human being should ever be chained.
"Eko," Iza calls as she kneels down beside Carlisle, waiting until the dragon's attention turns to her. Iza lifts a chain and rattles it pointedly. "Can you get rid of these?"
Iza has no idea if she's asking too much. She probably is. Eko doesn't seem to have any control over what her claws can do and she's still growing. But Iza doesn't know how else to get these chains off the Saxon and she does not think she can stomach seeing them for much longer. That – and it is inevitable that she figures out how to train Eko's claws to work on command rather than sporadically.
Now is as good a time as any.
Eko seems to understand her. Eko's two-toned eyes gleam in excitement as her gaze latches onto the rusting metal. She does not mind when Iza lifts her under the arms, carful that her claws are not touching any human flesh. It takes some maneuvering before Eko's claws are touching the metal but not the man who watches them with an ashen expression. It takes a while longer, with Iza's arms quickly growing tired, before the very tip of Eko's talons begin to grow.
In the back of her mind, Iza can feel how much concentration it take for Eko to make this happen – but she can also feel the blinding streak of Eko's pride when the chains crumble into black dust, scattering harmlessly across Carlisle's clean skin and onto the floor.
Iza waits until Eko's claws fade to their normal gleaming black before she hauls Eko against her chest with a grin, pressing several proud kisses between Eko's two stubby horns. "Very good. You did so well," she praises.
Meanwhile, Carlisle gasps in amazement, his palms rubbing over inflamed flesh with tears in his eyes. Iza can see the moment when he realizes that he is physically free – a slave without chains – because he looks up at her with a mix of wonderment and gratitude.
Iza does not feel like she fully deserves the loyalty of the Saxon slave she had traded for, but she knows that she has that loyalty completely.
And she accepts that loyalty without hesitation, because that loyalty means that Eko will be safe even when Carlisle can manage to speak for himself.
Iza exhales a cleansing breath, allowing all other worries to ease off her shoulders, if only for a moment.
Eko would be okay.
They would be okay.
A/N: I know. It's been a long time since the last update. What can I say except that between the job and the medication and the stress of everything else, I'm just not in a place where I can sit and write like I used to? Updates are going to be slow. I've completely lost the plot - and inspiration - for this story, So it'll take me some time to piece it all together again. I'll try to have another update this month.
Viking things for this chapter...? Nothing new, I don't think. Other than the fact that compared to other civilizations at the time, Vikings were weirdly into personal hygiene, which I think I've mentioned before. But aren't we happy that Carlisle got a bath?
As always, be brutally honest. I can take it.
~cupcakeriot