The next morning came too quickly. The birds were not singing, the creatures not stirring, which added to the strangeness of the day. The sun hid her brilliance behind the clouds, shielding her rays to the red that would soon stain the ground as a fog lingered in the air.
Lhyrie did not wear her armor, nor did she place her sword on her hip. She wore her hair down with the very front strands braided together and tied with a cord around her crown. It was different than she normally wore it and it, combined with the air of the day, seemed fitting – being unnatural. Ubbe and her walked hand in hand out of their tent, tunics belted around their waists, with the only weapons being carried were by him: his sword in his hand, his pugio in its holster on his back. Lhyrie felt naked herself, despite the thick tunic and the belt of her cuirass.
A shield had been left outside the door of the tent, clearly left for Ubbe. She picked it up, feeling momentarily more protected and carried it with them. The three kings were already awake with Frodo looming over the other men. They huddled near the tree that their decision was made at yesterday, but there was another man next to them that wasn't present the day prior. He was similarly dressed to Frodo. He must be one of his men, Lhyrie thought. As they dredged closer, the men fell as silent as the surrounding wood.
"Good morning, son of Ragnar," Hemming's light voice cut through the still air.
"Good morning, indeed," Frodo commented, glee in his voice. Lhyrie nearly growled at him. "Sleep well?"
Ubbe pursed his lips and rolled his eyes to Frodo, ignoring his comment.
"We have prepared a blessing. The goðar is assembled at the site," Angantyr added.
Ubbe nodded. The look on Frodo's eye was unchanged, the joy of bloodshed still present. She wondered if he mistook Ubbe's silence as fear. Hemming and Angantyr led the party up the path toward the ring that was assembled out of the sleeping quarters of the camp. They fell into step behind the two kings with Frodo and his man the last of the group.
"After you kill him," the man laughed with Frodo. His voice was filled with as much glee as Frodo's had been and it unsettled her. He must be a leader in Frodo's army with the looseness he spoke. Though his words caused a chill to run over her as she tried to ignore their conversation. "I will make her make those same sounds as last night." The men chuckled together.
Lhyrie's first instinct was to flush in embarrassment and then the disgust of his words took over. She turned on her heel and stopped in their path, the man nearly running into her. "Perhaps I will when my sword goes through your chest," she snarked. She no longer felt anxious for the day, but angry. Angry at Frodo, angry at this ass for this outcome. This battle could have been avoided – should have been avoided.
Ubbe had continued walking but called back to them, "Do not tease him, Lhyrie."
She glared hard at the man while Frodo laughed. She wished she had draped her sword on her hip as she would draw it to the two men right now if she had. Instead, she turned back on her heel and rejoined Ubbe in the march up the slope.
The men were already gathered, the excitement electric around them. More men dressed like Frodo and his second were gathered near the front of the pack, their black armor creating a wall around the circle. Two chairs were set, the only break in the sea of black, for Hemming and Angantyr. Behind them, Lhyrie could see the colors of their joined army in the men gathered. They didn't need to be there, she thought. Their leaders were not partaking, merely overseeing the fight, so their men had no concern over this outcome. But the draw of blood spilled was too great and, yet again this morning, she felt nauseous as the goðar stepped in front of them, carrying his own bowl of already spilled blood.
Chanting started and both Hemming and Angantyr spoke, but they were just strings of sound to Lhyrie. Ubbe had stepped forward to receive the blessing, so she stayed back, a step behind, in line with the man she threatened. Despite it, the hot stickiness of blood prickled on her face as the goðar flicked his brush at the two men about to battle and some flew beyond Ubbe's shoulder. She flinched having been withdrawn from the custom and a wave of nausea started to brew. She pushed it down as the goðar, with his painted black and red face, stepped aside and the men journeyed into the ring.
The wall of black started to swarm closer, their eyes eager to view the spectacle, forcing Lhyrie closer to Ubbe. She still carried the shield he would use. They were allowed two shields, if needed. Ubbe turned toward her, the blood from the blessing splattered in little droplets on his face. Even despite the lack of sun, the specks looked illuminated by it, a dose of color against his pale face.
He brought his fingers to her forehead and smeared the blood that had fallen on it in a line above her brows, the sanguineous liquid warmed under his touch into a sticky mess. He then leaned forward, his stained fingers wrapping around the rim of the shield to take it from her hands. She didn't want to let go, but it slipped easily from her suddenly weakened grasp. Planting a kiss to her temple, he turned and brought the shield onto his forearm. She had to stop herself from reaching out to him to pull him back, to pull his lips against hers.
Frodo's man remained next to her, and he clapped in delight as both men took their spots in the center arena. Anger turned to fear and she tried for it not to show in her face as Ubbe crossed into the threshold, his eyes locked on Frodo, Frodo onto his. They looked like animals trying to defend their boundary, picking their spots to dig in and make their stand – she realized they were only but animals, with this the archaic solution to their problem.
Ubbe stopped with his back toward her, shielding a last look into his eyes. The men were paces apart when Ubbe dug his heels into the earth, and raised the shield against his hip, his eyes still unmoving from Frodo as though Frodo would spring at him before they could make their formal start. His chin was raised defiantly to the man trying to kill him, a cool stare down the length of his straight nose. The muscles in his back heaved as he drew in a deep breath and looked over his shoulder to her briefly.
Her heart raced, wanting to pull her feet to scoop his face into her palms once more, to kiss those lips once more. She swallowed, trying to ignore the impulse to join him, to die with him. Lhyrie nodded slowly, the final inclination that whatever came, they would do it together. She did not fear death, whatever the outcome of this day would bring.
He let out another breath and gave one more nod to her before tilting his chin down to peer straight onto Frodo, burning a hole through the man opposite him. She took three quick breaths before the air from her lungs was torn from them when Ubbe charged.
Roars of encouragement and then of taunts for either man were shouted by the group around her but the noise was drowned out by the crunch of leaves under Ubbe's feet, the heaving of his own breath, the thump of the shield against his arm, the snarl that came from his lips. It was all Lhyrie could focus on instead of the axe swinging toward her husband, until the splinter of the shield by Frodo's axe nearly caused her to cover her ears.
Ubbe was crouched low, his shield only a fraction of a circle after a blow of Frodo's axe. Frodo was boasting already, thinking the battle would be light against a son of Ragnar. His man next to Lhyrie was rubbing his hands together gleefully, as though waiting for a feast to begin. Ubbe stood and circled back toward King Hemming and Angantyr as Frodo turned to stare hard at her, trying to get under her own skin. She set her jaw and bore a stare through him under her brow. This fight would not come easy and neither would she.
Ubbe threw down the broken shield and looked toward Hemming. With a jerk of his head, a new shield landed at Ubbe's feet with a hard thump. It pulled Frodo's attention back to him and he started a saunter as Ubbe pulled this new shield onto his arm. Again, he sprang first, swinging wildly at Frodo.
She thought it was odd, his first moves against his opponent. In any other circumstance, he let the attacker come to him, to waste their energy instead of his. Was he hoping a first charge would be swifter? His quickness threw off the heaviness of the axe that was swinging toward him again, catching his shield in rhythmic strikes but it did not break this time.
Frodo had chased him across the circle, his axe waving laboriously in the air, his long arms straining under the weight of his weapon. His chest was pounding, his breath fast with effort. Ubbe did not look fazed at all, as he nearly backed into her, Frodo charging him with one final boom of the axe against his shield. It reverberated into her ears as the shockwave rushed up his arm. Frodo stepped back, grinding his feet into the earth and looked like a dog ready to pounce so much so a growl escaped his lips. With that, Ubbe cast down the shield at her feet. She would need it if he were to lose. He was trying to protect her even now as he, himself, was fighting for his own life, planning for a future that hopefully would not come.
Frodo took it as Ubbe trying to muster courage. He taunted Lhyrie with a sneer that his men laughed at, one jostling her shoulder that she shook off without taking his eyes off the man threatening her husband. The hands on Ubbe's sword tightened as Frodo jeered at her and his jaw set harder so that she heard a pop.
This time, Frodo struck first and their weapons clashed several times until the men locked onto each other, the blade of Frodo's axe tangling with Ubbe's tunic. Again, the noise around her quieted and the only sounds she heard were of Ubbe. She did not hear the slice of skin, but his axe was millimeters from it. The crunch of cartilage made her nose twitch as Ubbe head butted the crouched figure of Frodo, shooting the man a step back. His sword swiped the man's fifth intercostal space, drawing the first blood of the match.
Frodo recovered, the adrenaline shielding the pain of the slice, and swung his axe high forcing Ubbe to raise his sword to defend. Ubbe broke the clash first, stabbing to the side Frodo's ribs were dripping blood, but Frodo blocked the try as his fist rammed into Ubbe's cheek, spinning him off his feet to land on the hard earth. The second that Ubbe was off his feet, the pain of Frodo's injury had him draw a ragged breath in, his free hand moving to assess the wound. It came away bloody and Lhyrie let a small smile show.
Ubbe sprang to his feet quickly, turning on the man preoccupied by his injury to force Frodo a step back again by swinging his sword towards his neck. To defend, Frodo had to raise his axe, to use the muscles of his right obliques to raise his arm straight, to use the muscles that were sliced open only a moment before. He looked weak, he looked tired and the man next to Lhyrie muttered something under his breath toward his king. She had taken his joy.
Another clash high, another labored attempt to block and Frodo's movement seemed slow as though he was dragging under water. It allowed Ubbe to spin, drawing his sword up as he did so, to slice the upper arm of Frodo's axe hand. He let out a guttural cry but continued to block the other slices Ubbe was throwing quickly at him, he needed to. Then after several more clashes, Frodo's axe hooked onto Ubbe's sword and it pulled him in close. Frodo unhooked it with an expert flick of his weapon and rammed the heel of the axe into Ubbe's abdomen. Her breath left her as it was also forced from Ubbe's diaphragm.
Ubbe swung again, the air trying to gulp down back into their lungs, as he aimed for the weakened arm again. He was thrown off though, his steps coming awkwardly as he regained his balance to stagger back to Frodo and it allowed the butt of Frodo's axe to collide with his cheek. His right cheekbone shattered as he spun in his spot, his legs giving out to land limp and face first into the leaves. The joy Lhyrie had previously felt evaporated quickly and her eyes pulled away as to not look at the writhing Ubbe splayed on the ground.
Frodo basked in his small victory, gaining momentum from the crowd of his cheering men around him. He might have looked at her but her eyes were cast down. Then, he looked over his shoulder, at Ubbe struggling to gather his hands under his body and the light in his eye grew. His axe shifted in his palm as he limped toward Ubbe and stepped on his sword. With that, Ubbe leaped up and tackled Frodo onto his back, his axe flying from his hand onto the ground. Any former struggle Ubbe seemed to have had faded with the punches across Frodo's face, breaking his nose and ramming the bones of his cheek into his skull. With each punch, Lhyrie's own hand pushed down, as though to help further force the man's head into the ground. Between punches though, Frodo grasped onto the back of Ubbe's dirty tunic and wrestled him off, throwing Ubbe once again onto the leaves.
Both men rose quickly this time, while Ubbe palmed the blade on his back. Lhyrie had nearly forgotten about it. Although he wore it openly and the men were only supposed to have one weapon, no one commented, no one opposed. He drew the small blade, almost comical against the long axe of Frodo. Several shouts of cheat were called from the back of the crowd but not one came forward to will it from Ubbe's hand. He took a deep breath, his whole body moving with the flow of air in and out of his lungs as he passed in front of her. His face was dark with blood and dirt, as she couldn't tell one from the other but, aside from the cut on his tunic, she could not see any blood pooling on it.
Frodo was hesitant on making the first move again, his labored breathing catching up to him and the men stared hard at each other for a moment, waiting for the opportunity to pounce. They started their steps in time with one another, drawn together like rain drops into a puddle.
Frodo swung first at Ubbe's chest, both hands working to heave the axe up. Ubbe skirted around the blade easily, swiping Frodo's hand so that he dropped his axe. He then ducked to the ground and rammed his knife behind the knee of his opponent, a vicious roar coming from both men. The ligaments of the knee snapped and Frodo was forced to lean onto his other foot. The weight shift allowed him to recoil and backhand Ubbe against the cheek that was broken but he didn't fall to the earth this time. Ubbe kept hold of the knife still lodged in Frodo's leg and jammed it further so much so she thought the knee would pop out of place. Doubled over, Frodo collided his fist with Ubbe's abdomen and knocked both men over to wrestle in the leaves.
Ubbe pinned him down again and got a few more hearty punches against his face before Frodo punched just below his sternum, choking the air from his lungs. Lhyrie's own breath cut short. Frodo, with the release from Ubbe's punches, backhanded him again. This time his other cheek sustaining the blow, but no crunch of bone could be heard. With Ubbe fazed, Frodo got his foot out from under him and forced him off with a kick to his bruising abdomen.
Both men struggled to get to their feet, moving the leaves around them like they were making snow angels. Frodo rose first, pulling his body up like it was controlled above him by a string, limp but filled with movement. Ubbe did not counter. He was still gasping for breath, his breathing a horrid gasp of croup into his lungs, moving the leaves his face was buried in only but a fraction.
Get up, she willed of him. Get up.
Slowly, he did rise as Frodo blinked the pain and the desire to faint out of his eyes. The two men came at each other again, slower than the quickness the spar had started with, their injuries catching up to their bodies. Frodo swung his fist and it collided once more with the broken cheek of Ubbe that was now numb. Ubbe wrestled him close, denying another strike to him and grabbed Frodo by his throat, his fingernails digging around his larynx as they spun in circles.
Lhyrie had seen the look in Ubbe's eyes after he killed someone, after he killed out of vengeance, but this did not compare. His eyes were mad, raving wild, bloodshot and hungry. It filled her with hope for Frodo's eyes looked dull in comparison, like the life was trying to fade from them.
The wrestle continued, the pressure of Ubbe's hold on Frodo's throat tightening. She wished he had enough strength to tear it out. She would love to see the sight of Ubbe drenched in the red blood of his enemy, only then would the weight bearing down on her chest be free.
Ubbe released his hold and his fist collided with Frodo's stomach and then his face. Frodo reeled with another blow to Ubbe's cheek. Arms were swinging, the punches weak with time. They did not collide with either man, until Frodo wound hard, meeting again the now soft line of Ubbe's cheek, knocking him to land on his back and him to stagger forward, sprawling onto the ground.
Ubbe laid still, his back flat in the leaves. Lhyrie could see the quick rise and fall of his chest, but his feet were not twitching, his fingers unmoving. As Frodo crawled to his axe and slowly peeled himself up, Ubbe still lay motionless. She could not see his eyes darting about or his mouth praying frantically. Her heart tugged, feeling as though it was being torn from its cavity and squeezed of its very last morsel of life. She didn't want to look – she had to look. Digging her fingernails into her palms, she forced her eyes on the men in the ring. She felt blood fall from her hands but could not feel the pain as her heart was filled with it instead.
Frodo dragged his axe, and the screech of the metal rang loudly in her ears. It was only then, with the sound of the executioner's axe pulling close, that movement sprang back into Ubbe's limbs. The squeeze in her chest tightened as Frodo's slow, painful limps were nearing closer. Ubbe turned, his legs dragging behind him as his torso moved and pulled himself to his knife laying a foot above him. Frodo was closer now, forcing his axe up onto his shoulder, his grip tight from his bloody and broken hand. Ubbe remained on the ground.
Why wasn't he moving? She wanted to wring her hands together, she wanted to press her eyes shut tight, she wanted to trade places with Ubbe, whose back was presented to the man that wanted to strike his axe into it.
Move! She called to no one but herself. Please.
Frodo stepped closer. Her heart raced so much it would surely climb up her throat. He swung.
It did not meet his back or his neck. It embedded itself into the cool ground of which Ubbe had laid the second before. With whatever strength he had left, Ubbe darted from the axe's path and wrapped his arms around Frodo's hunched figure, pulling him backward onto his knife that he thrust into his back. Blood spurted from Frodo's lips, the knife wedged into his lung or descending aorta. The men stumbled a step back, and Ubbe twisted the knife deeper into Frodo, his fingers finding the slice of his skin. Frodo went limp, a deadweight upon Ubbe's weakened legs and they fell to the ground, the sound as loud as a tree falling in the forest.
Frodo's man next to her shifted his weight uneasily between his feet. He pulled at his sword, his feet moving into the sacred circle to avenge his leader. The man to her right had a sword on his hip. Without thinking, she pulled it from that man's holster and forced it through the back of the man looking to charge her husband, the same nick of lung and artery his leader had succumbed to. Her sword poked out of his chest. A laugh came from her and she couldn't help herself. She leaned forward, the sword digging into the man, protruding out of his chest more and let out a mewling sigh into his ear.
Hands were on her and her grip on the sword faltered as her victim fell onto his knees, blood dripping from his mouth and chest. She was satisfied and hardly felt the cool blade threaten to pull at her neck. Angantyr's hand shot out, a silent direction to halt one more death in the camp. The blade at her throat did not cross it and the ring quieted so that only breathing was heard around them.
Her attention was forced back to the center of the circle, to the two unmoving figures laid in it. Ubbe was pinned under Frodo, but he had made no effort to move him. Now she could not see the rise of his chest. Her brows snapped together, wrinkling the space between them and her eyes started to ache, the strain of holding back tears pressuring them.
Move, she begged again.
When no one moved and the blade against her weakened, she pushed passed it, stepping over the man she had killed for her husband. Her sight grew dark around its edges, her single focus on Ubbe like a spotlight in her mind. Two steps from him, her knees buckled.
His eyes did not blink as they stared toward the heavens, toward the blue sky that was peeking out from the clouds. He looked peaceful, a beauty against the brown and red of the earth surrounding him. Her breath was torn from her and she needed to crawl a step in order to cradle the only piece of him she could. Her hands stroked his face and she pulled a leaf from his hair. Still, his eyes did not blink at her touch, they did not pull to look at her face above his. A tear lingered on the edge of her waterline.
She kissed his forehead and closed her eyes. She could not feel the pump of blood under her fingertips from his frontal vein as she dragged her fingers down his forehead, her fingers mixing in the blood that ran from the bridge of his broken nose. Again, her breath caught in her chest while she brought her ear to his bloody parted lips, desperate to hear anything, to feel anything upon her hair. She listened and then felt the small puff of air onto her cheek.
Her breath caught again and she nearly sobbed. Ubbe groaned weakly but his eyes did not move to her face, his hands did not tear from under Frodo to throw the man off him. She pulled her ear away and kissed his forehead again, a frail smile upon her lips.
"Ubbe has won!" She called, her voice shaking with whatever emotion wanted to come. "Ubbe has won!" She said a little stronger, looking toward Hemming and Angantyr. The kings did not move, their expression blank to her.
Someone in camp started chanting. "Ubbe!" They rang out. "Ubbe!" More joined, until the ring was vibrating with the noise, the sound meeting its focal point over them crouched in the center.
Ubbe groaned again and finally, his eyes found hers though they did not seem to focus on her, just melt through her. She gasped out a sob again and stroked the side of his face, careful not to run her fingers over the cheekbones that were crooked after Frodo's punches. "I'm here," she whispered, her words quivering. "I'm here."
If the only strength he had was to close is eyes a final time, it would be enough. If he only had enough strength to squeeze her hand once more, it would be enough. If he could not fight against the blows and trauma to his abdomen, to the liver laceration and spleen apoplexy dripping into his belly, it would be enough. She was here with him.
She wasn't aware of it, but her touch grounded him. It kept him from closing his eyes and welcoming the valkyries lingering above him, his prayer to Odin when he was plastered on his back heard by the Allfather. He groaned again and a twitch of his bruised, cut lips made a line of blood pour from the corner of them. Lhyrie swiped it and another twitch of his lips followed, the only movement he could make. It was enough.
Hemming and Angantyr rose from their seats and travelled to the three of them grouped in the ring's center. The chant of Ubbe's name stopped. Hemming stooped low, his fingers pressing into the chest of his slain fellow king. His fingers did not rise with any breath from Frodo's lungs.
"We need to move Frodo," Lhyrie said, her voice filled with gravel. She needed to assess Ubbe, to see what damage was done. "Ubbe can not." Ubbe groaned again, almost in agreeance. Hemming and Angantyr perked up, as though they had thought Ubbe had also succumbed against his wounds.
"The son of Ragnar has won," he said quietly, with a nod of his head.
She was done begging today and started to shove Frodo off her husband, pushing him into Hemming. Ubbe pulled his breath in sharp and started to cough weakly, the blood near his mouth forced back into his throat. She stopped. He could not drown on his own blood, not now.
"We need to move him," she said again, glaring hard at Hemming, who was unmoved from his crouched spot next to them. "Call for your men." Would no one, of the mass of men who gathered around them, come forward to help her without an order from their king? "Call for someone."
Then, through the sea of men, the goðar stepped back into the circle. Lhyrie's skin prickled. The image of the wood disappeared from around her and she could only see a man in the same spot he had been, walking in the snow toward her. He was holding a snowball that dripped of fire and his own blood. His arm reached for her and she blinked, the image wiping from her mind.
The man in her vision was replaced by the goðar again, who bent on his knee to take her hands from the sides of Ubbe's face. His skin was cold, freezing in fact, and he had a cut on his right hand that looked as fresh as any wound on either man. A shiver ran down her spine as his coolness ran over her hands briefly, the iciness moving up her arms into her torso, warming itself as it traveled like fire over a piece of wood. Any heartache that was present and twisting in her chest suddenly faded, any tension she felt melted out of her toes. She breathed the easiest she had since leaving Wessex.
His hands replaced hers on Ubbe's face and she could see the coolness of his touch fade to warmth as it engulfed his body. Ubbe closed his eyes and her heart raced for just a moment, worried it would be the final time he did so, until the warmth filled her once more and that fear dissipated. Ubbe's eyes blinked open and a shallow gasp escaped his lips again.
"Make a stretcher of wood," the goðar demanded in his deep voice to Hemming, pulling his dark eyes to the king before him. The king nodded and rose, moving to speak to a man that was close to his chair. The man left at once and pulled two other men with him. They headed for the woods.
The goðar then flicked his head at Angantyr, his expression unknown under the veil of paint. This king called for two of his men to come to him and together they lifted Frodo in one fluid motion. The aching groan that emitted from Ubbe made Lhyrie want to call off the move. Was Frodo's weight the only thing holding him together?
Slowly, carefully, inch by slow inch, Frodo floated above Ubbe. As soon as she could, as soon as the side of Ubbe was clear and visible, she pulled herself to his side and lightly ran her hands over his body. Her fingertips stroked over blood, but she couldn't see where it stemmed from. His tunic was no longer a milky cream and was a mess of red and brown. She needed to tear his clothes off to fully see what wounds he had acquired, but the stretcher was not built yet. Lhyrie gulped and continued to run her fingers lightly over his abdomen.
There were tears on his tunic and trousers at the shoulders and knees, but no mass of blood pooled there. That was good, she thought. None of the slices were deadly yet. Anything on his torso was more immediate. Silently she wished all he had was broken bones. She could easily set his right hand, bind his broken ribs, and apply her balms to prevent fever to those things on the surface. Deep inside, for the blows his organs took by Frodo's shove of his axe and fists, she could not reach, she could not mend those easily, especially if he could not eat or drink if his jaw was shattered. Pressing her eyes together and shaking her head, she rested her hands on his belly trying to feel any speck of what pained him.
Then, she jumped when the goðar's hands layed on hers. Lhyrie blinked her eyes open and the man across from her was no longer painted red and black. He was the man from the vision again. Tall with his frame filled with muscle, and his mousy brown hair was slicked back to allow his full beard to anchor his tired face. His brown eyes were overcome with sadness, and he didn't speak, just stare longingly at her. She thought she had seen this man before in Kattegat. Was she very young or was it just a dream?
She swallowed, wanting to speak but no words came. She wanted to move, but no movement came. Then the man changed again with a blink of her eye, not back into the goðar as he did before, but to an older man, his hair grey with time and his beard long and tangled. His right eye was missing, the socket bare and wrinkled.
"No!" She cried. "You can not take him!" Her gaze lifted up and she thought she could see Skögul above them, high on horseback, waiting. She looked over to the man across from her, wanting to beg and cry for any other resolution, but he faded back to the man who had held fire, and then back to the goðar.
"You are pale," the goðar said, the baritone of his voice sitting deep in her soul.
"Please, you can not take him," she pleaded, tears streaming to her cheeks.
"He needs moved," he answered. The stretcher was next to them, the men who built it waiting patiently. She had not realized they had come to their side. Lhyrie nodded but did not initially move from Ubbe's side. If they rolled him and then placed the stretcher under him, she could quickly peek at his back. She told the men such and they stared blankly at her. They looked toward the goðar who nodded. Immediately, they crouched and carefully pressed Ubbe onto his side, his cry piercing her heart and placed the makeshift board under him. With the dirt and leaves plastered to his back, Lhyrie could not see any wounds dotting his flank.
"I'm here," she whispered to him again, cradling his head as she walked with the men back to the tent. For now, it was the only movement he could handle with the grimace on his face making blood bubble on his lips that sent her heart racing. They would need to move soon though, before Aethelnoth decided to bring their army to them. She prayed to whoever would listen that he would have the strength.
She did not see the goðar before they painstakingly left camp the next morning. Two of Frodo's men helped her carry him on the stretcher to a boat they assembled. Again, just as it was on their arrival to the camp, their dirge was lined with men, their shields braced and chanting the name of the immobilized man. The crew, which seemed like it was overflowing the small vessel, helped lower him onto the wood boards. There was barely space for them, as it seemed like everyone wanted to witness Ubbe off.
He had not the strength to speak yet but groans, gasps, and aches frequently emitted from him. His fingers and feet would only twitch if she touched them, his pulse weak under her fingers. Repeatedly, tears would rest in her eyes and then sobs came as routinely of her checks of him, to make sure no fever tried to envelop him, no more blood spilled from his lips. She prayed to who ever would listen to have him not slip from her grasp.
They could only move a little more than a mile a day without terrible gasps of pain coming from Ubbe. The bumpy ride back to their own camp, even being only five miles from the Danes, took a week. Aethelnoth wore a look of horror when they finally made the slow trek back to camp despite the scout riding like a north wind to inform him of the proceeding events, but the shock of Ubbe's form nearly made him faint.
As they headed south after Newbury, the road thankfully widened and was more travelled, the bumps more level and less pain inducing for Ubbe. Still, their pace was slow and many nights she spent sleepless, awake on the wagon bed next to Ubbe, a tarp pitched on top of them. Her eyes were trained on the weak rise and fall of his chest; she dared not to look away. One night, a coughing fit raked through his chest, a harsh gurgle and rails filling his lungs. Blood pooled on his lips and his breathing struggled, his chest spasming in strain.
Lhyrie jumped up. Her hands raced to his chest trying to feel the spasm, trying to will it away. More blood spilled from his mouth and she bit her lip, praying no more would come but another cough swept over him and more blood trickled out.
"Curse you, Ragnarsson," she huffed, trying to roll his deadweight so that he was on his side, able to release the blood out of his throat instead of back down it. "I did not drag you all the way here for you to die now." She beat on his upper back, percussing the lungs to release their hold on this fluid. He coughed in time with her drums, more blood spilling from his lips, but his breathing became stronger and the trembling shake of his chest dissipated.
He felt warm, sweating even, in the cool night that she needed an extra blanket. Reaching into her bag, her fingers brushed the calendula balm she had made what seemed like ages ago and then a thin metal object. Her fingers wrapped around a thin open loop, and she pulled it from around her bandages.
Hvitserk's bracelet. The copper was already warmed under her brief touch as she turned it over in her hands, examining the fine carvings on it. That day Hvitserk showed it to her, she thought the markings, as beautiful as they were, seemed to fade into the ruddiness. Tonight, however, even though there was no light in the makeshift tent, the carvings were illuminated as though the moon was under them, their edges bright. Ubbe coughed again and it pulled her eyes from the metal. Without thinking, she jammed it on her left wrist and crawled back to Ubbe's side, her medical bag hitched on her shoulder.
Positioned by his head, she ran her fingers through his hair. She had rewrapped his braid some nights ago, as gently as she could, adding a new coil to it and she curled it around her fingers then. Ubbe relaxed, it seemed, under her touch. She dipped her fingers into a lavender balm and massaged them to his left temple. He gave a contented sigh and drifted back to a restless sleep.
It had been five weeks since his fight, and still she was unsure of what injuries he actually had. She did know his right eye was glued shut, his orbital bone and cheekbone shattered; a portion of his left jaw was crushed along with his nose; and there was a deep gash on his forehead where it looked like Frodo's axe carved a piece out. And that was only his face. His right hand was broken, and a few ribs that she knew of externally pained him. The growing bruise on his abdomen worried her most. He could take little sips of broth and could only tolerate a minute of supported sitting, but other than those small victories, he was exhausted.
She was exhausted. The heaviness of her eyes would pull her underwater if she swam. Soon they would be in Winchester, she heard. They were only miles away from it, she heard about a week with their labored travel. Soon, she would have another physician to watch over him. But tonight, as her eyes drooped down, she had Eir sitting behind her, the goddess' fingers tapping the armband Lhyrie hooked on her wrist. Her protection covered them like a veil and sleep came easy for the first time in their travel.