Chapter Text
The dewdrop mornings of summer’s first rise are a fond sight of periwinkle seas and cream ship clouds abound. This dawn is no different, quiet save for the soft murmurs of waking livestock and lofty birdsong as he sets about to at least get on his greatest chore of the day.
Beside him, a great beast grumbles in disagreement to the chill at his side before turning right over to huff back to sleep. He leaves his bedmate there, quietly working throughout the home to dress and to fetch his few needs to achieve some satisfaction with what he intends to have done before it is time for their first meal. Despite his quick albeit muted meandering, fur rolls along his ankle, prompting him to stop long enough to feed some meat scraps to his ancient grump of a fat feline, settling only to scratch him behind the ears. With his other beast content, he leaves them be, smoothing his palms over his trousers with an air of reluctance.
Even as he approaches the large woven basket, his joints ache for laundry day is about as fun as walking barefoot through coal and fire. It is, however, a thoughtless task that will drag his thoughts away from the periling inevitable that lays him sleepless well into the nights.
Nonetheless, once the crops are sewn and the fences are mended, the seas will sing her siren song for his still slumbering bedmate to guide him over the currents to his next voyage far away from their little farm. He himself is a treasure— his lover’s words, not his own— found on the shorelines of his homeland in what seems like a lifetime ago. Perhaps his fate was sealed when he dared to gaze up to the stars one lonely, terrifying night to ask when something would come to give him hope.
What he last expected was the masts of longships rising like shadow and specter in the horizon, heads of dragons parted the tides to bring that hope right to the sands and the dirts where he called birthright.
—Though, before his grand attempt at cleaning a pile of filthy linens, he ought to feed the poor horses and the poor oxen or else their routing cries will stir up too much ruckus and one sleep-deprived beast of a lover is one he is not in need of this day. Granted, this healer by trade can only stay reluctant so long. After all, there is only so much feed to put out and only so many heads to pet, and while he may curse it, that basket still sits at the head of the trail into the woods.
With a heavy, relenting sigh, he drags that basket down a ways to the creek that babbles and twists through the wooded grove right near the farm. Pleased to see that his drying branches are intact after the thunderstorm from nights passed, he finds more satisfaction in dropping the basket to the ground with a triumphant grunt; now comes his second least favorite labor: the actual scrubbing of their clothes.
It is hardly too rough a job, but always consumes more time than thought and his mind wanders down the creek to the river to the inlets and the ocean to swim across the waves and wonder what life is like back on his birth lands. Are the people he was healing and tending to well after the settlement was rebuilt? Are the monasteries still trembling and nearing remise over their walls desecrated with raiding heathens plundering for holy ornaments to trade? Is there someone in a village distances away that will catch certain blue eyes and be swooned away to the farm, only to meet with someone who lets the stars guide his heart?
A pair of trousers plops into the mud as he sighs, brow creased with that ever fretful worry that gnaws and aches away at his ribs every time the talks of summer sailings come to his ears once again. He despises them, loathes them entirely, if just for the simple matter that in some fashion, they will take away the man whose hand he took when a blade nicked too close to his throat.
The trousers will have to be rewashed, and he scolds himself as he picks them right up to wash them right down again despite the ache in his elbows and hands. This damned work is far too much for him at times, much preferring drying herbs for salves and oils, but it needs doing though his mind races and rolls across hillsides and valley lows. He wants something to grasp, no, needs it, needs to cling to something that eases grinding teeth and tense knuckles. His breath rattles in his lungs, struggles featherlike and desperate to escape away from all of this.
Then, a bird sings, simper sweet, and a note drifts from his throat, then another, until the notes pour from his lips in a lullaby he has not heard since his seventh autumn. Taut nerves loosen their knots to sink down, down, down until he is mindlessly washing the butcher stains from a poor boar that they have fed on for several meals, the tune on his song consolatory all the while.
Peeking golden sunlight shines through the leaves of swaying trees bending to the will of a tepid estival breeze, and for a moment, the cacophony of his anxieties have all fluttered on whispers of winds leaving this little grove irenic. He may be accomplished sooner rather than later at this rate, already halfway through the grueling mass of clothes, until a twig snaps behind him to allude to another presence.
He hardly pays it any mind; the boots tread along the creekside in quiet approach and though his doe heart flutters in his ribs as the first touch comes, the embrace suddenly washes through him metal bitter and fire sharp. Screams flood his ears and wood spark burns behind his eyes.
“Too pretty to let die,” husks at his ear, teeth at the lobe and lust on the brim, “too pretty not to have for myself.”
A raven cries in the distance as the water pools cool along his calves, and the nightmare bobbles in dusty froths down the stream.
“My, what do I find on my morning walk but a little bluebird washing away,” comes the croon to his ear, arms encircling his waist to drag him right back from his dutiful work, “when he should have been at home in my warm bed?”
His lover’s shirt falls from his fingers as those arms, girded with muscle woven from plow and sword, are suddenly a transfixing sight that regards his attention. To tease, he traces a tattoo that slithers up and along a firm forearm until a bearded kiss presses to his neck. A sigh flows from him, and any thought of what once was home fades into the ash of cedar fire as he drifts back into the embrace.
Strangely enough, that then feels like hearth and home.
The beast rumbles from behind and kisses along the vein of his neck before purring along the length of it, “answer me, little blue jay.”
“I simply thought you liked your clothes washed,” he huffs back, reaching to grab the shirt before he is pulled right back. Ah, his lover is in that kind of mood today.
The voyage must be far sooner than he had dreaded, floating along the cusp of a fortnight, if he is fortunate.
It causes him to tremble, a webbing of frost along his veins as all the horrid possibilities churn and mull inside his head, all the ways that he would come to know that this man who saved his life would never come home to their bucolic farmland. It is far from a sharp stab, but more a festering laceration that he has scratched at again and again when winter’s icy shade melts into warmer sunshines.
Still, curiosity abides him no favors— “when will you first sail, Sigfrid…?”
“Hush,” is pressed against his shoulder, arms corded with iron tightening just a bit more to hold him closer. Eyes as green as the leaves that shelter them from prying sight regard the wolves that run and bite amongst an expanse of runes and of skin. “Let us finish this damned chore of yours.”
The warmth slides away, and golden braids and ocean eyes fill his gaze thus his heart swells at it all, at that proud jaw and that charming grin, at the crease along those eyes and the love that bleeds from this Samson of a man. The pause of utter adoration stirs a short laugh, and the raider shakes his head in amusement of it all. “Have I charmed you, my Aelfward?”
“Charmed,” he lightly chides as he pushes a water-sopped shirt into the other’s hold, “is hardly the word I would use, you oaf.”
Said oaf gasps light, hand to his heart to feign the methodical stab left by half-chiding words, “you wound your oaf, little bird. Your words are as sharp as the blade of a knife.”
Aelfward’s eyes level with blues so depthless and so clear that his breath is caught in a web of wordless pause and the idea of being charmed rears uproarious and daunting as the raider laughs light and warm. It is a low rumble of a sound, like thunder rolls over the hills at the peak of afternoon’s heat, like crackles of fire as the embers smolder as the furs and quilts beckon. In all his regrets, he adores this raider, this pillager of treasures and of lands, who is so proud of the trinkets he finds to bring home.
And on the eve of the harvests, when the longships return, Aelfward will fall terribly deep in love again, will touch the creases of a grin wide with victory with his fingertips just so he can relearn all the lines and shadows again. Or, rather, he will be given a sword and shield with mournful utterances of endeavors gone horribly wrong, and the lands he came to settle will feel too vast yet too small all at once.
The overwhelming audacity of the world trying to steal away what small morsel of happiness he has hidden away in the palms of his worn hands is more a swipe of sickle along wheatgrass.
He must have been too silent for far too long as knuckles marred with creek water touch along his cheek before a great palm cups his cheek. The raider thumbs along his bottom lip, brow furrowed as he gazes upon him for some inquisition of the secrets he has yet to be told.
“You think too much,” and it perhaps is true, but one of them must, “the way you always worry saddens me.”
As sure as he is that he might want brutish death far more than the slow ache of this man’s intentions, there comes a skirmish from behind— and the weight of the invaders falls away. His eyes, a trembling green that glows emerald gold in the fires catch sky blue, and there is something safe in the gaze. Arms of corded iron gather him close and a cloak of fur falls over his shoulders. There, sanctuary is a brimming wondrous thought as he settles in, the scent of salt air and pine musk heady and calming as the two rival raids fall into a scuffle.
He knows then that he would follow this brutish savior from wayward snowcapped lands to the ship at will, and then to his bed. If fate would ever permit, perhaps, then, he would possibly go with this man to the grave. Yes, that he is sure.
“And you seem incapable of it,” comes his chiding tone, but there is a feebleness that cracks along his fragile heart that pines for days when the seas no longer call his lover across her curving waves to treasures abound. It would do them both well, at least, to have the comfort of this tranquility found on their humble farm.
Tension reeks in sparking cue stirring a chill along his skin as the pregnant pause eats away at their banter. Blue eyes regard him strangely, brimming with some glossing emotion that causes the brunet to turn away. His curls falls into his eyes— better to hide the shadows of fears away— as the last of the laundry is nearly washed and this chore can be done for yet another day.
He hardly makes three steps to hang the last of the washed clothes, the basket plucked right from his hands by his raider. He is nearly at a loss as a man seemingly forged by the same dwarves that forged Thor’s hammer carefully drapes linens and trousers across the branches as though any more effort will splinter the tree in half. Aelfward should just thank him, leave it be and give the blond his right and due, but when Sigfrid turns back to the other, he looks aged, time creasing its gnarl-knuckled touch along his brow. Ten, no, thirty years have crept along his face, wrinkled him into some vessel of tired old wisdom that burdens his shoulders so terribly that they slope down towards the dirts of the earth.
“Dearest,” whispers out between his parted lips, and all that is within him urges him forward to cup that bearded jaw, to smooth away the ages back into his raider’s face so that the years not sweep him into the grave too soon. The words fall quiet, all of his concerns and his quakes deafening into a tremble as those same eyes that ensnared him that night so long ago bore into his very soul.
Speak to me, he nearly begs, but everything seizes like a knot of the rope as the end of a sail; tell me not to worry, he nearly cries, but nothing murmurs forth, trapped in the bow of his hesitations. His lover, though, is a merciful oaf, tender in all the opposites presumed of him as his till-weathered hands take Aelfward’s into his own, thumbs tracing over palm lines in reverence.
“I worry,” the taller of them speaks, voice a quivering rumble, “I worry more than I ever thought I would before…”
What anxieties crept along his spine, the same that nipped and scratched at his nerves, abruptly yield along their path at such admission.
“Before I found you, I used to pray for the things I thought I needed. For many summers, I would take the best of my flocks and my harvests to the gods so that I could give my pleas. Strength for battle, wisdom for war… perhaps a lovely bird to warm my bed—.”
Aelfward cannot restrain the snort that sniff from his throat, but it hardly deters Sigfrid.
“—And blessed me they have, but cursed me all the same with fear that is bone deep.”
Distantly, a light breeze that plays along the tune of bird chirp while rustling airy paths through the splendrous leaves of summer’s foliage. The once Saxon hardly notices, more inclined to stare in some gobsmacked awe that this proud warrior of shield and sword would ever utter even the idea that he was intimate with fear’s threadbare hand. This man has endured cuts from axe and point of spear, has waded through torrential storms that circled the fleet of longships, has laid his fellow raider down— fear should be a stranger.
At the silence corded around Aelfward’s throat, Sigfrid sighs, still holding his lover’s hands as though they were delicate relics of sanctimony unearthed from the roots of an ash tree.
A croak of a sound, but the healer tries despite the sand and nettle that grind in his voice, “you have no fear.”
“Oh, I fear. I fear in ways that never struck me down before,” Sigfrid laughs, but the humor is baseless, stagnantly bland, as he still traces adoring lines over his lover’s palm, “I have started to fear the oceans, the sickly seasons… the day when I cannot return to you.”
Aelfward nearly whispers desperately for this raiding oaf to never speak of such things, but his tongue is caught in an iron snare that hangs heady in his mouth. He wants to say so many things, the plethoras of thoughts that have plagued him infinitesimally blinking and shaking like stars swept under the weight of a cosmic undertow, but nothing comes. Instead, he can snatch his hands away to drag this man down to press their lips together and just let them be for however he prefers.
The moments eke pass in slow monotones even after they part, foreheads pressed together in some tempered hope that they could remain there until the end of days, until the great fire comes to the halls of the Aesir so that all that is known will become ash. Aelfward shudders, hands falling to touch over his lover’s heart, praying silently that some deity have pity upon them, to leave them be until the stars fade from moonlight and the sun corrodes into a darkened stone in the sky.
Hands, worn by the hilt of a sword and leather of horse rein, enfold his as he finds the soothing thrum of the raider’s heart steady and true. They are want for nothings souls too intwined with another to care about the world beyond the wooded glen, too wrapped around each other to bid the thoughts of inevitable gloom and melancholy any heed. All those lovelorn worries scatter like dandelions blown by the children of their village at the soft rumble from the other, and nothing could please him more.
“Do you feel it?” Sigfrid whispers along the bow of his lips, ends of his beard tickling at delicate flesh, “do you feel the drum beat?”
“I do,” he admits whisper light, his entire being focused solely on that steady thump, thump that is ever so loyal underneath his palms. The bristles brush along his chin as he is gifted another tender kiss, an act that leaves him near swooning in delight.
A chuckle, more or less at his doe-eyed adoration glowing candidly, and there is nothing short with how gentle Aelfward is treated by this man, “this heart of mine beats only for you, and will until my last, lowly breath.”
Behind closed eyes, the brunet nearly sees red at such reasoning, see the crackling embers of fire hot and engulfing as water tides lap at the kindling and as storms threaten to dampen out the flame. There is an echo of rumbling force that claps streaks of cold light through the clouds, and Aelfward wants to drown, to sink below the murky surface as the shadows of oars and ships break the sun’s light, if it only means he will never know the loss his lover speaks of.
The brevity of the weight drags down his shoulders all the same, but he cannot bear to take away his hands from the firm planes of this man’s chest; still, he can muster just a smidgeon of something to tick away at least a morsel of heaviness, “that is until you find another fair lad on your travels?”
Something icy and glinting overtakes the blues of warrior’s gaze, steels them so briskly that Aelfward is drenched with worry that his words are taken too seriously. His bones feel brittle, husked with snow and permafrost, frostbit and corroded as arms take him closer. He is but a shell under those eyes, still as prey in the sight of an arrow quick.
Yet, the tension shatters into scattering black flocks, and he is kissed once, then twice, thrice more until the man’s warmth thaws away the shivering tomes that threatened to overtake his small frame. During it all, he craves that drumbeat beneath his palms, this low thud that is a testament to the life that breathes within his partner’s breast.
“I am quite content with this little blue jay,” the raider croons, fingers hitching up into his curls to wrap a lock around his knuckle, “if he will always have me.”
“Regrettably, he will,” yet his voice lacks malice, lacks all the ember of bitterness that should have been kindled that day the pillage rained fire and arrow on the rooftops. It is a simple matter, all perfectly and succinctly due to a turn of hand that found him in the blistering path of one Norseman, somehow leaving him content to smile and draw his fingertips over a crow’s feet grin.
“Until the end of my days as well.”
And the day of the voyage will come soon enough, when the oars push off from the beaches and Aelfward is fraught with nerves that never simmer down from their enduring stress. He will care for the farm and livestock, he will hold his sweet grumpy cat Cain close by the fires, and wait as a yearning lover would. The sails will breach the horizon one sunrise, and Sigfrid will be home again, eager as a fox to tell all of his tales over meat and mead in the grand halls. Oh, how boastful he will be as he rouses the village folk, fretting over the details of his greatest journey across the sea’s divide yet.
Until then, the warrior takes up the laundry basket, still a gentle beast in waiting, kindly offering his hand to his dearest one that waits just steps away. With a tender smile alight with morning dew, the healer takes it, threading their fingers together like a web of Wyrd, as they both walk side by side down the fateful trail that winds up to their farm.
—
The dewdrop mornings of summer’s first rise are a fond sight of lilac veils and tangerine sails as green eyes awaken at the chirp of an early alarm: 0630. It is time to awaken for the day and greet it with soft gratitude.
X sits up as the recharge capsule hisses open, yawning as he is apt to do to feel a little more than just a sentient being comprised of metal and of wire. He might even stretch his arms, wishing to feel the pop of joints and stretch of spine, but he built without need so the motion is hollowing. Regardless, it is a routine, and there is nothing more comforting than doing what comes conversant, even if it a silly attribute that makes him perceived strangely amongst his fellows.
Today, though, comes like the lightest of cracks of his normal status and he cannot quite place his finger on anything that would contribute to such a state.
With a drop of his arms, X sits there in the pod, rolling his shoulders to gauge what this emptiness that parades within his chest. There is a stillness in his room that draws him into silence, his gaze flitting around his small room as though he should be expecting something unusual, something out of turn from the night prior before he laid down to rest.
Somehow, the ambiance is familiar yet paradoxical, leaving him wondering if he is truly within his own skin as everything just seems off. Even after he clears a system check, the Hunter swears he can smell traces of sea salt and ash tree, but for all he knows, he could be just experiencing a glitch with his olfactory sensors. Shame, as he would rather avoid spending too much time in the Med Bay just for some rudimentary and inconclusive test results.
Despite himself, the First nearly hears the roar of bonfire clap and the laugh of a beast that kisses far too deep and loves far too much. X shudders, fingers drawing over his palms as though lines would be there to touch. He misses, but he hardly can fathom what for.
So, he merely stands, as time is a delicate blessing that he has wasted already too much of, a note of a song on his lips as he makes his way out into a world far less comforting than creekside and farmland of bucolic old where a sweet beast lies in wait for him to come back home.