All I want is a room somewhere,
far away from the cold night air.
With one enormous chair –
Oh! wouldn’t it be loverely.
Lots of chocolate for me to eat.
Lots of coal makin’ lots of ‘eat
warm ‘ands, warm face, warm feet
Oh, wouldn’t it be loverly.
Molly cast another quick glance at the sleeping man near her, pausing a moment to make sure that he was only readjusting in his sleep and wouldn’t waken.
With his prompting of music and her answer of musicals, the inevitable outcome of her favorite show tune winding its way in her head occurred. The simple tune with its simple desires reached her heart in a new way as she sat huddled at the mouth of the cave; cold, despite the season, and hungry.
Oh, so loverly sittin’ absobluminlutely still
I would never budge still Spring, crept over me windowsill
someone’s head restin’ on my knee
warm and tender as ‘e can be
who takes good care of me
oh, wouldn’t it be loverly
loverly
loverly
Unbidden, his final remark before they had quit all chatter for the night presented itself for her analyzing. Her first impulse was to push it aside, as she had always done when it came to him. What he was suggesting had the implications of a union; she doubted he would take her on indefinitely without expectation of some reward.
As she kept doing that night, she once more looked over her shoulder. He was still mostly indiscernible, though his feet poked out from the shade. Survival had only ever been her aim, she thought to herself, staring at his feet. There had been no room for fanciful notions of finding someone to take care of her; of finding an existence that didn’t rely on fear.
All I want is a room somewhere,
far away from the cold night air.
She sang slowly, contemplatively. She realized that she wanted to live again — but what if she was too scared to take the leap?
Ragnar lay awake. His mind was too full of impossible thoughts, theories, and questions to succumb willingly to the sleep that was continually encroaching. The night held a chill to it which he felt even under his leather armor he had placed upon himself as a make-shift cover. He knew Molly was using a small variety of the clothes she’d taken from the croft as a shawl. He could just make out her huddled form by the entrance, her side leaning up against the wall. He could not help thinking how much warmer they would both be if they were to lie in the other’s arms.
As often as his mind turned towards her words of the future, he could not help every so often conjuring up the image of her smile as she finally forgave him. He had meant what he said – his warning to her to not smile like that while standing near any boats. His resolve would give way immediately.
Ragnar’s thoughts were interrupted suddenly by a low, melodious sound coming from the mouth of the cave. Straining his ears, he realized that it was Molly; that she was singing. A small, indulged smirk played with his features as he listened, moving his hands to rest beneath his head.
The singing stopped, and he too froze waiting to be scolded for being awake. But no retribution came, and after a short pause, the singing continued, quieter this time. Ragnar let out a breath and did his best to remain still.
The night wore on; dawn neared its unveiling as a sweet chorus gradually joined in Molly’s tune — the first chirpings of the birds and the rustling of the hares. It was to this strange song, gently sung in a tone of voice Ragnar had never heard her implement, that he at last gave way to the coaxing of sleep, the ghost of a smile on his face.
“It was 2019; June to be precise when I traveled to the United Kingdom — or as you would know it, this island of divided kingdoms.” She paused, her gaze cautiously reading his features as his own gaze slipped away from hers. His eyes were narrowed and calculating, a single line marring his brow as he stared at the cave wall, seeing beyond their cramped shelter. Molly knew what he was seeing, for she was seeing it too. That Northumbrian wood; the confusion, the fear, and the ultimate determination that ruled them both that day. He had wanted her, but she had wanted her freedom. Her will had ruled.
“These lands: Wessex, Northumbria, Mercia, they do not endure as separate entities. They will combine into a single kingdom – England. That’s what it will be called,” she told him, thinking to influence his belief by offering tantalizing facts of the future she felt he would be unable to resist. She read him well, for his glazed eyes blinked into focus ere swiveling to the corner until they rested on her. A cautious grin quirked his lips, though she read little humor in his expression. She understood it was the façade he adopted when he wished to keep his true thoughts to himself; the flash of a grin only to be supplanted by a frown that conveyed the genuine depth of his interest.
“You claim to be from the future?” he asked quietly, his grin immediately dipping out of sight. The fire stood out like a live thing reflected in his stare. His eyes fixed on her while his posture appeared still, as if he wouldn’t take his next breath until he had riddled the puzzle that she was.
“Yes,” she nodded, holding his gaze.
“How?” he put to her. His expression was at once laced with a coating of cynicism, though, once settled into his question Molly recognized a gleam in his eye that gave her courage enough to believe in that questing wisdom she was relying on.
Recognizing this moment for what it was, she swallowed, gulping past her nerves as her fingers inched their way to her elbows where she held herself tightly. Only a beat of hesitation marked the moment when Molly Hatch decided to bridge the chasm that had yawned beneath her feet for so many years; to extend her hand and let somebody in. It somehow didn’t bother her that it was the Viking she was reaching for. During the past twenty-four hours he had lost his moniker and gained the identity of his person. He was Ragnar Lothbrok, a man she had a precarious history with, but the one who presently sat across from her willing to listen.
“I was on the shore,” she began, her voice thick, “in Scotland. You don’t that country because it hasn’t been formed yet, but it’s the land where you first found me.”
His head tilted as his narrowed eyes smoothed into a more pensive expression. He took his first breath.
“The rain had abated somewhat, and I don’t remember being concerned over lightning,” she continued. “My friends were waiting for me up in our rooms. There were three of them: Cathy, Ellie, and Gracie,” she said, taking care to say their names slowly, as if to savor the memory of what had once been a daily curl of her tongue. “We were visiting from our home - from America.”
She paused again, furrowing her brow as she tried to remember dates. “Do you know a Lief Erikson? Or perhaps know of him?” she wondered. She briefly remembered learning that that Viking had been one of the first, or maybe the only Northman to make it to North America before Christopher Colombus in 1492.
“I know many Lief’s,” he obliged, though looking uncertain of the question. “Why do you ask?”
“It is only that Lief Erikson will be a well-known explorer. He discovers North America. It’s the land that will eventually be my home,” she elaborated when she detected a hitch to his brow. “Do you know him?” she repeated.
“No, I cannot say that I do,” he answered. The ghost of his grin reappeared, hidden somewhat by his beard. And if Molly knew him better, knew all the quirks of his features and the glance of his expressions she would understand that the intensity of his stare was not mere focus, that the slight cant of his head no mere intrigue — but a growing triumph.
“It may be that he is after your time,” she shrugged a little disappointedly. She’d hoped that she’d unearthed a link that could be used to her advantage, unaware of the already shifting dynamic occurring between them in her favor. Molly believed that hers would be an uphill battle, trying to convince him of something she herself wouldn’t have believed in prior to experiencing it. In spite of her immersion with the culture of the time, she could not abandon the skepticism that belonged to her own culture, nor help apply it to what others would think of her story.
“This noorth umairika, you say it is the land you hail from? Where is it?” Ragnar wondered, drawing his good leg up and resting his elbow on it. He was leaning a little closer.
“Far from here,” she said, drawing her own knees up, though in a more protective stance as she hugged them to her chest. “It lies across the sea.”
“Which sea?”
“The Atlantic.”
Ragnar’s eyes narrowed again. “There is land beyond the Atlantic?”
Molly nodded, adding, “quite a lot of it. You Europeans think you’re the center of the world until the 1500’s. Or sometime around there. I was never good in history class,” she went on to explain, no doubt nonsensically to him.
“What other lands are there besides your home?” he continued with his inquiries, causing Molly to grimace slightly. She had wanted to sweeten the pot initially with these snippets of facts, but steadily she could feel her impatience mounting as the momentum she had gained for her own history was waning.
“There are many; too many to name presently, though I will tell you that there are three Americas. There is the North, Central, and South Americas and each is made up of countries . . . er, that is, a form of kingdom.”
“When does this Leif Erikson discover these lands?” he asked, already forgetting her ignorance on the dates.
“I told you, I don’t know. It must be after this time though as I’m sure you would’ve heard about him. And besides, he only landed on North America. He likely wasn’t aware of the expansiveness of the land.”
“What is the distance? How long will it take to reach your land?”
Molly blinked. “I don’t know! Months and months I’d assume.”
Ragnar’s brow furrowed. “How can you not know when you say you journeyed from that land?” His glance turned suspicious. Yet Molly could only indulge in a rueful smile as she envisioned a plane flying over his head as explanation.
“Travel does not remain the way you know it to be, Ragnar. Between the thousand years that mark your time to mine many things evolve into creations beyond imagining. I do not think you would understand even if I told you how I traveled to this island, for nothing of its kind exists today, save perhaps the winged beasts.”
Ragnar jerked his head back, his mouth wavering between that uncertain smirk and that curious frown as his eyes flicked to the mouth of the cave and back.
“You can fly?” he posed to her, clearly not believing. And Molly was glad to be able to shake her head.
“No, I cannot fly. But men have made machines that can.” And before he could ask another question, she ploughed on. “Whatever you wish to know, I will tell you - to the best of my knowledge,” she said, her voice deliberately low so that he would be inclined to listen and not speak. “I will tell you about America and all the countries that will be new to you. I will tell you of the plane, train, and automobile; how people can travel across the world in a day; how we can speak to those far, far away and hear their voices in our ear. I will tell you about Neil Armstrong and his famous footprint on the moon. I will tell you all this and more – but, first . . . first I need to tell you a story. My story.”
And she did.
Of that day she told him everything. It was either say it all, or maintain her silence – she could not imagine an in-between. As an outpouring, long bottled and static with energy waiting to be released, Molly found that the words she had mentally tripped over, prior to her decision of telling Ragnar, poured fluidly from her mouth and into his sponge-like mind – absorbing everything with ardor.
Occasionally, when her eyes would flick to his, she would watch him, noting his stillness that marked his absolute focus. He did not interrupt her again, not even to inquire over words she knew he couldn’t understand – words she couldn’t translate, though she did her best to explain. He was her audience, and as any good auditor, he knew what was required of him. When she paused to recollect a moment, or had to turn her face away to hide unbidden emotions, she was not hurried to continue.
In lieu of that courtesy, she indulged in speaking of events leading up to the trip, of bidding her parents a teary farewell at the airport; of her and her friends accidentally insulting one of the flight attendants by referring to them as English when they had, in fact, been Scottish; of landing in Heathrow and waiting over an hour for Gracie’s duffle bag. She spoke of a thousand and one things she had forgotten, lost somewhere in the hazy limbo of her interrupted life, but which now sprang forth as if resurrected.
While she spoke the night wearied, falling into shade and quiet. Hour followed hour, yet her soft tones did not dim in the presence of the watchful night. The only other companion to her voice was the snapping flames beneath the long-forgotten tea that bubbled in its neglect. It was only when the brew spilled passed the sides of the cauldron, hissing immediately at the contact with the flames, that attention was returned to it. Molly jerked out of her compact position, rising to her feet as she grabbed a fistful of her skirts to lift the cauldron from its perch, hissing herself at the heat. Quickly, she set it near the fire, releasing her grip and rubbing her hands together.
“I’m afraid it’s a bit burnt,” she told him, looking up from inspecting the brew. She swished it only to see the herbs shriveled and black.
“It is of no matter,” he said, unconcerned. “I would hear the rest of your story before soothing any stomach aches.”
From where she stood, Molly looked down at him, aware that a small smile tugged at her lips. A fanciful vision of a monk dressed as a nursemaid coming to serve out a stretched out Ragnar, undone by a serious tummy ache, distracted her momentarily as she remembered that the monk’s brew was for easing digestion. Her smile grew wider and threatened to morph into a chuckle.
Her heart was lighter. The burden of carrying her secret for so long no longer weighed on her even though she had yet to conclude her narrative. Yet, already she felt the ease of old manners returning to her as she remembered her old self. Intangible as it was, there was a certain amount of happiness that existed in simply being able to talk about her old life to another human being.
So as she resumed her seat, a tad closer to Ragnar than before, there was no pause or hesitation when she picked up the threads of her tale and continued.
“We were making a tour of the United Kingdom and Ireland, as I said, but I was always most excited to see Scotland. I’d dreamt of the Highlands and the heather, of the whiskey and kilts, of all the romantic associations with the place; my father even noted that I had an unhealthy interest in the pipes and drums.” She did stop then, only for a moment as she found what peace she could in the phantoms she’d summoned. She sighed. “I’m sure it’s best that I never got to see it in the end; it might not have lived up to my expectations.” Tentatively , she offered her companion — the one of flesh and blood, and the only one who could hear her — a glimpse of a smile that told a completely different story to the one that had just preceded it, and which forgot in that moment that he wouldn’t understand her silver-lining humor, as paltry as it was.
His eyes may be keen, either fixed as they were on her face or hovering just around her; brilliant in their intensity and strength yet, at that moment, lacking the spark of any recognition for anything she had just said.
Her face drooped suddenly, exposed as it was to the rawness of the many strong emotions required this night.
The relief that had belonged to the minute before was gone, usurped by the realization of reality. No matter the chances of ever getting close to anyone – and so far this Viking was the nearest to a heart-to-heart she’d had in six years – the nuances of her time would forever remain the property of its time; locked away behind the secrets of its knowledge that would always remain a barrier between her and others. The comfort of remembering home was hers; just not the comfort of home.
In a whirl of contained emotion, never flickering past the internal storm of her mind, Molly at once wanted to throw herself at Ragnar, cling to his chest and just be held as she sobbed and felt sorry for herself; yet in that same brand of impulsiveness she wanted to run – to run in a pointless direction, but one that took her far from the cave, far from him, and far from everything that resembled anything that had been her familiar for the past half-decade.
Swallowing, she steadied herself. Her thumbs were busy picking at each other’s nails, scoring her skin in a pattern of crescents.
She told him of the beach.
Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, she told him of that landmark whose grey skies had blackened the water and appeared as the shores of superstition, serving as a portal that had opened for her unwilling passage.
The years spent serving Lady, then Lord Cyneric had been kind in one regard: never had she known her mind as well as she presently did. Despite her duties and chores, they claimed nothing of her time as the convenience of modern technology had. Days regularly burst at the seams with work, thoughts, and sometimes, even play. Boredom was no longer a constant in her vocabulary; indeed, she regularly forgot the word with how little she thought of it. What she did think of, however, and what had occupied her thoughts during her more menial tasks was the day in which she had stood on that shore. The tide had been low, and even then — ignorant as she had been — she had mused over thoughts of in-between places; crossroads, dusk, dawn, and of course that strip of sand, appearing only at its designated hours when the sea was low, so that that in-between area was not quite of the land, nor yet of the sea.
And that, she believed, had been her portal.
All this she told him; explaining her reasoning that found grounding in the very nature of the mystic land.
“There are stories – legends and myths, though, I don’t know their names in this speech – that tell of unwary travelers who find mischief done to them; the wanderer who does not heed the natural warnings of nature and find themselves in, what would be called, a fix. These stories are not so ancient as they once were to me, their narrative has more meaning as I now know that there is power in their messages,” she said, drawing her legs to her chest. She rested her hands atop her knees, picking at the fabric. “My sole regret is that I couldn’t have known that their significance endured even while my culture’s credence of them waned. I would not have stood on that shore otherwise.”
“Do people of your time not tell stories then?” Ragnar asked, speaking for the first time in many hours. He looked dubious, as if he was ready to argue her statements by using what he learned about her journal against her. Molly recognized it also as an admission. Despite his first hint of skepticism ere she began, and despite the natural aversion of Man’s to being fooled by seemingly impossible phenomenons, Molly had opened herself to him in a way that exposed her heart, showing him something precious and protected by unraveling her fabricated life.
Also – he had listened.
“For we have many that do much to warn the little ones away from danger,” he continued. “Maybe you did not listen as a child,” he said, pointing a finger at her nose in a playful, tsking manner. She resisted the urge to reach over and swat his hand back to his lap.
“Your people then have precautionary tales of traveling through time?” she said instead, partially rhetorical as she didn’t believe that the Norse did; though, also a little curious in case of the possibility.
Ragnar let his hand drop, adopting a rueful smile as he eyed her from under his brows. His quirked mouth turned thoughtful, however, and he gazed at her straight-on. She saw him only by the faint, ruddy glow of the now dwindled fire; more ember and ash then flame.
“You truly are from another time?” he asked quietly, almost marveling. His eyes were the only point of light on his face; two pricks of focus that somehow carried more expression than a torrent of voiced wonder.
“I am,” she answered simply. She wondered if he saw the same in her; two points of light staring back at him. The lights were disturbed when he blinked, turning his head away, looking forward as he had at the beginning. She could almost hear the wheels turning in his mind, the formulating questions, and the now deepened curiosity that she must undeniably hold.
“Well,” he said with a grunt, adjusting his position so that he sat straighter against the wall. He returned his gaze to hers. “I suppose I must concede to your claim – you have traveled farther than me.”
“Yes,” she chuckled, “my adventurous desire of walking in the rain in a foreign country has inadvertently seen me outpace the ambitions of any Northman seeking new land.”
Molly only just caught his smile as he leaned forward, taking up one of the sticks to jab at the fire. A ripple of warmth spread suddenly, tempering the chill air of the night and reminding her that she was hugging herself tightly in defense against the cold.
“Have you ever tried to return?” Ragnar asked, keeping his eyes on his work.
“Once,” she replied after a pause. “A week after arriving in that town you and your men had sacked,” she interrupted herself in order to deliver a long-in-the-making glare. The Viking at least had sense enough to remain quiet. “I found my way back to that beach. I stayed out there until I couldn’t bear the hunger any longer. I don’t remember how many days, but nothing happened. The road that had vanished didn’t reappear, and when I returned to the village I found it immediately. It hadn’t worked.” Molly often wondered if it would if she could reach it on the anniversary date of her arrival. But as of yet, she’d never been able to make it.
“It sounds temperamental,” he remarked, uselessly twiddling the stick between his palms, working a hole through the fire.
“Extremely temperamental!” she heartily agreed. “At least with you – well, you are very consistent; I always know what to expect from you.”
“Do you think it is so? That you will always know what to expect from me,” he stopped his fiddling to stare up at her, a queer look in his eye. Molly visibly swallowed as she held herself tighter. She felt the mood turn in an instant; dangerous and intimidating.
“You said you wouldn’t force me,” she reminded him, doing her best to keep her voice steady. The knife he had given her was still somewhere near her.
“Aye, I did,” he nodded, resuming his work, and the tension lifted somewhat, “and if that is where your mind has gone it has done so on its own for I have made no mention of lying with you. I would not speak against such a proposition, but I have not suggested it,” he said, flicking his eyes up to hers once more. She felt her heart stutter.
“Then what was all that about with your, ‘do you think you’ll always know what to expect from me?’” she questioned, altering her voice to imitate his low timber.
Ragnar tossed the stick aside and rubbed his palms together, brushing away the soot and ash. His movements were leisurely, almost deliberately so, which only annoyed Molly further when she was already feeling embarrassed by his presumption that her mind had been in the gutters.
“Well?” she pressed.
Ragnar shrugged, incorporating his hands as well as his face in the movement. “Is it not the truth? Who can claim that they know another so completely that they will always know what the other will do? As, uh, sweet as our meetings have been,” he smiled at her scowl, “they have been brief. Do you really think you know me as well as you think you do?”
She opened her mouth to give a remark about first impressions or something of that nature, when she hesitated. Her own first impressions were swiftly being supplanted by more amenable notions of her . . . not friend . . . companion. Her posture loosened slightly and, guilelessly, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear unaware of the way it drew his eye.
“I feel I must know you enough to trust you with the truth,” she admitted. “You’re the first person to know . . . any of this,” she said, initially searching for a word that could encompass her facts of life. “I don’t understand it, but you’re the first person that I felt I could share it with; no one else would’ve have understood, but you, somehow, seem to.” She quirked her brows, appreciatively curios.
Through the gloom and dull, red glow a gleam of benign teeth glinted as he smiled at her. “I always knew you were something more than you appeared,” he said, sounding vindicated. “I knew there was a reason for my safe-guarding your book – for you to be present in my mind, even when time continued and the possibility of ever finding you diminished; you never left me.”
Molly looked away, running her hands up her arms to hug her shoulders. She did not care to admit that she had experienced the same magnetizing thoughts towards him, though far less complimentary. Though, she supposed it was natural to have looked back on him; their first encounter was one of the most frightening moments of her life.
Cautiously, she turned back to him and was immediately confronted with the urge to yawn as she saw him indulging in his own. He did not miss her joining him.
“The hour is late,” he relented, sounding almost bitter by the fact. “You should get some sleep,” he advised her. Night had been with them for many hours, yet they seemed only now to be aware of the time.
“What about you? You have not slept since waking this morning.”
“I may shut my eyes, but don’t concern yourself. I am used to this more than you. Besides, you will need the rest for tomorrow; I have a number of questions I would ask you.”
“And I will do my best to answer them, but at present, you are the one with an injury and I am not. I’ll watch for now. I do not mind,” she added when she saw him preparing to counter. She reasoned that the likelihood of either of them finding much sleep was slim, but the few hours remaining to the night promised quiet introspection which she yearned for ere the next round of revelations began.
Molly stood, intent on switching places with Ragnar, and showing no signs of hesitance in taking his hands to help him up as she had originally. Again he stumbled, but only slightly, regaining his balance in the next second. She released her grip on him, though when he moved to step past her, she automatically brought a hand up to stop him, just grazing his chest before she dropped it again.
“I – uh, I just want to thank you,” with an effort, she managed to bring her eyes up to his, meeting them and reading in them a softness she had not thought him capable of achieving. She swallowed, suddenly very aware that her last vestiges of fear were leaving her as a new, even more frightening, emotion took its place. He was not touching her, as he promised he would not, but his gaze may as well have been a caress for the warmth she felt under its gaze. She cleared her throat. “You listened to me when I know no one else would have. You can’t know what that means to me,” she confessed. “You returned to me a part of myself I’d forgotten about and I must thank you for that.”
In response, Ragnar leaned down, bringing his face level with hers, their noses inches apart. Molly thought for a moment that he would break his word, yet she found herself too curious to back away.
“Does this mean I’m forgiven?” he posed to her instead.
Molly broke out into a wide grin, her teeth now the ones to gleam as she shook her head in amusement.
“Yes Ragnar Lothbrok, I suppose this means I must forgive you now – so long as you don’t try it again,” she added.
“Mmm,” he playfully groused, “that is a cruel thing to hold me to when you have made yourself even more valuable to me. You had better not smile too much,” he warned, “for I am want to lose all reason and do what I please should I see your smiling face near a boat.”
“You would have to tie me to the masthead for we both know I can swim,” she teased back.
“Don’t give me ideas. Where are you going?” he suddenly called when she abruptly turned to leave their cave.
“I thought I would search for the fairies and see if they know how I could return home.” At his arch brow she chuckled and told him truthfully that she had to relieve herself. When she returned, he was still standing, waiting. Without a word he limped past her and was swallowed by the night, likely to take care of a similar errand.
When he returned, she was already sitting, holding her legs close so that he could get by with as little difficulty as possible. From the darkened corners of the rear of the cave Molly heard his grunts, scuffles, and ultimate sighs as he lowered himself to the ground.
“Are you alright?” she felt compelled to ask.
“Fine,” he said, unconcerned.
A moment passed.
“Do you have songs from your time?” Ragnar’s voice came out from the gloom, contemplative, yet accommodating of a certain mischievous quality.
“I’m not going to sing one,” she replied immediately, not even bothering to look at him. She could, however, see his head perk up out of the corner of her eye.
“I did not ask you to,” a smile in his tone.
“You didn’t have to; I knew what you were leading to.”
“But you do have songs?” he urged, not giving up altogether.
“Of course we have songs,” she smiled at the ridiculousness. “A great many songs that would likely make you wish you were deaf. Music has evolved since the folk tune,” she told him wryly.
“You are not fond of music then?”
“On the contrary, I love music; in fact I used to love watching classic musicals with my mother. My father hated them!” she smiled, remembering. “He would walk in the room, hear Gene Kelly or Fred Astaire for a second, and make an about face. I think the only musical we ever managed to get him to sit down to was My Fair Lady. He knew Rex Harrison was in it and thought it would be a ‘decent’ movie as he termed it. He didn’t even get to ‘Wouldn’t it be Loverly’.”
Lost in her own memories once again, and not to mention the shadows that now enveloped Ragnar, Molly missed his puzzled expression. “You excel at saying much while revealing little.”
Molly laughed softly, understanding his plight. “My apologies, but it is difficult to translate something that hasn’t been invented yet.”
“I imagine it would be,” he considered, then added, “I envy you your knowledge; to know what will come after once all this is gone; once we here have all played our parts and are done.”
A brief silence stretched between them. In the distance, an owl screeched.
“Don’t envy me, Ragnar,” Molly quietly said at last. “You have the comfort of your time, even if you don’t appreciate it, while I often am adrift with only the cold comfort of memory to sooth me. My fate is not something to yearn for.”
Another, shorter, silence ensued, concluded this time by Ragnar.
“I will do my best to heed your warning Molly Hatch,” he said, a curious note to his voice. An unspoken sentiment hung in the air, trailing from Ragnar’s words, and without meaning to Molly waited for its release. It came as sigh of the wind, soft and coaxing. “But it would be easier if you were to stay with me,” he whispered.
Molly looked over her shoulder, seeking his gaze, but not even those pinpricks could be seen now in the gloom. Looking forward, Molly rubbed her arms.
Ragnar mayn't have known the land intimately, but he knew that where there was a manor, a hamlet would be nestled nearby. It was there that they would find the supplies needed. The woman, Molly – he silently tested the feel of her name on his tongue – had made it clear that she had some preliminary knowledge in how to treat his wounds. After extensive fighting and some rather enjoyable acts, regardless of their authenticity (the taste of berries still sweetened his mouth), the gash he had sustained in battle was lancing pain through his leg. He would soon be unable to walk on it without losing every last ounce of breath. Even riding made him grit his teeth.
When asked, Molly confirmed his theory of a nearby village, relaying a quick route ere interrupting herself.
"You don't mean to attack them, do you?"
As best he could, he spared a quizzical glance over his shoulder at the ridiculous assumption.
"If you think me capable of executing a one-man assault in my current state I fear you either give too much credence to my skill or believe me to be a fool."
Behind him, she mumbled something unintelligible to his ears. Then she said a little louder and in a tongue recognizable to him, "they are only farmers after all."
"You disabuse the farmers when you do not know them. Do not be so quick to underestimate farmers' capabilities."
"I disabuse the farmers because I know them," she returned. "They are pitiful to watch when tax season is due."
"Your master," Ragnar began, "he is unkind to his tenants?"
"Extremely so," she answered immediately. "His mother was better, but she died two years ago. But I no longer have a master," she added, her tone full of derision and aimed at the back of his head. Ragnar indulged in a brief grin.
"If it is disagreeable for you to be without a master - I can be yours."
"No you cannot!" and her arms withdrew from around his waist, giving him a rough shove to the back, causing him to wince. "And don't you dare even think it!" Her tone was full of feeling as he felt her hands settle behind him, refusing to once more embrace him. He did not smile again, though his demeanor suggested amusement rather than the reverse.
After a time, Ragnar returned to their original point.
"I was a farmer."
Silence followed this statement until Molly responded with a curt, "really," indicative of acknowledging what he said without possessing interest.
"When I think of it, it seems now to belong to another life."
While his goal was to draw her out, he could not help getting caught up in those not-too-distant memories of a simpler time when his only responsibility was for himself, his modest land, and any trouble Rollo might have gotten into.
Unknown to him, the object of his current interests was now fully listening to him as his words struck her with familiarity. The past was another life that belonged to another person; more care-free and ignorant of what would become of them.
"You say nothing to this?" Ragnar questioned, returning to the present. "I thought you would scoff or laugh or make one of those unintelligible sounds women are so fond of making."
She made one now in response, though, she coupled it with an answer.
"You may have been a farmer, but you are, before anything, a Northman."
"Why 'before anything'?'" he inquired, curious at her sentiment.
"Because farmers tend the land and their families; they do not seek distant shores to pillage and plunder, to rape and kill." After speaking her meaning she withdrew once more and he felt the stiffness of either fear or worry or perhaps even hatred enter her.
He could not deny that those actions named were unknown to the men of his community – of his country. But it was also true that what those actions provided in the long-term was future prosperity for his people and the beginnings of a security gained in the ever-vast and changing world. A foreigner's ignorance could be excused. As it was, further talking was proving to be less and less enjoyable while stabs of pain cut him to the bone with every other stride of the horse.
Therefore, they both of them remained ensconced in their own thoughts for the remainder of their flight through the woods. Once or twice they were forced to be still or pick around a less open path to avoid the approaching sound of a mounted guard, but other than a few close encounters they detangled from the low branches and, at times, unruly bush unmolested.
She would tend to him, and then he would find the way back to his camp. A string of well-aimed curses to be delivered to Horik circulated his mind, indulging in the foulest of insults simply because he knew he would never be able to use them and survive. His approach would have to be one of patience and cunning. He sniffed, swallowing back blood and mucus. It was nothing foreign to his nature. Had he not done the very same with Haraldson?
Behind him, Molly grumbled something.
She would be coming with him to the camp. And then…
He wasn't certain.
He could try to tie her up again, though he suspected that she would be sensitive to any motions towards that and would slip away before he had the chance of hauling her pretty behind once more onto the boat. What a state of fury she would be in. In spite of his dark thoughts, he smiled at the image it conjured of her rich, long hair flying madly about her head, of her color rising with exertion.
Ragnar was not yet certain of how he would do it, but he was certain of wanting her. That was enough. Her words returned to him: 'pillage and plunder, to rape and kill.' It was what she expected from him, he realized. What she did not expect, however, was that his interest in her, while assuredly charmed by her physiognomy, was of a somewhat wholesome nature. Somewhat.
He no longer felt her book against his back; that item that had become something akin to a cumbersome talisman that he refused to part with. Now returned to its key, and the ultimate fountain that could spurt forth answers to questions that had had the chance to grow and multiply with the time given it, the book's value was diminished only by its true owner. But only so long as he had the true owner.
"Give me your book," Ragnar said without preamble. They had come to the eaves of the forest and could now see the quaint hamlet Molly had directed them to. It sat nestled in the lap of a small valley – a poor location if they ever needed to defend themselves, Ragnar automatically considered.
"No. Why?" She clutched it to her chest.
"There is something I would ask you about it."
"Ask me now," she persisted, unrelenting.
With a huff of impatience and a grunt of pain, he turned to look at her over his shoulder.
"Consider that your book has been in my care this past half decade," he pointed out. "In your own presence are you so unwilling to let me handle its pages?"
He caught her eye, challenging her.
With a huff of her own, she exclaimed, "fine! Take the journal! Ask your questions. Kidnap me a third time, why don't you!" Though, most of this was said in her own language, her general ire was felt without need of translation.
He accepted the book thrust into his lap, albeit with a small hiss of pain at her force, and then said, "thank you. Now off you go."
"I beg your pardon?" She canted her head at the shooing motion he was making with his hand. Before she could wonder at his apparent changeability, he elaborated.
"Your neat little basket is not with us, yet we are still in need of the contents it held. That hamlet is our new basket. And this," he grasped the book, "is my insurance."
"Your insurance? For what?"
"For your return."
He saw her quick comprehension and was glad for it. The pain was growing to an unbearable level, making his breathing a tricky accomplishment.
"I have not any money," she said at once. "And I cannot go to them like this," she added, looking down at her own bloodied state.
"I have no money either, and I am in an even worse state than you."
After a heart beat's pause, she stated, "you mean me to steal what we need, don't you."
When his answer was a curled lip, she continued.
"And on my own! What if I am caught? Your security will mean nothing then."
"And if we ride in together do you suppose none will recognize me for what I am, and this beast for what he is, and come to the conclusion that we are unlikely friends?"
She sat silently behind him for several seconds before abruptly pushing away from him with a sound of disgust. She spat something out at him in her own language as she swung her leg over and landed with a thump beside the horse.
"Don't forget to find yourself something pretty," he couldn't help calling after her. Her response was a hand gesture with her middle finger extended. He did not know its significance, but he felt confident in hazarding a guess.
. . .
It was perhaps the worst possible time to sneak around a hamlet in bloodied clothes and with the intent of thievery. The sun was full-up, the women were at work in their homes and the men busy in the fields or walking the many by-ways of little footpaths. Molly thought initially that she might turn her gown inside out, but a quick look told her that the rusting brown of the blood had soaked through to her chemise and had even tainted her skin.
With the constant evidence of recent violence etched upon her person, an impression of color on her very skin, Molly walked without the sense of walking. The weakness in her legs did not inhibit her progress, but it did give the feeling of numbness. She wouldn't have known she was walking had she been devoid of her senses. As it was, those senses were at an absolute opposite of what they had been immediately following Emory's death and her and the Viking's mad dash to the forest. She was hyper aware of every little sight and sound; every movement that turned out to be only the wind caressing a bush or an animal prowling about on its own business.
She made deliberate strides towards the back of the houses, ducking around doors and windows, and all the while feeling a perverse sense of equal anger and amusement. It had never been a thought that this day would see her sneaking around as a pantomime spy, rigged up in the clothes of a time she formerly would have only considered wearing for Halloween or RenFests. She oddly felt a mixture of Inspector Clausue and Maid Marion within her.
Domestic humming was on the air and the squeal of a child startled her by its suddenness. It was not a squeal of discovery, but simply a child's delight of having a voice and using it. There was no line of helpfully strung laundry as there usually is in those films catering towards thieves with a conscious. Nor was there a bowl of milk or a husk of bread on the windowsill that she might easily snatch. The likelihood of alcohol was near to none.
Molly sighed, bracing her back against the outer wall of the croft.
Was her journal truly this important to her? Why did she not simply abandon the Viking to his fate and discover a new one for herself?
'Because I know that his words were true – I wouldn't last a single night on my own. Not this time.'
Before, the danger had gone with the Viking's on their ship. Presently, the guards of her former employer were symbiotic with the land; they knew its personality and, in return, it would sustain them. If only she hadn't called out that warning to the Viking as he had battled Emory. If only she had not let herself be dragged away by the very man who had given her some of her worst nightmares, waking her in cold sweats. If only she had not submitted to his insane idea of false love-making, only to be the witness of two more murders involving the security of her former employer's.
If only, if only, if only…
If only they had kept hold of that damned basket!
Taking a breath, she closed her eyes, psyching her mind in preparation of the crimes her body was about to commit. Momentary guilt crept on her that her worry stemmed more from the fear of getting caught than the act itself – and what it would mean to those she took from. What if this was their only supper? Their last pale of milk?
Too many considerations and not enough hours in the day. Thinking would be her downfall, therefore, she closed the door on that strain of morals temporarily and gave herself to the mantra of 'action'.
The humming drifted in and out of hearing, sometimes near, sometimes further. It was during one of the humming's absences that Molly stole her resolve and crept into the back door of the small croft. All at once, she could see nothing as the space was considerably darker than the brilliant day outside. The humming remained in the only other room of the home, however, so Molly did her best to sidle out of the doorjamb so as not to be haloed by its light. Within a few seconds her eyes adjusted and she could see that the mother was in the midst of preparing a meal; formed dough sat on the work table, flour spread around its surface and the smell of yeast in the air.
The humming flourished into abrupt singing of questionable talent, easily startling Molly in her current state. She froze where she was, an out-stretched hand hovering over a small clay cauldron. The singing continued, unabashed and contained in that second room. Molly breathed out and finished grabbing the cauldron. It was chipped and worn and by the looks of it, not much used if the layer of dust was any story to go by.
Now in possession of her first steal, the rest came a little easier. Food, clothes, milk if there was any; that was her grocery list. Over and over she repeated it until she had collected them all and was on the verge of departing with the stealth of an alley-cat when a pair of eyes arrested her escape. She and the woman were both frozen, yet those eyes and their inevitable descent to the blood stain on Molly's gown, was the breaking of the spell. Those lungs, well practiced in singing ditties and country love songs, had little difficulty in raising the alarm with an ear-shattering scream as she came at Molly with whatever she had in her hand.
Practically electrified into motion, Molly ducked out of the way, awkwardly clutching all her goods to her chest and ran for the door. Her pace did not relent as she ran flat out across the land she had moments before been creeping down. Sounds of a village coming alive with panic and distress spurred her faster, though the incline of the hill snatched at her breath. She was practically doubled over by the time she reached the summit and the welcoming protection of the forest.
Momentarily caught up in prey mentality, she abandoned the Viking's instructions of meeting him past the second spruce that crowned the lip of the hill, a large tree that provided sufficient cover, and ran straight for the immediate cover that the overlapping trees offered.
Fortunately for her the Viking had been waiting for her the moment he heard the first scream. The sound of pounding hooves reached Molly and, recognizing it – as well as the shout of her name – the flight left her. She slowed to a stop and teetering towards a tree so that her weight might be taken as she regained breath and balance.
The Viking rode up to her, the mar of pain clear on his features, though his next words a sign of his natural humor.
"I am impressed. You managed to rouse the entire hamlet with your glare and another's blood alone. Most shield-maidens are not so successful their first time."
That very glare showed itself now, peeking through her eyelashes and up at the mounted man she seemed unable to shake.
. . .
"Would you hold still? I've barely even touched you yet," Molly entreated with utmost exasperation. The clay cauldron now had meaning in its inanimate life, as it was filled nearly to the brim with stream water and placed cleverly over designed sticks and branches to hang over a fire. It was a small fire, though the smoke still took some persuasion in exiting out the shallow cave's entrance.
Cave was perhaps a generous word for Molly and the Viking's current hiding place; it was more an alcove in the rock. Regardless of its proper term, it was a suitable declivity that had been discovered by Molly many years prior. A mere slip of an entrance that appeared non-existent when looking directly at it, but which had the width to accommodate a broad-shouldered Viking. It did not, however, have the space to entertain the horse they had commandeered. Commandeered and reluctantly returned. They could not have his presence outside the rocky cliff-face giving away their presence; therefore a hard slap to the stallion's rear had sent him galloping off through the trees.
"Your hands are cold," the Viking complained. He was laid flat at Molly's command, one of his smaller knives in her hand as she tore away at the fabric around his leg. His propensity for cracks and half-smiles was causing an ache in her jaw for all the times she grit her teeth. Only he could draw this reaction from her. If it had been any other, in any other time, after any other experience she knew she would not be this sour – it was not her nature.
The trauma of the afternoon's events had receded somewhat during her 'reconnaissance' mission; she'd had a goal, an aim that distracted other thoughts from fermenting. Before that, the return of her journal had been like a sudden beam of sunlight that no cloud could dampen for the brief moments of happiness it brought. But then the facts of her situation returned; etched in vivid detail as each came to the forefront of her mind.
"Shall I stick your leg in the fire, then? It will surely . . ." she intended to say 'cauterize' but knew not the term for it in her second language. Instead, she clamped her mouth and redoubled her focus on clearing away any obstructions around the wound - her jaw tight.
Along with the clothes she'd relieved the singing woman of, Molly had also snatched up a random cotton sheet. Presently it lay in torn strips, each awaiting their turn for a dip into the boiling water, while those already treated to the sauna were draped over a long branch, drying. Molly took one now, wringing out the excess water before applying its purity to the coating of dried blood. The Viking hissed again but was ignored as she pressed gently around the wound, teasing flakes and grime away. Slowly and with the help of the many cotton strips, Molly made progress in distinguishing between whole flesh and the clean line of tortured skin. It was not as deep as she'd anticipated, though its length was daunting. Stretching from just below his groin, it curved in a graceful arc until just reaching the side of his knee.
As she worked further up his leg, her eyes darted periodically to see where his were looking. She was very aware of his partial nudity and the fact that her hands were inching closer to a personal area on any human. Her disquiet easily took form as memory of the Viking between her legs came willingly to taunt her; his kissing her in a way she'd never been kissed before, and the fear that he might expect more.
For his part, he remained mostly silent; watching her work or fixing his gaze to random points of the cave's ceiling. It was easy to tell that he was visibly exhausted. The weight of the day showed in every inch of his haggard form. Molly was then reminded that she only knew the contours of his day from the point of reunion. The events preceding that meeting (specifically why he was injured to begin with) were still a mystery to her.
Seeing him as he was now - tired, quiet, though still marred by the scars of the day — the mud and blood that seemed a staple to his appearance — only confused her vision of him. It was a contradiction to see this frightening image of violence succumb to the weaknesses that afflicted mortal men; which in turn forced the admission that he was nothing more than a man. The fear of his violating her was real . . . yet, as she looked down at him in the fickle light of the small fire, a small voice in her head felt confident against that supposition. She couldn't say why or that she even wanted to trust this voice in her head, but the grime that coated him notwithstanding, Molly almost considered him to appear vulnerable. She found it both reassuring and unnerving to view him this way. Despite her opinion of him - and the fact that he was the root of her current situation - he was also her only shield now.
"You are staring at me," he said, his eyes swiveling to look at her. His voice was low in his throat.
Embarrassed at being caught, she deflected and asked, "how did you get this?" She referred to the thin line of red highlighting his thigh. Once healed, it would be only a faint scar.
"Someone mistook me for ingredients for their dinner."
She looked back up at him.
"It's fortunate they realized you were too tough to chew before choking on you," she returned, not missing a beat. "It would be a shame to suffocate on something unpleasant."
"Fortunate for me to be tended so nicely," he returned, grinning. His first since she'd begun her treatment. She turned her gaze back to his leg.
"Where is that from? You didn't have it earlier?" he asked.
The Viking was looking at her face, nodding his chin in her direction. His arms were clearly too exhausted to function.
"What are you talking about?"
"A scratch. On your face. You did not have it this afternoon."
Molly straightened up and brought a hand to her left cheek then her right where she felt a thin line raised above her skin. With her fingers she traced the scratch across her cheekbone, feeling dry bumpiness and seeing no blood when she pulled her hand away.
"It's nothing. I must have gotten it in the forest."
She suddenly remembered exactly when she got it. The sound of her breathing clouding her mind; the leaves underfoot as she worked to get away; there was no escape, even as her legs sprinted past all hopes of expectations towards the illusion of freedom. The low branch struck her face, whipping past her as she flew by, not pausing for a moment as she ran from the Viking — his taste still potent in her mouth.
"It is not so bad, I think. The blood made it appear far worse than it was. It's as well that you likely will not need stitches for I lack the skill for such an operation," she said, turning back to his wound with methodical intent. With a will, she shut the events of the afternoon out of her mind. Hysteria was only a thought away afterall.
"Stitches? You thought to sew me up like a garment?"
"Not quite," Molly said, amused in spite of herself at his assumption. "But very like. Had the cut gone deeper, the skin would have needed help in healing back together. Still, I need to – to . . . Oh! There is no word for it! I need to clean it so that . . . so that it can heal with cleanness." Her frustration was apparent as more words failed her. Though, that frustration quickly turned to another train of thought as she suddenly considered that boiled water alone would not be able to enter his wound to disinfect it. She'd burn him terribly and cause more problems than what they were already dealing with. What she really needed was alcohol. Pure, straightforward alcohol. It would sting him most assuredly but the risk of infection would be considerably lower.
"If your furrowed brow is an indication of your thoughts," the Viking began, distracting her from her worries, "you are either meaning to translate an uncooperative word or there is more to be said about my leg that you wish not to share."
"It's neither actually – or, well, mayhap there is some truth to the latter. I need alcohol – for your leg. Not to drink."
"I remember you said. What is its purpose?"
"It cleans; ridding the wound of . . . germs, thus stopping infection and probable amputation due to gangrene," she relayed, falling back on English words in her impatience. He watched her with a studied air. "Do not ask me to translate, I don't have the words. What's important is that alcohol is needed and we have none," she finished.
"I have survived worse than this. I will likely manage without your medicine," he said unconcerned.
Molly looked him over once more before turning her head – done with him for the present. Mindful of the fire, she situated herself towards the entrance of the cave and looked out. Night had fallen and the cool breeze that greeted her warmed cheeks refreshed her spirits.
There was much to think about . . . and yet, she wanted nothing more than to embrace a blank state of mind and let all the kinks of the moment sort themselves out. She was beyond the point of reasoning with herself over the wisdom of helping this Viking. She had made her decision – or rather, it had been made for her. She could not imagine returning to that terrifying existence of not knowing whose goodwill she could trust as she had done upon being received into her former Mistress' employ. The Viking certainly was not one she could trust, but he was still the lesser of two evils.
At least she hoped it was so.
Something told her it was so.
Molly looked back at him to see if she could still see the horrible monster that had suffered exaggerated villainy through her imagination. He was asleep, or perhaps only his eyes were closed. His breath came evenly; his clothed chest rising and falling, creating mountains and valleys of shadows that shifted with each inhale. He was calm.
It surprised her to recognize the man in the nightmare, but so it was.
Again he had found her, appearing behind her and with that stupid cock-eyed grin that expressed much more than simple mirth. Was it fate that had drawn them together, she wondered. Fate was a thing far easier to believe in and turn to after having passed through the veils of time, and it was to that nuanced entity she reserved most of her questions. Was the Viking's reappearance perhaps symmetry of her experiences these past six years? Was his presence - their meeting - the precursor to a miraculous return home?
Inevitably, thoughts turned towards the hypothetical and scenarios began playing out in Molly's mind's eye. She envisioned reuniting with her family and her friends; of what their reactions would be and what possible excuse she could give for having been missing for more than half a decade. As she ran down the list of plausible reasons and coming up with the grand total of nil, the hopelessness of her fate struck her anew. It was one thing to want something beyond belief, another to achieve that self-made utopia. She may return one day, to her time and her people – but there was no going back.
"Why are you crying?" his voice came out of the quiet, breaking her musings, though, he spoke barely above a whisper. In reaction, she hastily wiped her face and denied the accusation.
"You may have fooled me had you not thoroughly rubbed away the evidence; the light is not so good so I may have been persuaded that it was not tears in your eyes, but a natural brightness."
"Does it matter that I was crying?"
"I thought I would ask," he shrugged, "you have been taking care of me. I would not like to think that the strain has emotionally exhausted you."
Molly stared at him, mouth unsure of a forthcoming answer to his ridiculous statement, when suddenly, the purest sound escaped her. She laughed.
"That is an improvement to your scowling," he remarked.
Ignoring him, she clasped her hands over her face, resting her knuckles against her bent knees and let the gentle chuckles waver between pent up hysterics. A giggle here, a masked sob there; it was the release that was coming all day - since the moment she had witnessed Emory's murder.
"Regardless of your health, an acquaintance with you is likely to exhaust anybody," she resumed after a brief time; her voice thick.
"I have heard it said," he smiled. She noticed that there was no double meaning in the current expression.
Prompted by the rawness of the moment, she asked, "what do you want with me?"
His smile broadened before assuming a more sober air. Bringing her journal forth, he considered the green leather of its binding as if viewing it for the first time. Turning it in his hands, his eyes met hers and held the contact.
"Out of all my . . . visits to this land I have never encountered a random meeting. I once met the brother of King Aelle. It was not a good introduction for him," his tone possessed a matter-of-factness that attempted to disguise itself with an amount of playfulness. It only served to engage the listener the more, and Molly couldn't help feeling intrigued.
"Yet, the meeting itself held purpose. We received our ransom. We also humiliated the King. In my heart I know that there are yet more meetings to be had with that King; whether by myself or with a horde of men at my disposal. It is the nature of Fate is it not? Those we are destined to have in our lives, weaving in and out of our tale, for good or ill. We will meet them . . . and sometimes we will meet them again."
His gaze held hers strongly now.
"It is destiny that we have met again," he said quietly, "for, as I know of unfinished business with Aelle, I have known that you are my key to something new. You were a woman from another land when first we met; with raiment foreign to the peoples of my lands and to the lands of the Christians; with mysterious treasures and a book of fine quality containing a script illegible to all – including my monk.
You ask of me what I want with you, and I will tell you – I want to know what you know. I would have it all."
Molly did not shy away from his gaze as an ensuing silence fell between them. The space they occupied in that small cave needed a moment of its own ere they began speaking again. The snap and crack of the fire was enough to fill the void at present as each felt a fresh wall of hostility evaporate in the stuffy space.
Slowly, Molly reached a hand out, wordlessly asking for her journal. The Viking didn't hesitate in returning it once more.
It was a Celtic design on the cover, bought specifically in anticipation for her trip to the UK. She traced the Celtic knots and whorls, toying with the pages between as she psyched herself up for another glimpse of a life forever lost to her.
Opening to a random page she read the entry. The lines grew blurry as tears clouded her vision, but she would not blink lest the salty tear-drop smudge her writing. She managed a few paragraphs before decisively shutting the journal and wiping her eyes. She looked up to see that the Viking was watching her.
"What you ask of me is . . . personal," Molly admitted. Her voice was hushed. "What you call a book is a journal, my journal. It is my writing in these pages."
The Viking was surprised.
"And what is a – a gornull that women have the ability to write in them. What is written in them?"
"It is a place to record the events of a day; of the events of a certain time."
"Why? What is the point of that?" he continued to search.
Molly stared at him, amazed at his genuine ignorance of why such a practice would be beneficial.
"For memory," she explained. The Viking still did not look convinced of its usefulness.
"So a bunch of women are daily writing down the mundane routine of their duties and chores – "
"Men and women; and it is more than simply documenting the mundane. It captures the moments shared with people, of emotions and places. It is a thing to look back on when you are old and grey and share with your children and grandchildren."
"They are your stories then?" he concluded, grasping at an explanation that made sense to him. He seemed eager now.
"Yes. They are stories – sometimes badly told," she admitted, thinking of her own dismal writing, "but stories nonetheless."
"Will you read them to me?" he asked, sounding hopeful. She hesitated.
"No. I don't know. Not right now, at least," she wavered. She was unsure of the rapid progress in their communications and felt the impulse to revert to terms of antipathy and suspicion.
"You need rest and I – " she sighed. "I need to think."
She said no more to the Viking that night, and he in turn followed her instructions. The cave eventually filled with soft snores as weariness carried the Viking towards the regenerative sleep he had required hours prior. Molly did not watch him, but she could not help but wait for that inhale every time he mumbled out an exhale through parted lips. She feared he would die in the night and leave her defenseless in, what was now, enemy territory.
The quiet night opened to her, stilling the ticking clock of Time in an illusion of gained hours in which to contemplate her new circumstances. Only the fire was an indication of movement during the dead of night when any tint of dawn would be impossible to disturb her ruminations.
Alcohol and death. Those were her present concerns. They existed in the immediacy of unraveling events that she perhaps had the power to prevent. Sentiments and hopeful thoughts could be appreciated only in the peripheral at present.
The consequences of his death implied various outcomes. Relying on previous information, Molly assumed that he must have been separated from his brethren, for she doubted he had made it all the way to Wessex on his own. Her concern lay not in returning his body to his kin, but in avoiding those kin should he perish. She must also take into consideration the as-of-yet nameless foe the Viking had engaged with before their meeting. It was also true that she could not know how long her former master would pursue the hunt, and if she was not careful she might become the easily caught prey between three fierce forces. The only difference of that scenario should the Viking live would be the assumed protection he would extend over her should they make it to his Viking friends.
'But then,' Molly continued voicelessly, pursing her lips and raising her eyebrows, 'I would have to – again – find a way to escape him.'
The fear of the unknown and the half-guessed in regards to being taken to his lands raised a series of warning bells should he try to trick her onto a boat. Not least due to her own superstition of not leaving these shores. It was on this island that the doorway had opened for her unwilling passage. It was, therefore, this island that she must remain should that doorway ever open for her again.
Looking over her shoulder, Molly watched him. The flickering light cast by the diminishing fire nearly concealed the tattoos she'd earlier noticed on the sides of his shaved head, making the color appear as the first growth of hair after a buzz cut. He had aged since their first encounter. She remembered his hair being thicker atop his scalp and his beard not so long. There was some grey there too, and momentarily she wondered how old he was.
Her eyes traveled down towards his wound. Its redness had not faded, nor did she expect it to. Of course there was a possibility that it would not get infected, though, she felt that was a big 'if'. Creeping slowly towards the fore of her mind, an idea was formulating into an impulsive sketch of a plan.
The gamekeeper kept a still near abouts. The bluff they sheltered at the base of was south of the manor. Molly knew the gamekeeper preferred height for his precious still; she had once come across it and was nearly chased away by his shouts and some farming implement she hadn't had the time to inspect.
Turning her gaze back to the outside world, she craned her head to look up at the pitch night. It was unlikely that he would be there at this time. She was also encouraged by the lack of moonlight that would have highlighted her progress to any who may have been watching.
Reclining back into herself, Molly huddled her knees close to her chest, resting her brow against them. It was a risk. Was she willing to go that far in order to maintain her shield? She looked back at him, gritting her teeth, though not in anger or annoyance directed at him. It was a reflexive action against the fear of cowardice.
She did not like him; she knew plainly that her only interest in caring for him was selfish. Yet there was that spark of humanity that had been instilled in her through her religion. Sanctity for life. Unrelated to her own desires, his death was not something she craved. And if their second meeting was truly Fate she would never forgive herself for remaining passive when she had the power to act.
