by Faye, Amy
A few short feet. A few easy feet. It could have been a mile. She wasn't moving, no matter what she tried, and the time that she managed to keep her head out of the water seemed to be shorter and shorter each time. With a startling, terrified realization, she saw that it wasn't a few short feet, though. The boat had gone another hundred yards in the time that she'd bobbed there.
A strong arm wrapped around her, under her shoulders. Pulled her backwards through the water. Gunnar had her. She sucked in breath, kicking her feet to try to help keep them awake, but they tangled with his. She tried to turn, to grab him, so that he would have both arms.
She could feel her heart beating. Could feel the panic, threatening to overwhelm her. Her body still refused to move the way she wanted it to. A few deep breaths, and then her nose dipped below the water. She hadn't wanted to admit it. After all, she trusted Gunnar. Knew that he would save her, would protect her. He had already saved her, after all.
But they were miles out from the shore. He couldn't carry them both, and now, though she hated to admit it, they were sinking. It was only a matter of time. She grabbed tight 'round his neck, felt them come back out of the water again. She let out a breath and sucked in another as fast as her lungs were able. This time when they dipped it went over her eyes.
She tried to fight down the panic. She wasn't helping him. She was making things harder. He needed her to calm down. Needed her to relax. She forced herself to stillness. Breathed in deep and held it as they dipped back under the water. She opened her eyes back up, scanning the horizon for the boat. But she couldn't see it.
The ship was sailing on, seeming to get further with every second, and at the same time the little boat that Valdemar had stolen had disappeared. Gunnar was fighting below her, coming back to the surface to breathe, holding them for a few seconds at a time. Long enough to take two, perhaps three long, slow breaths before she had to suck in a last one that would last her until they came back out.
But she knew that they would drown, alone in the sea. There was no way they were going to make it out now. Gunnar stopped fighting it below her. His legs kicked slowly, but he had stopped moving his arms. Was he already too tired to continue? Was it because he had to carry both of them?
She tried to copy his movements, to paddle them both back toward the surface of the water. It was close enough that with her arm outstretched she could feel the open night air.
Just a little bit would be enough to give them both another breath of life. Would save them for another minute or two. Long enough for Ulf to turn the ship around, and bring it around to them. But her strokes did nothing for them. They sunk more, the dark of the sea slowly wrapping around them.
Then Gunnar surged back powerfully. Deirdre felt the belt wrapped around his waist come undone and slip off. They crested out of the water hard. Deirdre sucked in water. The effort to stop panicking was gone now. She couldn't stop herself any more.
She felt like laughing. Felt like crying. The knowledge that she was going to die, and that there was nothing they could do about it, brought a strange freedom. What did it matter what she did now? She could panic. She could have anything she wanted.
Brigid didn't matter any more. Answers didn't matter. Gunnar's fighting didn't matter. Nothing mattered. She was going to die here, and that was that. Easy. No need to untangle anything. No need to understand. Gunnar fought below her to keep them afloat. But it was pointless. They were never going to make it to shore, and she had doomed them both by jumping in after him.
Now both boats were too far to reach. She tried to look for them, but her eyes wouldn't focus. She could barely see her the back of Gunnar's head, inches in front of her face.
They dipped below the surface again. Deirdre couldn't hold her breath. Couldn't stop laughing long enough. It didn't matter. She sucked in a breath that was half-way salt water and she closed her eyes as they were engulfed in water. It was just a matter of time now. They might as well stop fighting.
Something from below, from deep in the sea, reached and grabbed her round the waist and pulled her. Or was it from above? She couldn't tell.
She came free of the water and was laid out on the seats of the rowboat, still laughing as the tears streamed down her face.
Gunnar felt someone lifting Deirdre off him, but he was too exhausted to figure what it was. He hadn't expected her to follow him in, and he especially hadn't figured on her panicking the way that she had. He surged back to the surface with a last bit of effort, floated on his back as best he could. Took the opportunity to take in a few slow breaths and regain his composure.
There was a hand, shoved into his face. He took it. Whatever was going on, he'd get out of this water. The boat tipped a little as he was pulled on, then it straightened and Gunnar was lying on the seats of the little row-boat that Valdemar had stolen. Deirdre lay beside him, her panicked laughing cut in with sobs. He frowned. That wasn't how he liked to see her. Not one bit.
Gunnar laid his head back. He still had to catch his breath. That was the only thing he could do for her at the moment. Once he was breathing again, he could see to her, he could get her on land. Then she'd be alright. But until then, he was sorry to say, she would have to wait.
He played through the last few minutes in his mind. He hadn't let himself think at all, the whole time. Just kept moving, conserving what strength he could. Carrying another in the water was hard, but it was nothing compared to carrying someone while they tried their damned best to drown in a panic.
He pulled himself upright. Valdemar was rowing them down the way, decidedly not looking at them. His eyes were on the horizon, and Gunnar and Deirdre were just in the way of the deep dark he stared out into. Gunnar was thankful for that much.
He turned to the woman beside him, soaked straight through to the bone. She was coughing hard, between being racked with sobs. But that was the best that he could hope for, he reminded himself. It could have been so much worse.
She'd breathed in some water, and her body wasn't getting rid of it properly. More than that, she was losing color in her face fast. Gunnar reached a finger into her mouth and tried to clear her throat of any obstructions, then breathed in. He had to do something. He turned her over and tried to squeeze the air out.
She coughed harder over his shoulder, then promptly pulled herself loose and heaved over the side, then sicked into the water. She pushed herself back into the seat beside him. She looked more tired than he'd ever seen her. Small and defeated, nothing like the rebellious, fiery woman he had seen when he first looked at her.
Gunnar stood up to move to take the oars, and saw her stiffen.
"It's okay. You're okay. We're safe." He tried to keep his voice, usually gruff, as soft as he could. She was scared. She let out another sob of laughter before she could stop herself. He could see it bothered her from the way she balled up her fists at her sides. But he couldn't help that.
Gunnar took the other set of oars and started working with Valdemar. They'd have words, and saving Deirdre was enough to cross out the betrayal, but Gunnar's pride still hurt from the loss, and he knew that Valdemar didn't think their rivalry was over, either.
They'd been on a collision course the entire time, and it was only when the English took them that they were forced to put it aside. Just long enough to get free. They couldn't fight it out on the little boat, so they would have to row.
Gunnar let himself settle into the rhythm of the movement and let his mind be still. He could never tell Deirdre, never in a thousand lifetimes, how close they had come to dying.
She could think what she wanted to think, but he couldn't let her realize that he thought they had come to the point where he was just putting off the inevitable. That little comfort would have to be enough for her.
And he could never let Valdemar know, either. Every one of them knew what had happened, but Gunnar wouldn't talk about it. Not ever.
The sun was beginning to peak over the sky when they hit land. Gunnar was surprised ho
w quickly the time had gone. It felt as if it had only been a few minutes, but it must have been hours. His muscles and joints ached with the strain of rowing. It was as if he'd fallen asleep rowing and his body had just kept moving.
The land seemed to jerk Deirdre awake, as well. She crawled out of the boat and laid on her back, looking up at the sky and feeling the stony beach on her back. Gunnar stood and stepped off, unsure whether or not Valdemar would follow.
Perhaps he planned to go up the coast somewhere. His entire reasoning for taking it, they'd never questioned. Nor, Gunnar thought, would he ask now. But Valdemar followed them onto land, the only one of the three with dry clothes.
The sun, even low as it was, provided a comforting warmth that helped revitalize Gunnar.
"It looks like you're going to live," Valdemar offered.
"It looks like we will," Gunnar agreed. How long they would be able to go without someone recognizing one of them, he wouldn't wager on.
"We never settled our little disagreement." He'd been thinking the same as Gunnar, that it would come to a fight. Who was Gunnar to deny him?
Both of them worked out the tightness in their muscles for a moment. Gunnar held out a hand, his eyes on the sword hanging at Valdemar's belt. He wouldn't dare, would he?
Valdemar took it. He would at least show that much respect. Then he stepped back, pulled the belt loose, and dropped it. So it was to be a fair fight after all.
The duel began properly—Gunnar and his rival grasped each other 'round the waist. Whoever would be able to throw the other, in the old ways, would be the winner. But Gunnar knew that wouldn't be the end of the fight. He had the size disadvantage by several inches and a score of pounds, but he wasn't about to let that ruin him.
He dropped his hips and pulled, feeling Valdemar get light on his feet. It was close, but not close enough. Gunnar replayed the events of the entire journey in his mind as Valdemar started to get traction, as Gunnar felt his weight leaving his feet.
He'd been pushed, prodded, and he knew that Valdemar had played a role in his injury. The timing was too close. How he had known what to do, Gunnar couldn't begin to say. Then the idea flashed into his mind. Only one person had known what to do.
White-hot anger streaked through his mind and he pulled his hand free of Valdemar's waist, pulled it back, and stuffed it in the bigger man's face. They went down in a pile, and Gunnar used the advantage to continue raining blows down.
He felt the blood coming, felt Valdemar's attempts to fight back. The pain of the blows just drove him to hit harder. He took Valdemar by his collar and dragged him into the water. Used his weight to push the man's head down, and sat on him to hold him down.
The only thing that pulled him back to reality was the realization that Deirdre was pulling on him with all her might. He stood up, Valdemar jerking upright and sputtering the air out.
"He saved our lives," she said softly. And as much as Gunnar didn't want to admit it, that was the truth. He looked at her, the anger still hot.
She had tried to kill him.
Forty
Gunnar hadn't spoken to her since they'd left. He'd just started stalking off. It had taken a while to get him headed in remotely the right direction of the cottage, since he seemed to be more than ready to ignore her the whole way.
She wasn't sure what had set him off, the way he was. What could have happened in the midst of that fight? What had made him so angry? She couldn't understand the words that were said, but it wasn't hard to figure what was happening. They were just in the midst of a duel, of some kind.
Some strange, mannish grappling… thing. But then Gunnar had just decided to kill Valdemar all of a sudden. She'd pulled him off, and he'd looked at Deirdre like it would be her next. Then, as quick as you like, he was stalking off into the mainland, and wouldn't explain a bit of it.
She knew what she was afraid he had figured. But he couldn't have. After all this time… unless Valdemar had told him, but then he'd waited a good long time to react to the news. Why would he figure it out now? No, the very idea was absurd. Of course he hadn't figured out her role in his injuries.
And if he had, then he would realize that all she'd really done was try to give him what he wanted. He would realize it, right? She swallowed. He couldn't just—
She already knew well enough that he could. He didn't tell her when he stopped to make camp for the night. Didn't seem to be listening when she told him that she had money to buy food the next day, even if it was still a bit damp.
The first sign that he'd been reacting to anything in the outside world at all was when he diverted south, taking them through a town. Even then, he didn't stop to look at anything. Just came through, his eyes darting left and right, daring someone to challenge him.
Deirdre grasped his arm, pulled it until he whirled round. She was ready for him to shout at her. Instead he pursed his lips and gently tried to turn back.
"Talk to me!"
The words came out more forcefully than she had expected, but she couldn't deny that the frustration had built to the point where she wasn't sure that she much cared whether or not she was being forceful. She needed to talk to him, to understand what in the hell was upsetting him so much, and the only way she could do that was if she forced him to speak to her.
"What's there to talk about?" His voice was hard and bitter.
"What did I do?"
"You tried to kill me," he said.
So he had figured it out. It had taken him a while, and for a time Deirdre had hoped that her little secret would go with her to the grave. But it had come out. How could she ever hope to make it up to him, really?
But she couldn't think about that now. She just had to focus on making sure that she did what she could. If she lied—that wasn't an option. He would know. He wasn't stupid.
"That was—a long time ago. And you asked me to help you. I…" She stopped herself. There wasn't much excuse for what she was doing. None at all, really. Not if she was being honest with herself. She frowned. She had tried to kill him.
She'd ruined any chances with him before she'd even realized she wanted one, and now she was getting what she deserved. Deirdre nodded. She understood now.
"Very good," she said softly. Then she pushed past him, dropped her head down low as she walked, and started the way back home. It would be a long one, but she had time. Plenty of time to think about how bad she'd fucked up.
Gunnar watched her go. He could feel the anger in him still. It had cooled over the past days, but he knew that any little provocation might set it ablaze again, just as hot. Part of him wanted to be angry that she would leave. That she would deny him the satisfaction he deserved.
But mostly he felt… empty. What was the point? The only woman he'd cared about, these thirty-six years, had just admitted to plotting to murder him. She hadn't even tried to deny it. Just explain why it was alright.
But it wasn't alright. He sucked in a deep breath. It wasn't alright at all, and he wasn't going to take it.
He had abandoned his life back home. Had abandoned everything that had been part of him, and for what? So that he could be with someone who wanted him dead.
He sat down on a stoop and brooded. Sooner or later, someone would come by. They'd ask what he was doing there, and he would tell them. He was waiting for his opportunity to start right back where he'd left off.
But as the time passed, as Deirdre was hidden by crowds, and then by distance, he thought about the past weeks. She was right about it being a long time ago. Things had changed for him since then.
All he had cared about then was battle. Raiding was who he was, and when he healed so completely from every wound he'd taken, what was the point of gathering these stories he could never tell?
After he had lost control of the party, something had changed. Something deeper than just whether or not he could give people orders. He'd changed, he wasn't the same person as he had been any more. A month ago, two months ago, he would never have cons
idered giving up the place he had carved out for himself back home.
Now he'd given up the chance to ever go home. He couldn't deny, the changes were bigger than he had realized. He stood up. It would be a long way, but it was only a matter of time until he caught her.
Deirdre's feet hurt. It didn't much matter. She would keep walking. She had a long way to go until she got home, and then she could curl up in her heavy blankets, and she'd let herself cry, and then she would just have to think about how badly she had played out the events since she had gotten captured.
How much of an idiot she had been the entire time.
She'd have an eternity to think about what could have been, if only he hadn't realized, or if she hadn't been such a fool to have sided with Valdemar. All the death, all the carnage, it was all her fault.
Now Gunnar was who-knows-where, doing who-knows-what. Would he look at other women? She assumed he must have. Assumed that he must have had plenty of female admirers back where he'd come from. If he was lucky, he could go back.
Back, as far away from her as possible. She barely heard the footsteps coming up behind before she felt a hand on her shoulder, pull her, turn her around.
For the first time in five years, Deirdre was facing her teacher, and she realized she had been wrong.
Brigid hadn't aged a day.
Gunnar's body was still tired from the past week. He could feel the hunger gnawing at him again. He already knew that Deirdre had wanted to get away from the camp. He wanted the moment back, walking, to do it again. But if he had it all to do again, what were the odds he would do anything different?
He already knew the answer, though he wasn't happy about it. And unless Deirdre was a much more capable witch than he had realized, with much more fantastic powers, thinking about doing it over meant nothing. He had to go and deal with what he had done, regardless of what he wanted.