by J P Sayle
He was pleased that Magnus let him finish before he spoke.
“Are you telling me that Óláfr and I are destined for each other?”
The giddy happiness that came with those words had him sending a scowl to Óláfr, which he blatantly ignored. He could sense Óláfr trying to read his thoughts and see what he was doing, but the block Christina had shown him under duress was holding Óláfr at bay for the time being. Serves him right. He should be here sorting this mess, not hiding like a coward in his chamber.
Cuddling into Magnus, feeling disgruntled all over again, he purposefully avoided his negative thoughts so he could concentrate on Magnus. He didn’t want him to think his anger was in any way directed at him, not now that Magnus was opening up to the possibilities of their connection. He continued to talk, letting the hope he felt rise inside Magnus as he soothed his ruffled fur. Maximillian tried to give him hope that things would work out and that they’d get out of the dingy, freezing cell and soon.
Óláfr
Óláfr shifted from foot to foot, huffing as the silence encased him in his chamber. He knew he was hiding, but the feelings inside him were not giving him a moment’s rest. He felt at a complete loss as to what to do next. He’d already watched the sun rise and set three times. He was no closer to deciding on Magnus’s fate when the presence of their connection sat like a brightening star in the inky black of what appeared to be constant night in the never-ending darkness of his mind.
Striding to the wooden platform that housed his fur pelts, he plonked himself down, his hand automatically going for the hide on which Magnus had slept. Raising it to his nose, he inhaled deeply, not acknowledging the sliver of disappointment sliding into his heart when he couldn’t find the lemongrass scent that had teased him previously. He threw the pelt to the floor, sighing in frustration at his actions. He gave another internal shout for Maximillian. Anger bubbled inside his chest when all he got was the continued quiet.
He did not want to admit how much he missed Maximillian’s presence, so used to it he could not remember a time it had not been there, that reassuring buzz at the back of his mind. His secret, his gift from Manannán, though it didn’t feel like it at the moment when he was blatantly snubbing him.
Rolling his head, he tried to release the tension forming at the base of his neck. He felt he was drifting in a longboat with no oars to guide him in the direction of home. The nagging voice that was usually Maximillian’s now sounded like his own, reminding him of the route he needed to take. Down into the dungeon. To Magnus.
Magnus. Have I had a thought that did not include the small red-headed man in eons?
He couldn’t recall when he’d first noticed his presence, but by the God Njord, his body seemed to. And now it was all he could do to stop himself from reacting when he was in the same room. It didn’t help that the growing heat in his chest seemed to spread like wildfires in the fire pit.
His jaw locked at the thought of trying to explain, his what?
My emotions?
My body’s reactions?
“Arghhhh.”
His hands twitched at his sides with the need for action. When he jumped up, the wood under him creaked ominously, but he was unaware as he stormed across the room and out the door. He headed down the dim passageway. His feet slapped against the hard cold stone, kicking up dirt as he moved. It was when he stopped at the exact spot where he’d found his beloved in a heap on the floor, he realised what his intention was. Memories he didn’t want to have pushed to remind him of how broken and vulnerable Magnus had been lying on the ground. His sodden clothing and their combined scent had damned his beloved as nothing else could.
Why had he left the safety of my chamber while I slept?
He knew the answer, and it shamed him, giving cold satisfaction and no comfort. His heart still clattered in his chest at the sudden images that Maximillian had thrust into his sleeping brain, not allowing him more than a chance to cover his loins and go to his beloved.
There was that word again.
Why does it have to continue to plague me?
Why?
His lower lip plumped up between his teeth. Chewing it unmercifully, he considered why his heart wanted to use such a word. Beloved. It seemed to suit the swirling emotions Magnus evoked in him, but that was not to say he liked them very much. His head thrust back, causing his dark hair to cascade over his shoulders. He cursed Manannán for giving him the gift of a beloved.
“How am I supposed to rule, be King when my betrothed is a man?”
He ignored the clenching inside his chest when no answer came. It had been the same every time of asking. He hesitated, realising too late he was standing in the middle of the dim passageway talking to himself. He shook his head in despair and stormed towards the stairwell. His gaze travelled down, knowing it led to Magnus. He paused for a moment, fists balling, his neck heated with guilt as he made his feet move in the other direction.
Needing air, he pushed the roughened wood door open. He gulped in the soft, salty air as he inhaled, hoping it would ease the ache that seemed to grow with each step he took away from where his heart wanted to go. He panted, feeling sweat bead on his forehead. Pushing back his dark hair, he willed the sudden compelling urge to turn around and go back away. Gripping the cold stone wall, he forced himself to breathe through the need, letting the sounds of the gulls and rushing waves distract him.
There was no sun to brighten the greying sky that blended with the murky sea as it swirled and rolled over the rocks. The horizon spread before him. The clouds did not allow him to see the Scottish mountains that would hopefully soon be his.
He understood why his father had picked this spot to build, to protect his land from invasion. They had fought many battles here, and there would be many more to come before he could rightfully claim what was his. His anger seethed, boiling through his veins, wanting justice for what his brother had stolen from him.
Thinking of battles to come, the infiltrating sounds of clanging metal met his ears. A slow, evil grin spread across his bronzed cheeks, his eyes alighting at the idea of a fight. Óláfr detoured around the brem, going directly to the bailey. The sounds grew louder. Metal hitting metal sang out across the land in anticipation of the fight, making him quicken his pace. That would be a perfect distraction from his wayward thoughts and nagging needs.
Going to the large wooden table set at the edge of the bailey, he perused the options displayed on the wood surface housing the battle axes, spears, and swords. Óláfr picked up a long sword, relishing the weight in his hand. He felt the cold metal send tiny shivers up his arm as he swung it, slicing through the air. The energy he had not been able to release returned, running rampant through his veins, encouraging him to move. He walked around a stockade, going directly to the large piece of ground they used to maintain their fighting skills.
Brooding eyes surveyed the battling Norsemen searching for, yes, Arngrim’s big ugly arse. Perfect.
The drive coursing through him had his heart beating erratically against his ribs as if already seeking the fight. The excitement inside him felt reminiscent of when he had joined with Magnus. Óláfr growled in frustration at where his thoughts were taking him yet again. His body responded against his will as the nature of their connection projected into his mind in full, glorified colour.
“Stop tormenting me, Maximillian, please. I do not need to see this time after time.” His silent pleas went unanswered as they had since he had fought with Maximillian. The only connection he had were the pictures of Magnus filling his mind, and he wasn’t entirely sure they were Maximillian’s doing. He had avoided making any decision about Magnus. Rather than deal with the issue, he had taken the time to prepare for the up-and-coming battle with his brother. The word coward continued to haunt his waking thoughts. Not that it was helping his beloved.
Shaking himself, he pressed the negative thoughts to the back of his mind and allowed the offer he had received the previous eve from his
brother, Rögnvaldr to enter his mind. It appeared he wanted to welcome Óláfr back into the family. He had suggested a betrothal to Lauon, the daughter of a nobleman from Kintyre who also happened to be the sister of Rögnvaldr’s wife. It seemed to be a solution to stop the bloodshed.
Rögnvaldr generously offered to give him the Isle of Lewis as a betrothal gift and peace offering. Unsure if this were for the best and unable to seek advice from Maximillian, he’d stupidly gone to speak with the bishop. Regret filled him at not realising sooner that Arngrim would have gone and talked about the situation with Magnus.
He recalled the conversation which had been painful in ways he’d not expected.
When he sought out the bishop at the church that he’d had constructed not long after his arrival, the smell of mildew and rotting vegetables met his nose as he opened the wooden door to enter. Stifling a curse at the sense of unease that skittered up his spine, he forced his shoulders back, standing tall. His eyes adjusted to the dimmed light, seeking out the bishop. He should not have been surprised to see him kneeling, praying to his Christian God. He was loathed to interrupt, but the urgent need for advice drove him forward, and his leather-clad feet moved silently across the dirt floor.
“Bishop Fingan, may I have a moment?” His voice seemed loud in the quiet of the church. Óláfr watched as the bishop clutched at the cross hanging around his neck before turning to acknowledge his presence. The small, spiteful smile that crossed his fat lips had Óláfr wishing he had not bothered, realising too late that Arngrim had already been to speak with the bishop. The cross that Arngrim had taken to wearing under his kyrtill demonstrated where his own beliefs lay, and clearly influenced by Bishop Fingan.
Óláfr rushed to speak, and he hoped to avoid any conversation about Magnus. “I have received word from my brother Rögnvaldr. He wishes to seek a truce and stop the fighting. He is also suggesting a betrothal between Lauon and me. What would you suggest?” Óláfr was distracted when Bishop Fingan moved to a wooden stool which sat at the altar. His large gut wobbled as he sat on the chair, making it groan under his weight.
“I’m glad you came to visit me, Óláfr. I had planned to come and talk about some concerns that have been raised with me. I was hoping you had decided on what needs to happen to Magnus?”
Bishop Fingan’s nasally screeching voice grated on Óláfr’s nerves.
“I did not come to discuss Magnus. I have, as yet, made no decision as to what I will do with him. I understand Arngrim’s concern, but there was little evidence that I could see.” Óláfr’s hope that would close the conversation died when a malicious light sprang into the bishop’s beady eyes.
“Tell me, Óláfr. Do you not believe in the new teachings on Christianity? There is no place in this world for those who chose a different path. We need to show the Norsemen what happens to them if they go against their Christian god. Now, tell me when we will be carrying out the blood eagle. It has been many moons since I have witnessed one. It is time to remind ourselves that we live in different times now, and we must embrace these new ways. Don’t you agree?” Bishop Fingan’s beady eyes froze him in place as his words had him doubting the feelings that battled to come to the surface and fight for Magnus.
Relenting, he agreed after he couldn’t find a reasonable argument to stop the madness, leaving the bishop making plans for Magnus’s death. A public show so his people would see they would not tolerate this unspoken love between the same sexes, even though past generations had had no issue with it. Defeated by his guilt and suffering, he’d prayed to the Goddess Freya to take Magnus to her realm of Folkyang after his death and protect him in the afterlife.
He could still feel his conflicted emotions battling with his heart and head. Yanking his long hair off his moody face, he marched towards Arngrim. It was only right that he be the one to give him an outlet for the bubbling anger brewing like the storms that hit the island from time to time. They ripped through the longhouses, trying to tear them apart from the very ground, demolishing them back to nothing, much as he wished to do to Arngrim.
His brooding, heavy-lidded eyes watched Arngrim battling with a far smaller Norseman. Arngrim, unaware of his presence, fought with Erik. Óláfr watched unhindered. An understanding dawned that Arngrim picked on lesser, punier men, to fight. Had he been so blinded by his thoughts of Magnus that he had missed this vital piece of information of his second in command?
Anger pulsed in the centre of his chest at Arngrim’s lack of courage. Clenching the sword in his vast right hand, he stuck the blade between the two men, pushing Erik back so he could meet Arngrim head-on. A feral grin spread across his flushed cheeks, and heat spread as blood pumped at the anticipation of kicking his arse.
The already charged air seemed to spark with violence with each breath he took. He watched Arngrim’s eyes fill with confusion as he pointed his sword towards where the others were stacked. Men stopped fighting around them as if sensing something was about to happen. They watched him with curious eyes, but Óláfr ignored them.
Dismissing Erik, he caught the look of relief before the man bowed and scuttled off to join the crowd at the edge of the bailey. Disregarding the silence that fell over the group, he gave Arngrim a malevolent scowl.
“Grab a sword. We will fight like real Norsemen.” His harsh command and inference that Arngrim was not a real Norseman had Arngrim’s brow arching and a scowl spreading across his face.
Óláfr searched the rocky outcrop next to the sea. Wanting more of a challenge, he pointed to the spot right next to the thrashing sea. The jagged, wet, slippery rocks would make it harder to keep their footing. It ensured they had to keep their wits about them and use whatever skills they had to stay ahead of their opponent. It would keep them both on their toes while the sea was spraying the land with every roll of the incoming waves.
Swapping the sword over into his other hand, he quickly rubbed his sweaty palm down his clothed leg, wiping away the moisture. He used his kyrtill to wipe the sword handle that was now hot to the touch from his body heat. His eyes narrowed as he watched Arngrim retreat. His lips lifted in a hint of a smile at the disadvantage he had forced on Arngrim, whom he knew hated to use the sword, preferring the battle-axe and his vast bulk to annihilate his opponents.
Óláfr’s preference had always been for close contact, which he got fighting with a sword. The sword offered the opportunity to look into a man’s eyes as you killed them, letting them know who had all the power, him. His cruel nature surfaced at the thought, masking his feelings behind shuttered eyes. He tapped his foot impatiently, taking the time to survey the ground for any hidden pitfalls. Opening all his senses, he calmed his breathing, centring himself for the battle to come.
As Arngrim approached warily, he indicated for him to move to the rockiest part of the ground. He gave him a once-over, considering his opponent’s weaknesses. Arngrim was only slightly shorter than him making eye contact easy. He wanted him to see his disgust and anger when Arngrim shifted his bulky body. The wobbling layers of blubber indicated there was more fat than muscle hidden beneath his kyrtill.
A moment of pity filled Óláfr for the unforgiving ugliness that was Arngrim’s face. His broad forehead, bulbous nose, and tiny beady eyes matched his mean personality perfectly.
Arngrim overt aggression worked in a fight, especially when they battled together. But his earlier realisation returned. It seemed Arngrim preferred to fight only smaller men, avoiding any one of the same build or larger. Well, that was about to end.
Óláfr felt the snarl rise as he was unable to contain his revulsion at Arngrim’s apparent weakness. His teeth gleamed against his bronzed skin as he peeled back his lips, sneering, a predatory gleam highlighting his dark eyes. It was the only acknowledgement he gave Arngrim before he lunged, thrusting his sword against Arngrim’s. His arm muscles sang from the violence unleashed with his anger. Whirling away, watching his footing, he felt the sharp rocks dig into the soft leather covering the soles of his f
eet. Ignoring the pain, he dived forward again, clashing his sword with all his might against Arngrim’s.
The sound of the wind died, leaving only the sounds of blades ringing out across the sea and land. Óláfr’s feet moved silently across the rocky ground. Slipping, he righted himself and balanced on the balls of his feet, waiting for the oncoming attack. Bracing himself as Arngrim charged like the large bulls they bred for food. Pivoting to the side, he blocked with his broad shoulder, knocking into Arngrim’s wobbling stomach. Arngrim’s weight shifted dramatically, having him topple towards the rough ground. The resounding cry as Arngrim landed on his knees had a maniacal grin spreading across Óláfr’s lips.
Not having time to enjoy the moment, Óláfr felt the air around him move as Arngrim got up. Dodging, he used the power now coursing through him to pounce, thrusting and slashing at Arngrim, barely allowing him time to block him. Óláfr felt the sweat gather between his shoulder blades and slide down his spine, making his kyrtill stick to his body. The material restricted his movement as it clung. Cursing that he had no time to remove the disruptive clothing, he felt the zing of the blade against his. The thrum spread through his body, making it sing. The force unleashed as his rage relished the flow of heat rushing through him, embracing the insanity it brought with it as it clouded his mind to reality, allowing the beast out.
He pivoted gracefully around the lumbering Arngrim. Rage coated his vision, causing violent hues of red to sear his eyes as if it surrounded them. The need to cause harm ate its way through his control. The wish to make Arngrim bleed and pay for his crimes was too much to contain.
Óláfr hunted his prey, scenting victory. His predatory movements were opposite to Arngrim’s lumbering, slipping and stumbling over the rocky outcrop. He sensed the kill as Arngrim struggled to find his feet on the uneven ground. Their swords sang loudly. The sound was music to Óláfr’s soul, and power flooded him, lifting away the light, giving him only the dark. His name rang out across the sea, Óláfr the Black.