Rune King

The sun was shining bright on her back, and the day was the warmest in months, and everything seemed right for her arrival home when Deirdre pulled the horse up in front. She shifted herself off, her bottom and hips sore from the ride, and then let go of the reins and stepped back. What was she supposed to do with this horse? She seemed satisfied to wander and graze on the forest grass, so Deirdre pulled the saddle off and let her do that.

The smells were all familiar, and yet at the same time it had been such a long time since she smelled them that it was almost foreign. As if it were someone else's house, someone else's stale air, someone else's herbs and someone else's flowers, now dead.

She let out a long sigh. There was cleaning to be done, and then she'd be able to enjoy a long day to herself. Like she'd always used to. Maybe she could get one of the kids to fetch her some food from the butcher—the realization hit her like a punch in the gut. Not likely, not at all likely. There wasn't going to be a butcher's shop, not any more. Not here. It was gone now.

She sat down in the wooden chair she'd set out for herself, all that time ago, to sit by the fire. She was going to be sick. The distance, the strain had all made it that much easier to deal with their deaths, but now she had nothing but her little house and the memory of what she'd been surrounded by for all this time.

She forced herself to stand back up, grab a rag, and walk out to the little well they kept out back. She filled the bucket and then brought it inside, wet the rag, and started to wipe down everything in sight. It was nice to see it all coming so clean, so nice. All of her things, as beautiful as when she'd left them. How she would manage it, she didn't know. But she did know one thing, she'd never leave it again.

That was the right way to go, she decided. Then she couldn't lose it all again. She had to toss what meat she'd had remaining. The awful smell permeated the pantry, turning her already-frustrating nausea up another notch. She managed to keep herself together just long enough to carry it out past her little garden and dump it into the compost.

Once she was back inside the smell had already faded, for which she was infinitely thankful, and she settled into the other chair. The comfortable one, but it was heavier, so she wasn't about to move that one by the fireplace. She looked at the rag ruefully, but it wasn't worth it. She'd done the important stuff already.

Deirdre hadn't realized how tired she was until she let herself sit, let the wind out of her sails. She was hungry, as well, but that could wait. It took a real force of effort to push herself up, but she managed it and started to climb the steps to the bedroom, already working the snaps on her ruined dress until it came apart.

She'd never slept with her clothes on, for years, and then she couldn't even sleep in a bed for the past month. Returning to her routine was more than she could have ever asked for. She let the dress lay in a pile on the floor. There would be time later for her to deal with it, decide whether or not it was worth repairing. The blood would likely never come back out.

She slid into her bed, the heavy blanket simultaneously familiar and foreign, like an old friend she hadn't seen in a while, and in a certain sense that was exactly what it was. She looked at the bedside. She was too old for dolls, but she could never let Mags go, either. The last little reminder that she'd had a life before living here, she had spent the last years on the bedside.

But it was a time to get acquainted with old friends. She reached over and pulled the little rag doll off her perch and into her arms, wrapped 'round them tight, closed her eyes, and let herself drift off to a light nap. Or at least, that was what she told herself it was going to be. The sun dipped lower and lower as she slept until it was gone completely.

By the time she woke again, the sun was up. She gave Mags a little kiss on the forehead and set her back on the table. Such a sweetie, she cooed in her mind. Then she pushed the blankets back off and stood up. Her wardrobe was much nicer than having to wear the same thing every day. The same mud-covered, torn, blood-soaked thing, every single day. And a pair of shoes—imagine how that would feel, after all the time since she'd had those! To finally have a stable footing in the dirt!

Already she was planning her day out. She'd have to check the gardens first, of course. There would be more cleaning to do, getting the rest of the house dusted, making sure there wasn't another pest infestation.

The thought hit her like a bolt of lightning. What was Gunnar doing? Was he alright? Had he survived? She knew he had. She'd heard the folks in some of the towns on the way home; news was spreading fast.

There was going to be a big execution in Norwich, and while nobody said they were going, it was supposed to be quite the event. They'd set it well in advance, so anyone who wanted to could come. Very pompous.

Deirdre ha

d ignored it when she heard it. After all, they had nothing to worry about. First, because those men were the very same men who had killed all those good English folks. They deserved whatever they got.

Second, because she'd seen them fight, and if they wanted to escape, how could they be kept prisoner?

She dressed quickly and was out before she could think too much about it, get herself in trouble. But instead of inspecting or cleaning, she found herself standing on the back step of her cottage wondering how Gunnar was doing. Was he alright?

It was one thing to say that she didn't care whether he lived or died. He obviously hadn't cared whether or not she was alright, or he would have come with her.

It was an entirely different thing to try to mean it. She shook her head. No, she couldn't afford to think like that. She was home. This was what she wanted. She had thought they might have some kind of future together, but obviously they didn't, so she needed to forget about it. She checked on the horse, who hadn't gone far. She could still see the girl from the front of the house.

She wasn't thinking about going to Norwich. That much she knew. There was no reason for her to go, after all. Nothing for her there except a few men she'd been kept captive by getting what they deserved.

Them, and Gunnar, who deserved what he got the most of all.

She was already pulling on a coat and packing a bag before she knew what she was doing. Getting the saddle back on the horse was easy, the Blue was a gentle little sweetheart. Getting her going was just as easy, and leaving her home again… she chose not to think about it.

Gunnar felt Deirdre in his head like an itch he couldn't scratch. She had left him behind, that was sure. But that didn't mean he hadn't spent most of the last weeks thinking about her. It was as much a habit as it was something he had to do. Something that she drove him to do.

What was she doing right now? Was she happy? Was she still safe? Had she managed to make it back to her little cottage, the one she'd wanted to return to for so long? If she hadn't, what was he going to do about it locked up in here?

He took a deep breath and tried to move on, but the pool pulled him back. He couldn't sleep—his eyes ached, his head throbbed, and he wanted nothing more than to slip into comforting sleep, but he lay awake in spite of it. How could he get over this? Death, at this point, would be a relief because at least he wouldn't feel so damned tired any more.

He imagined the sight of her, surrounded by yellow flowers. Making sure that they stayed healthy, with her little tricks. She would have little tricks to keep her flowers alive, he knew. She seemed like the sort of person who had a talent for it. He couldn't help the smile that crossed his face.

Nor could he help imagining himself there, with her. Imagining their life together, the life they couldn't ever have. Not any more, not unless he escaped from this prison.

The plan was a good one. It relied on the big oaf of a prison guard, someone had called him Luke, doing what he naturally wanted to do anyway. Then Gunnar would do what he was good at. He wanted to imagine himself as being something worthy of Deirdre, but it wasn't to be.