Rune King

Thirty-Four

Deirdre had never slept so badly. After everything that had happened—she was just as wanted as any of them were. She'd killed another man, and this time she didn't have the excuse of self-defense to fall back on. There were matters of scale to be considered, sure. She hadn't killed dozens.

But how much of a high horse could she be on now? How could she claim that she was somehow better than the Danes? Because she had really meant it when she did it, and they were just 'selfish?' But wasn't she being selfish herself?

The questions had kept her up. She must have slept, she knew. The night wasn't nearly as long as it could have been. But if she didn't, it was fitful and she barely got any rest to speak of. Her head pounded and her eyes stung with exhaustion, but she couldn't risk being in one place too long, either. She was wanted, after all.

So she got up, wrapped her cloak back around her shoulders, put her pack on her back, and set out. The day couldn't possibly be any worse than the day before. If only she could brew herself a cup of tea, she might be able to salvage her mood, but she wasn't going to be afforded that sort of luxury.

The doubt hit her again like a knife in the gut. What if she was wrong? She was a healer. She was just a healer, and she was barely trained at it, at that. She'd never been confident that she was done learning, but when her teacher left her behind, Deirdre had to accept that she wasn't about to learn anything more.

It didn't make her feel much better. Life was sacred, and protecting it was important to her. That she'd taken it, and given the opportunity for more of it still to be taken—that was a big decision, and one that shouldn't have been entered into lightly.

Instead, she'd let herself get caught up in emotions that she didn't even understand, and now she was an outlaw. Who knew how far her description would be circulated, perhaps she couldn't enter another town again. Perhaps she would always be on the run.

She tried to shake the thoughts free, but she was too tired to fight off the melancholy that was now threatening to overwhelm her. Too exhausted to do anything but force her feet to keep moving. She would either be punished for her sins, or she wouldn't, but there was no point in self-flagellation. That would come later.

She wanted someone to help. Wanted someone who would tell her that it would be okay. That no matter what happened, she would be safe. That was what had gotten her into trouble in the first place, and now that she'd put herself at risk, she just wanted him all that much more.

She turned a corner. Her hands were cold. She had tried to wash them the night before but she could still see, when she looked, the red stain on her hands. Could still feel it on her.

It was her fault those men were dead, and if someone were to see her hands in this state, it wouldn't take a genius to figure it out. She needed to get them washed. Needed to get them clean.

She rubbed them together, hoping to rub the redness off with her bare hands, but it was no hope. A faint glimmer, though—a trough in the pig-pen she'd spent the night in. She turned back. She would just have to try again.

She slipped over the fence, watching for anyone who could see, and brought a handful of the water to her mouth. She hadn't realized how thirsty she was until she had gotten here. The need for water seemed to pull her out of the distress that she was feeling, set her mind straight.

She rubbed the water into her skin, trying to get the little bit of redness out of her skin. She knew it was no use. Her skin was only getting redder, as she rubbed it. If she was going to get her hands clean—she would have done it the night before. But something in her couldn't accept that answer.

She stood again, took another look around. A few men worked in a field, a ways away, but they hadn't taken any special interest in her. If they'd even noticed her, then she couldn't tell. That was good enough for her, she decided. As long as she didn't need to defend herself, as long as she didn't need to run, how much did it matter?

She took a breath and tried to straighten out her thoughts. What came next? She had to find Gunnar. That's right, she had to find him. He would protect her. He had promised to. She'd come all this way to try to find him again, and now that she had, hopefully, saved him from execution, she needed to find him.

Back over the fence. Back on the road. Her hands were cold from the wet and the early spring air. It was just a matter of time, but he wouldn't be this far into town. They'd be insane. The entire place would be searched eventually, and unlike Deirdre, thirty men couldn't hope to hide between a few hay bales for the night.

So she would have to go out into the countryside herself. She took a guess which way they would go. It was as good as anything, she thought. It wasn't as if she could go and ask someone. Not after what she'd done. That would be just as bad as asking to be arrested.

The houses were sparser. Fields less well-maintained, with fewer people working them. It was almost peaceful out this far. Almost like Malbeck had been, all that time ago. Before everything had gone crazy, before the Vikings had come. Deirdre found her mind wandering back to Brigid.

Now that she had a few days to think it over, could it have been possible that the woman she saw was her teacher? It seemed impossible. She must have misremembered. She just applied the woman's face to her teacher. Imagined that they had looked the same, when in reality they had been two very different people. That made sense. But it didn't make her feel any better.

And what if Gunnar wouldn't come back with her? Would she follow him, instead? She already knew the answer. She couldn't go back alone. Couldn't, wouldn't. It didn't matter if she never got her answers. She had believed for so long that there weren't any answers to find.

Her teacher was dead. She had to get over that, had to realize that whatever she was doing now was just something her mind was doing to deal with the stress that she'd been under and to help her deal with Brigid's death.

Something stopped Deirdre in her tracks. She heard a noise. It had been a while since she'd heard anything like someone else in the area. It seemed as if these fields were lying fallow for the season, so there shouldn't be anyone out at all. What would be the point?

And yet, as she slipped behind a large hay bale, she definitely heard it again.

A footstep.

Gunnar jerked awake hard, the dream he'd been having already forgotten, but the anxiety still fresh in his mind. He was alright. Everyone around him was alright. He pulled himself upright. If he was awake, then he was awake. No worrying about it now. The sun hadn't started to rise yet, which meant that he had plenty of time before the rest of the camp woke.

They were lucky, he thought, that they hadn't been caught. It couldn't have been too hard to find them if a competent tracker had been sent out, but with the madness of the crowd—perhaps that provided the perfect cover for them. How would they differentiate them from the hundreds or thousands of people who had fled that courtyard?

But even still, it was only a matter of time until they were found. He laid back, watching the sky. It all seemed so peaceful around. A stark contrast to the life he'd led up to this point. Moments like this were already rare enough, he had to cherish what he was able to find.

That was more true now than ever, with him thinking more and more about what it would be like to leave fighting behind. He had been fighting for so long, and for what? A few golden coins and the approval of his Jarl? What did that account for? How did that help him to put food on his table?