Chapter Text

01

Sigurd

Sigurd Styrbjornsson was 21 winters old when he realized his little brother had become a man. Not a brother by blood, but a brother by circumstance, Eivor had been the heliocentric point around which everything else in Sigurd’s life revolved since his own father had formally adopted him after the death of his parents eight years earlier. Eivor and Sigurd had been inseparable ever since, their closeness only pausing when Sigurd’s responsibilities as the son of the Jarl called him away. Sometimes it was to lead a raid, sometimes to visit an important person in an important place for an important reason. And while being away afforded him more freedom, away from the judgmental gaze of his father, it also meant leaving the person he cared for most behind until Eivor was old enough to go with him. He enjoyed the rush, enjoyed the adventure, but now, after years of the same old thing, mostly, Sigurd felt tired, ragged.

He had a complex relationship with his duties and his father. On the one hand, he reveled in the praise and glory he received for his successes. On the other, he often felt used; like a tool needed only to execute an action. Not something the user would actually care about after the work had been done. He was good at what he did for his clan and his father. He was an accomplished and deft warrior, a keen tactician and ferociously ambitious. But the constant pressure from his father to be the best, to be obedient, to be responsible weighed down on his young shoulders; made him feel small and trapped when he returned home.

Almost a year, he’d been a way–raiding, hunting, fighting. But a year was all it took, it seemed, to take the ropey boy he’d left behind and turn him into something entirely different, new.

The first thing Sigurd did after unloading the ships was to find his brother. At first he’d thought it odd that he wasn’t there to greet him at the docks, but once he’d spied that familiar head of blonde hair, he understood why. Tucking himself away in the shadows of the thatched awning of the brewer’s hut, he watched as Eivor practiced his axe throwing against a crude effigy of an enemy warrior. Straw, bound tightly with rope, made up the arms and legs, and a burlap sack stuffed with leaves and twigs, wrapped around a sturdy log, formed the body. An old helmet perched atop a bulbous cloth head completed the silly looking thing. He chuckled at the almost comical whump of the axe as it found home, the blade lodging itself in the wood beneath the leaves and burlap. What was less funny, was the level of intensity with which Eivor was training. He was so wrapped up in it that it was no wonder he hadn’t been at the docks.

How many moons had it been since he’d left? Nine, perhaps ten. He’d lost count of how many full moons he’d watched crest the mountains after the third or fourth. Long enough to see the last days of summer yield to a wet harvest and the last vestiges of a long harsh winter begrudgingly relent to a timid spring. He’d missed the Yule season–his favorite time of year–because they’d gotten detained in Stavanger tending to their wounded and unable to depart before winter set in. While snow still clung to the world around him, the eaves of the longhouse were bare and dry, the thatching of the huts drying in the fresh spring sun.  Only the shaded places and spots where wind had mounded the snow remained, now dingy with mud. 

The first few months of his trip were filled with raiding Kjotve’s clan’s smaller holdings. Table scraps , thought Sigurd when he’d seen the measly haul. Some food, a few good blades and a modest chest of hacksilver were their only spoils. They’d paid more in Raven blood than what they got in riches. It was becoming a pattern. Each year, the spoils of their efforts dwindled more, but the danger remained the same. It was a hard truth to swallow, knowing he and his men risked so much for so little. While the Raven clan was not desperate yet, things hadn’t been great either. Their borders were pressed more and more each yeah. And it was becoming increasingly evident that their survival methods would need to change. The Raven clan had made concerted efforts to increase their farming production, but that made having to protect their lands and precious crop yields all the more important during the summer when they were most vulnerable to raids themselves.

But this particular excursion did not prove entirely fruitless. The raiding party had had much more luck with hunting and returned home with longships laden with elk, wolf and rabbit pelts, antlers for crafting weapon hilts and meat enough to last through late summer.

Even though everything around him felt the same–the way the smell of fresh baked bread and the dank stench of manure from the stables fought with one another, and the cry of sea birds overhead mixed with mothers calling their children in for food were just as he’d left them, somehow, the young man before him seemed an anomaly. Like time had forgotten all but him. The awkward lank of Eivor’s youth had been replaced with the makings of strong, bold, drengr stock. The coltishness of his figure now sturdier, fuller and more certain in his movements. He no longer appeared as a young deer who wasn’t entirely in control of its long limbs yet.

Sigurd watched Eivor pick up another axe. He was wearing a simple tunic, belted at his slim waist. Eivor’s sleeve shifted and Sigurd thought he caught a glimpse of dark ink just beneath the cuff on Eivor’s weapon hand that had not been there when he’d left. He made a mental note to ask about it later. The greyish blue of Eivor’s tunic set his brilliant blonde hair alight, now shoulder length and gathered into a short ponytail at the nape of his neck.

Whump. 

Sigurd blinked, and with a shake of his wild, copper-haired head, looked down at his feet before pushing himself away from the post he had been leaning against, emerging from the cool shadows into the brilliant early spring sun. The small training grounds by Gunnar’s shop were modest. Most of his own warriors trained at the barracks down by the docks. But this was where he’d learned to fight, where he’d taught Eivor to hold a shield. It was nothing more than a narrow rectangle of earth with several straw targets at one end and encircled by a simple wooden fence. Eivor looked at home, by himself, lost in his thoughts and focused on the target in front of him.

Sigurd had always liked watching Eivor when he put his mind to something. He liked the pointed way his gaze would fix on the task before him, how he would bite the tip of his tongue gently between his back teeth. It was a trait that he’d admired in Eivor ever since he was a child. The blonde had a way of losing himself in the details. He never did anything half-arsed, and sought a quiet level of perfection that often went unnoticed to everyone but Sigurd. This state of absolute concentration was what kept Eivor in his own world and unaware of Sigurd’s presence as he approached. He already had another axe in hand, ready to let it fly, arm raised, muscles taught.

“You are much improved, little raven,” Sigurd called just as Eivor’s arm snapped forward like a bow string, the gleaming axe whining through the air as it hurtled nose over tail toward its mark. But instead of the dull whump of the blade embedding into the log, the blade traveled too far left and instead caught the side of the burlap sack awkwardly, snagging the fabric and falling dully to the muddy ground.

Eivor whirled around in a flash of blue, ready to spring upon whoever had distracted him.  Sigurd caught the moment of realization in the younger man’s eyes and had only time for half a breath before it was summarily knocked right back out of him with the force of Eivor’s embrace.

“Sigurd, brother!”

Sigurd’s arms returned the enthusiastic embrace, and he noted, with mild annoyance, that their height difference had closed a bit more, yet again. Eivor was warm. Sigurd could feel the heat coming off of his sweat-slicked arms and neck. He could smell the tang of sweat combined with the last lingering scent of cold air and last night’s fire. 

“I was not expecting you back for at least another moon,” Eivor mumbled into his brother’s shoulder, face buried in the fox furs fastened around Sigurd's throat. They released one another but stood close. Eivor’s face was flushed with exertion. It brought out his freckles more, the youth of which seemed at odds with short, blond stubble that trailed along his jawline.

“Well, word of your terrible throwing form made its way all the way across the sea and I had to come see it for myself,” he replied sarcastically. He pushed Eivor back playfully, striking a defensive stance, welcoming a friendly retaliation. Eivor stumbled but found his footing quickly.

“I don’t normally miss,” Eivor said casually. He raised an eyebrow and smirked. “Unless, that is, I’m distracted by oafish, half-wit brothers intent on being insufferable.”

Suddenly Eivor dug his heels into the ground and faked right then lunged forward at the larger man, trying to bowl him over into the mud. Sigurd intercepted him, sidestepping enough to allow Eivor’s arms to wrap around his waist, and raising his arm so that his brother's head was forced into a playful headlock. He bent his knees, deftly absorbing the impact of Eivor’s charge. He chuckled as Eivor pounded on his back trying to free himself, noting that he had to work much harder to hold the younger man in place than he anticipated.

After a few moments of struggle, Eivor changed his tactics, suddenly going limp in Sigurd’s arms. Not expecting the sudden shift in weight, Sigurd stumbled, knees buckling under Eivor’s dead weight. 

“What have they been feeding you?” Sigurd grunted out, trying to maintain his balance.

“What are you implying?” Eivor retorted haughtily from underneath Sigurd’s cloak where his head remained stuck in his vice-like headlock. 

“Nothing at all!” Sigurd replied. He gave one final squeeze of his arm and eased the headlock, allowing Eivor to push backwards and find his balance. “Just that you are not the slip of parchment you were when I left,” he mused through a breathy chuckle. 

“You were gone for a while. Things change quickly around here.”

Sigurd smiled, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “So it seems.”

There was a moment of silence between them, the acknowledgement of Sigurd’s absence weighed against how much of his little brother's training he’d apparently missed, how he’d lost a chance to help form the warrior he would become. Even though Sigurd had spent much of his life teaching Eivor all the proper ways to be a drengr , he had always looked forward to the day when they could meet as equals and train in earnest together.

A sort of guilt crept into his heart, then. He imagined Eivor on his own, throwing axes at straw men for hours on end. He saw him sparring with another man, being shown techniques that weren’t his own, hands that were not his wrapping a wound from an ill-timed parry. The guilt turned to jealousy, coiling around the muscle at the top of his stomach. Had Eivor not been suddenly distracted by the fishmonger’s son calling his name, he might have seen the storm cloud cross his brother's eyes; seen the strange darkness that suddenly overtook his thoughts. 

“Coming!” Eivor called. He tossed his blonde head in the direction of the rotund boy on the other side of the fence. “Algson, he’s been training with me and Vil–“

“I know who Algson is. But that’s my job, now I’m returned. There will be no more training with… whatever that is,” Sigurd interrupted flatly. His eyes narrowed as he watched the boy trot off toward the waterfront.

Eivor gave Sigurd a disapproving look, “What? Algson? He’s actually gotten quite good.”

Sigurd rolled his eyes. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

Eivor slugged him in the shoulder. “Don’t be an arse, Sigurd. You know how hard he tries.”

Sigurd sighed. His brother was right. Algson did his best and had a lot of heart. He was kind to Eivor and that’s all that really mattered to Sigurd. It had been hard for Eivor growing up. While most were kind to him to his face, he’d seen the looks the young blonde got when his back was turned. Many still thought that his father’s death had been dishonorable. That certainly wasn’t the way he’d seen it. And he’d been standing right there. But people were cruel, and even small orphaned boys weren’t spared from rumors and gossip it seemed.

“You’re right… but nonetheless, we’re taking your training seriously this summer,” Sigurd said. He tried to sound serious, but really his excitement was starting to get the better at him. The look on Eivor’s face was infectious and had a grin spreading across his own. Whatever jealous, wriggling feeling that had taken hold below his sternum was eased by Eivor’s smile.

“So you’re staying…” Eivor started, blue eyes hopeful. 

With a breathy chuckle and a quick step forward, Sigurd slung his arm around Eivor’s shoulders, pulling him flush along the length of his side. 

“Oh, come now, you do not think I would miss out on watching you wrestle with the fish monger’s boy in the mud do you?” he chided slyly as he began guiding them toward the longhouse. 

“He’s really not that bad, brother,” Eivor said defensively.

“Perhaps not.  But watching him practically smother you was quite a sight.”

“That was years ago…”

Eivor dug an elbow into Sigurd’s armored ribs, teasingly. Images of a tragically comical training session he’d witnessed came to Sigurd’s mind. As he recalled it, there was much undignified grappling in the snow with the heftier fish monger’s son. Eivor hadn’t been skilled enough to overcome the clumsy approach the other boy took and struggled greatly to compensate for the boy’s uncoordinated heft. At least Eivor had learned a valuable lesson that day, and walked away with the knowledge that not every opponent he would face would be a skilled warrior. And to always expect the unexpected.

“Come, we have much to catch up on, little brother.  I will regale you with stories of how Dag’s drunken snores were mistaken for a bear in heat and scared the living piss out of Ake.”

Eivor laughed beside him and felt suddenly at ease again, as though a part of him that had been missing these long months had been finally returned.