by Faye, Amy
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 how 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 considered 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.
Gunnar gritted his teeth and kept moving. The sun was going down, and it had been a long time since he had been through, in the other direction. He hadn't taken this route. None of the towns looked familiar, and he hadn't been able to find any burned-out shells that would have clearly signaled that he and his men had been through.
He wouldn't be able to sleep until he found her. He'd learned that after he laid his head down the first night, and spent the night staring at the stars until he pulled himself back up and forced himself to move.
How far ahead could she have gotten? It didn't much matter. Not much did, until he was able to find her.
His feet were heavy. Too heavy to move. But he forced himself to take another step. Just one more. Then just one more, once again. As long as he could keep himself moving, he would be alright. Everything was getting dark, but he had to keep moving.
He didn't feel it when he hit the ground.
When he opened his eyes again, a face was looking at him. A woman's face. She looked worried. He didn't recognize her, but he could feel something. The same feeling he got from Deirdre. Her hair was yellow like wheat, her eyes a steely gray.
As soon as he stirred she stood up, dusting off her hands. As if her work were done. But what had she done? She reached into a satchel and pulled something out, holding it out to him. He sat up and took it from her. A bread roll. He had never preferred to accept charity, but the emptiness in his stomach felt as if it were going to swallow him whole.
"You can come out now," she called back to an empty road. Then she turned to Gunnar. "Someone came looking for you."
She didn't seem to be talking to him, even as she lowered herself to the ground in front of him, smoothing her skirts over as she sat down on the side of the road.
Something moved behind a tree, and Deirdre step
ped into view.
"I'm sorry," she said before he could say anything for himself. She was sorry. She still had a lot to learn. Brigid reminded her of that, after all that time away.
Gunnar looked up at her, clearly unsure who the woman beside him was, or why she was there. If he had something to say, he wasn't going to do it in front of her. But without her, Deirdre wouldn't have found him. Might not have gone looking.
Brigid's voice cut through. "Are you going to introduce us, Deirdre?"
"This is… my teacher," she said. She felt wrong doing this. As if she were introducing him to her parents. In a certain sense, she supposed she was. "She raised me since I was little. She taught me everything I know, and she's the one who found you."
Gunnar still looked out of it. Was he going to be alright? She shook her head. Food and rest, and he'd be fine. He had all the signs.
"Ma'am, this is Gunnar. He's…"
She realized she couldn't begin to explain what their relationship was. She couldn't explain how they'd met, or how he fit into the world. Never mind how he would fit into her life.
She was trying to figure out how to respond when she saw the impish smile on Brigid's face. She waited. Clearly the woman had something to say, but she wasn't going to say it until it was on her terms.
She was smart, and she knew quite a bit, Deirdre thought. But damned if she wasn't stubborn.
"So you want to bring this brute into my house?" Gunnar's face twisted for an instant into a frown before he managed to force himself back into impassivity. "Oh, don't be so sour. It's high time the girl found her own place in the world. I've been putting my ear to the ground for a nice rate on land out somewhere."
Brigid reached into the little bag that she carried everywhere. No matter what she'd needed, Deirdre had never seen her teacher without it, and anything important would go into it. She tossed something small; Deirdre could see it turning and flipping in the light. Small and metal.
She caught it more by luck than by skill. A key.
