(no subject)

Sinric hiked for the first day, taking a lesser path away from the road and into the deepest areas of the woods. He moved upwards and away from the lights of the bar.

He had intended to stop at sunset and to set himself a camp but the moon rose early and gave him light enough to go on. Besides, it felt good to walk, to breathe clean cool air. In good boots and with moonlight enough travel on foot was not a hardship. And the exercise helped to put his most troubling thoughts from his mind.

As the moon set, Sinric grew weary and settled himself down to rest, wrapped in the heavy cloak of fur and resting his head on the pack. He had planned to fix himself a meal but he felt no hunger so drank a little from his water skin and slept.

He woke before dawn out of old habit but found his view of the lightening eastern horizon too blocked by trees. Hefting the pack, which seemed heavier than the night before, he made for the higher ground, the better to watch the rising sun.

On a rocky outcrop, his back to a great boulder, Sinric watched the sky turn from grey to pink, to yellow and slowly to blue. Unbidden tears slide down his cheeks, leaving warm tracks over his skin.

The lady’s fury had been righteous but it had been right also. Sinric ached to his heart for what he had unwittingly done to her. But what troubled him worse was the fear that the good doctor had done it knowingly. That she had spoken truth when she said she had forbidden him but he had done so anyway, Sinric found hard to doubt. Perhaps the good doctor had misunderstood, or forgiven; although neither seemed likely.

So surely the blame but lie on Sinric. From that first embrace, Sinric knew Hannibal had desired him, that his usurped form ached with want. Such overt passions from the usually taciturn doctor were heady and flattering, and Sinric never thought twice about fanning that smouldering desire into flame.

And their passion had been a rare thing, an experience for both of them. Not one Sinric would have sought had it not been Hannibal behind that smile, those moans. Sinric’s pride and eagerness to please had driven him to draw out those moans.

And never once had he given thought to the lady whose usurped form he held. Just as a master might give no thought to the pleasure of the slave, or the buyer to the whore.

Had he fallen so far from himself that it was what he had become?

The tears fell thicker and faster as Sinric let his fears and insecurities overtake him.

He curled in on himself, the heavy cloak wrapped around him like a cocoon. He cried himself into a stupor and lay there till the sun rose past the zenith and began to set, barely feeling the biting cold of the coming night settle on him.

Mountian OOM part 2

A day of cathartic tears washed Sinric’s heavy heart, if not clean, then certainly well rinsed. He came back to himself with the rising moon and began to prepare.

What was done was done. He could not take back his mistake, nor recompense the lady for his transgression. But he could vow that it would never happen again, and if she allowed; work to earn her forgiveness. If the good doctor had known of the lady’s edict, then he too must answer to her, as he surely was under the little cage of her revenge.

The night had that chill that threatened more than warmed and Sinric stretched as he looked around. A fire would be a wise addition to his surroundings. The heavily wooded mountain was generous with fallen branches and rotting timber that could be used to catch a spark, and the all but full moon gave him light enough to gather it by.

Mindful of Ragnar’s lessons, he cleared himself a pit and lined it with stones, striking a spark off the steel, just as he had been shown. It took him three or four tries to breathe life enough into those tiny spots of red and coax them into flame. But persistent, he nurtured a fire into being.

He had intended to forage along the mountain trail or fish in one of the streams that trickled down to join the lake but the tears and remonstrations had cost him the day. He had only that which he carried to satisfy the delayed hunger of two days.

It was enough – some bread of the hard kind favoured by travellers, some cheese, meat smoked and dried in a way Ragnar had promised to teach him, a little dried fruit. It would not make a lavish meal but it would do. Tomorrow he could begin to forage in earnest.

But then, he had lost much time and should be turning back towards the bar before dusk. Perhaps he would forage on his way, bring back his spoils to cook on the beach and share with his friends.

It was thoughts of Ragnar and Athelstan at his side, their bellies full and their embraces warm helped him to find an easy sleep. Even if it was nothing but a happy dream for now to have them both with him at once.

The next day dawned bright. The winter’s sun was, if not warm, at least welcoming and Sinric covered the fire and gathered his things. The dawn brought with it hope as the light caught a stand of berries, late and shrivel by the cold but tart and wonderful to taste. The valley they grew into flattened out into a small but deep pool, the sort that fish might be found in. Sinric lost track of time in the strangely mediative act of threading and casting his fine but strong flax line into water.

By the time he had a handsome sized fish, the sun was dipping low in the sky. Cold as the water was, Sinric felt compelled to wash. With no-one there to see, he stripped down, setting boots and clothes on a rock safely high of the water. He stepped in slowly, letting each part of him prickle with cold and grow use to it before moving deeper.

It was refreshing, invigorating both to body and soul, as he much hoped baptism should be. Although as he stepped naked onto the rocks, squeezing the water from his hair, he felt more like some pagan deity than the Christian his world expected him to be.

Sinric was due back the next day but he found he was in no hurry, enjoying the taste of his first caught meal, roasting the fish over the fire stuffed with the little berries that tasted so right with it. He even drew the little leather flask of wine he carried, sipping it with the warm happiness of a simple thing done well.

But the moon had not yet risen when the tops of the trees started to sway, leaves blown down to mingle with the sparks of Sinric’s fire as he dozed. Forewarning worse as clouds crowded across the sky.

The storm came on fast, the rain coming down in a sudden torrent in perfect harmony with the first clap of thunder. Sinric scrabbled for his pack and things, fighting to pull on boots and cloak as the wind whipped around him. He had been so relaxed, so careless with pride that nothing was in good order and he had slung no shelter between the trees. With the sky dark, there was little he could do to fetch back anything that wasn’t to hand.

By then the stream which fed the pool was flowing swiftly and filling faster than the pool could drain. Its banks expanded and the path by which Sinric had come was already awash. He shouldered his pack and with uncertain steps, headed for higher ground.

There had been cave, he remembered that much. In the rocky areas higher up. If he could reach them, he could take shelter till morning but the going was slippery with rain and mud and more than once he fell into the wet undergrowth.

At last he made it back to the rocky outcrop when the stones formed deep caves. As he came to the mouth of one, he became aware of a terrible, rotting scent and a strange heat from the rock.

A moment later, a gout of flame from the cave’s entrance sent him tumbling back, grazing cheek and hand and temporarily blinding him. The snarls of the demon-rabbits sent Sinric running blinding into the sodden night.

How he found the little niche, too small to be called a cave, he did not remember. His pack was gone, his sturdy trousers torn and no part of him left dry. Huddled there against the tempest and irrecoverably lost, he closed his eyes and wished he could prayer.