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He turned back to the book; turned the page and changed the subject. “Where do the coastal lords stand on war?” he asked. Short though it might have been, there had been an impromptu council, one Oliver had skipped in favor of a cold supper in the library, searching for answers.
Erik let out a deep breath, but his tone had lightened to one of now-usual weariness when he spoke, his vehemence about the Sels put away for the moment. “Most of them don’t have any men to speak of. But they do have ships.”
Oliver let his voice wash over him as he paged through the book, not really listening to the words, but content in the steady rhythm of them. It was a voice befitting a king: that deep timbre and the constant note of unwavering authority – detectable even in his weakest, most doubtful moments, lending a certain weight to even the most ordinary of conversations. Soothing as a warm bath now.
Mm…a warm bath. Now that was–
Shit, he was nodding off.
Oliver jerked awake once more, trying to blink his vision clear. The page swam before him.
Erik’s hand closed warm and gentle on the back of his neck; Oliver noted he had to reach beneath the ever-lengthening curtain of his hair to do so. “Come,” Erik said, softly, but brooking no arguments. “The books will keep until tomorrow.”
Oliver rubbed the grit from his eyes and let out a frustrated breath. “But I want to know exactly what we’re dealing with. What to expect in the field.”
Erik’s thumb, rubbing tiny circles on the side of his neck, stilled.
They hadn’t discussed it outright: their personal participation in what was to come. They’d tried to piece together the Sels’ plan from the evidence they’d found onboard the ships and in the camp. They’d discussed possibilities, and strategies, and alliances; done numerous headcounts of willing and able men.
But Erik hadn’t yet given voice to the sentiment that lurked in his gaze each time he glanced toward Oliver during a meeting: I’m worried about keeping you safe.
And Oliver hadn’t explicitly said, I’m going, like it or not. Because he was going. It would be ludicrous not to take Percy to the front lines, but he didn’t relish the inevitable argument. It didn’t matter that he’d already proven himself capable; Erik was Erik, and he was going to put up a fuss, regardless of logic. The great loving idiot.
Oliver was too tired for that tonight, though. “But, you’re right.” He closed the book. “Let’s go to bed.”
~*~
Tessa could tell it was late, closer to dawn than darkfall. The dull orange lines of the coals in the grate; the particular shade of deepest blue-black through the gap in the window shutters. Beside her, Rune lay face-down in his pillow, snoring loudly, dead to the world.
It still amazed her, sometimes, to lie here with the knowledge, and the physical proof, that she was married. To hear the mattress rustle; to feel the heat of breath on the back of her neck, or the warm weight of a strong arm curve around her waist. She propped her head more often on his shoulder than on the pillow, which wasn’t as soft, no, but gave her the perfect opportunity to rake her nails absently down his chest, playing with the hair there, enjoying the little shivers on his skin that meant he was affected. She’d found that the quiet, stolen moments – like now, studying the way a shaft of moonlight carved the dense muscles of his back in stark relief – were, in their own way, far more intimate than any of the lovemaking. That was very active, a blur of movement and pleasure and discovery. Wonderful, yes, but the quiet, dark wee hours were when she learned her new husband in all the small ways that transformed lust and love into the closest of knowledges.
She reached into the linen valley between them and took the end of one of his unraveling braids between two fingers where it lay on the mattress. She traced the runes etched into the silver; could read them from feel, by now, and knew this was one of his prince’s beads, different from Leif’s; it marked him a prince, but not the heir first-in-line.
Poor Leif, she thought. The family acted as if things were normal, pressing firmly forward and ignoring the fact that he was no longer the mild-mannered, rational prince he’d been. No one mentioned the fact that there was a low growl perpetually rumbling in his throat; no one stared at his eyes and the way they flashed in the candlelight like a true wolf’s would. He took dinner at the family table with them less and less; when he did show, he brought Ragnar with him more often than not, his constant shadow.
The first time that happened, Erik stood up so fast from the table he sent his chair toppling back. His hands had curled to fists and Oliver had gripped his sleeve with a murmured, “Darling.”
Uncle and nephew had stared at one another, Leif blank-faced, but still testing; Tessa had rubbed at the goosebumps that had broken out across her arms. Finally, Erik had sat, though his expression was clenched and quietly furious. Leif had pointed, and Ragnar had sat on the floor against the wall, unbothered. Rune had fretted over it at length that night, when they were back in their bedchamber, until Tessa climbed into his lap and convinced him to forget about it, at least for a little while.
Leif wasn’t the largest trouble weighing on her mind this morning, though he was a part of the greater whole, to be sure. She kept thinking of Oliver’s face out on the land bridge today – yesterday, she supposed. That grim, resolved look of someone about to undertake a less-than-desirable task.
There hadn’t been an official declaration yet, but it was inevitable that the Northmen would march to war. Oliver, she knew without being told, planned to go with them. Percy had been instrumental in repelling the siege of Aeres.
But so too had Alfie.
And Tessa was Alfie’s rider.
How, she wondered, was she to go about telling her new family – her new husband – that she planned to go to war as well?
A hand closed over hers, stilling her fingers, and she startled. Rune’s eyes were slitted open, onyx-dark in the dim glow of moonlight.
“You’re fidgety,” he said, voice rough with sleep. He’d been face-down ever since they’d untangled, hours ago, and still sounded totally spent; a charming observation dulled by the sense of being caught-out.
“Sorry.” She shifted closer, so they were face-to-face. His hand slid up her bare arm, until it rested on the side of her throat. “Just thinking.”
“About what?”
What war will be like. About fighting the enemies that killed my father and brother and uncle.
