Displaced

Chapter 3

The muscles of his arms and upper back burned with exertion, and every time Sigurd reached out with a hand to drag himself a little further along the ground, he was sure that this would be the time that he failed, and found that he could go no further.

His legs, or rather Ivar's legs, felt almost as bad. Every bump in the uneven ground, every unexpected stone or exposed tree root and every slight dip in the ground that his foot could get caught in, jarred his legs and sent a wave of pain that resonated through his whole body. He gritted his teeth and tried not to think about it, but even when the ground was perfectly flat, a dull ache never seemed to go away.

Despite that, Ivar had been right. Sigurd was not about to admit it out loud, but moving in this way had been easier than he had expected, and far easier than it would have been in his own body. He was using muscles that Ivar had built up over years of relying on his arms because he could not rely on his legs. Those muscles were used to being used in this way, and almost worked independent of thought, like an experienced warrior who barely needed to think about the way that his arm and hand moved with his sword.

But easier than he had expected did not mean easy, and after an indeterminate distance that seemed unending, he needed to stop.

He was surprised, although perhaps he should not have been, to see that Ivar appeared to be having just as much difficulty. He stumbled, grabbing hold of trees as he passed and keeping his eyes trained on his own feet and the ground just before them, as though convinced that the forest floor was full of things placed there to trip him. Despite his vigilance, he still managed to stumble every few steps. His gait was stiff, and every step appeared both forced and deliberate, as though he was unsure of every movement. He walked like a man unused to legs.

Which was of course, exactly what he was.

Sigurd reached out with a protesting arm to drag himself another short distance forward, but this time the pain in his upper arm and shoulder was too much, and he knew that, for now at least, he was done. Even the thought of moving any further left him drained and exhausted.

He stopped. His trembling arms no longer able to support his weight, he dropped down to lay flat on the ground, then using his last bit of energy, pushed himself onto his back and lifted his arms upward, flexing and stretching tired muscles as they continued to protest the relentless forward motion. He lay there trying to catch his breath, too tired to even call to Ivar to ask him to stop.

It took Ivar several more uncertain steps before he realised that Sigurd was no longer moving alongside him. He didn't stop immediately; instead he hesitated, turned around and walked back, hands outstretched toward a sturdy looking tree. He leaned heavily against it before he turned to give Sigurd his full attention. "What are you doing?"

"I need to rest," Sigurd told him. Even to his own ears, he sounded exhausted. "My...your arms are aching so badly I can't go any further. We've been travelling for hours, and I've never seen you keep going for this long, so don't try to tell me you have."

Ivar looked thoughtful, then nodded. "You are probably right." he admitted. "I did not expect that the journey would take so long."

Neither had Sigurd. They had found a clearing from which they could see the sky relatively quickly, and from there, judging by the approximate time of day and the sun's position in the sky, Ivar had chosen a likely direction to travel. Since then they had been going for several hours, with no indication that they were nearing home, and no sign of anything that they recognised.

Sigurd was beginning to suspect that his supposedly clever little brother had made a mistake, and had been dragging them for miles in completely the wrong direction.