Displaced

Chapter 14

Sigurd adjusted his position on the floor, trying to find a comfortable way to sit. It was impossible. However he moved, he found that he was putting pressure on one part of his legs or another, and while until now that had been fine, today it was not.

The pain in his legs had woken him early that morning, and he had known instinctively, even before he had opened his eyes, as the first sparks of consciousness were beginning to rouse him from his slumber, that there would be no more sleep for him that day. He had tried anyway, forcing himself to lay still, eyes closed, hoping that sleep would drag him back down for a few more blissful moments of unconsciousness before he had to wake up and deal with reality, but no such luck.

Even once he had resigned himself to wakefulness, he had lay there unmoving. Two days before, Ivar had talked him through getting into and out of the bed four times, and by the time he was done, he had been able to do it with no trouble at all. But now, laying under the covers and staring up at the ceiling, he could tell that even trying to move would be unbearable.

He wasn't sure how long he had lay there, hoping for it to subside before he had realised that it wasn't going to get any better, and that he needed either to get up, or call somebody for help, and calling for help had been no real option.

In the main hall now, where he had brought himself, he tried rolling over onto his side. As he did, a sharp spike of pain stabbed him in the hip, and he bit down hard on his bottom lip to stop himself from crying out. He remained very still for a moment, riding it out until it retreated to a more familiar level.

It was a deep, unpleasant ache that seemed to -- and probably did -- come from the bones themselves, and every time he moved, it felt worse. He had tried to remain still, but the gods in their cruelty had accounted for that tactic, and he found that if he was still for too long it had the same effect; the pain building slowly until it became unbearable and he had no choice but to shift his position again.

He inhaled a slow, deep breath, then used his arms to push himself up until he was sitting. Carefully, moving slowly as though he could somehow sneak up on the traitorous limbs and catch them unawares, he carefully straightened out one leg on the floor. He ran a hand down the thigh, pressing the it as deep into the flesh as he dared in an effort to rub the pain away.

It didn't work. It didn't make it any worse, but it made it no better either.

He moved again, and was rewarded with another spike of pain, like a warning shot that ran up and down his left leg. That one was worse than the others, and he sucked in a sharp intake of breath, tears filled his eyes, and his whole body tensed as he fought the impulse to scream.

It didn't make any sense. This was his fourth day in Ivar's body, and the pain had never been like this before.

"Bad day?"

Sigurd glanced up in surprise to see Ivar standing a short distance away from him. He had been alone in the room a moment ago, and he hadn't heard him enter, so caught up in his own personal agony that the world around him had faded away. He inhaled slowly. "Every day is bad at the moment," he said.

"Bad pain day," Ivar clarified. "You would find it more comfortable on a chair. Sitting on the floor can make it worse."

Sigurd moved, just slightly, and winced again. He shook his head. "I tried that," he said. And when it hadn't helped, he had tried this instead and honestly, he hadn't noticed any difference. He might have been willing to try a chair again, but the thought of moving enough to climb back into one was almost too much to bear.

Ivar dropped down onto the floor next to him, and Sigurd suppressed a stab of anger at the ease with which his brother moved. In his body. He closed his eyes for a moment and tried hard to remind himself that this was not Ivar's fault.