Displaced

Chapter 22

Sigurd woke up to a darkness so complete that for a moment he found himself disoriented. No light at all appeared to enter the small hunting cabin where he and his brothers lay sleeping together on the floor.

He remained completely still for a moment, staring up at the darkness above his head. Something had woken him, but he did not know what it was. If it had been a sound, it was gone; the night was silent now, save for the quiet whistling of the wind around the wooden walls of the cabin. There was no sound from the horses tethered not far away, no birdsong to indicate the coming sunrise, and nothing from his brothers either, not even Hvitserk's usual gentle snoring.

He waited for now, reluctant to move if he did not have to. He was reasonably comfortable at the moment, still caught in the moments between sleep and waking where the aches and pains that plagued him during the day had not yet started. If he were to move, he might wake them from their slumber.

The sleeping arrangements were not quite so luxurious as his own bed in his private bedroom at home, but the floor where they slept side by side was covered with thick pelt to make it soft, while blankets and furs piled on top kept him more than warm enough despite the chill in the night air. He liked sleeping close to his brothers; he always had. It made him feel safe.

Well, with the exception of Ivar, of course, but their current situation protected him, as did the fact that Ubbe insisted that he and Hvitserk sleep between their two younger brothers to be sure that there were no... incidents during the night.

Sigurd interlaced his fingers and created a cradle for his head as he continued to stare up at the darkness above him. He made an effort to pay attention to the world around him as, slowly, his eyes adjusted to the darkness. He still had no idea what might have woken him.

It was probably just Ivar's body then, doing what it did. He had found that as Ivar, sleep did not come as easily as it used to. Even when it did come, he would often wake far too early in the morning or, like now, in the middle of the night.

Frustrated, he closed his eyes and tried to allow himself to drift back off to sleep.

Unsurprisingly, it did not happen.

He sighed quietly to himself. At home, he might have got up and found something to do, either until he grew tired again, or until the others woke up and the day began. Depending on the time of day, if there would be nobody around to hear him, he might have picked up his oud and quietly plucked the strings, picking out a tune. Failing that, he might have gone to find an early breakfast or, as he had done once or twice since Ivar had spent the day playing against him, he might have set up the tafl board and considered the moves that he might make.

If he was feeling particularly rebellious, he might even have plucked up the courage to do what he knew Ivar did, and crept into the throne room to sit in his father's chair.

Here at the cabin, he could do none of that. He could barely even move, for fear of waking his brothers who slept soundly alongside him. But he knew that he must, because he could not stand the thought of laying there still and silent until his brothers chose to wake up.

Slowly and carefully, he placed his arms by his sides and pushed himself up into a sitting position. He blinked and turned his head slowly, looking around the cabin at the shadows and willing his eyes to further adjust to the darkness. It worked, just. At least he could tell from the shapes on the ground where his brothers lay.

It occurred to him now that something was unexpected. As he inhaled through his nose, he could detect smoke in the air. It was faint, barely noticeable at first, but now that it had drawn his attention he couldn't help but be aware of it; he could barely believe that he hadn't noticed it before. Somewhere, somewhere not far away, there was a fire.