Displaced

Chapter 23

"Are you ready?" the second god asked.

The first god looked at him in surprise. It had been some time since his companion had spoken; a moment ago, he had been sleeping, snoring quietly while the horn of mead in his hand tipped further and further over.

Oh well, it looked like he wasn't going to see him pour mead all over himself after all. Not this time, anyway. "Ready for what?" he asked.

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Something was wrong...

Ivar shivered slightly in the chill as he shifted position in his bed. He reached out, eyes still closed, to find the blankets and furs that he must have kicked aside as he slept, but no matter which direction he reached, his hand found nothing but air.

Irritated, not yet ready to be awake, and certain that if he could just cover himself up again he would be able to get a few more precious minutes of sleep, he made another attempt.

Again, nothing.

There was something else too; his bed felt far too hard underneath him. Hard, and uneven. It took a moment, and a step closer to wakefulness, for him to remember that he was not at home and that his soft bed was very far away. Still, it didn't feel like the floor of the cabin either. The bearskin that he lay himself down on each night was gone, and instead the ground felt cold, almost damp to the touch, and uncomfortably uneven. Something hard and sharp dug into his right thigh where he lay on it.

That wasn't the only discomfort that he felt in his legs, though.

They ached.

It was a familiar pain; one that he had known his entire life. He shifted his position slightly on the ground, taking some of his weight off of the sharp thing underneath him, and frowned at the growing discomfort. Perhaps the weeks since he had last felt it had made him more aware of it than he might normally have been. He could never block it out completely, but he could put it out of his mind for a short while of he needed to. Right now, that felt impossible.

Two contrasting emotions clashed inside him as hope and despair warred for dominance. He wanted this. He did. He had wanted it from the moment that he had woken up and found himself in the wrong body. He wanted to be himself again. He wanted to be Ivar.

Only...

Only, it had been wonderful not to be in pain. Not only that, but not to have to worry, even on the good days, that tomorrow would be worse. He had walked unsupported for the first time in his life. He had wriggled his toes into the cool, slimy mud as he had stood barefoot in the lake. He had stood tall and strong as he had swung a sword through the air, just as he had always dreamed of doing on the battlefield

But he had never taken the opportunity to run...

He had feared that when he was himself again he would regret the things that he had not done. He supposed it was inevitable, but he hated himself for it anyway. He pushed the feeling aside to deal with later. For now, he may have more important concerns. The last time he had woken up like this, he had found himself miles from anywhere with a long journey ahead of him. If the same had happened now, it would be better to get started sooner rather than later.

He allowed his eyes to open and looked warily around to find, to his relief, that this time, he had not been moved while he slept. He was outside, true, but he was outside the cabin, by the remains of the fire he had been warming himself on earlier that morning as he and Sigurd had talked.

A short distance away, he caught motion out of the corner of his eye. He turned to look. A blanket moved slightly on the ground as Sigurd began to stir. His brother rolled over in his half-slumber and showed his face, and what Ivar had already known was confirmed, leaving no more room for doubt.