Displaced

Untitled Part 24

Sigurd found himself hesitating outside the closed door of Ivar's room. A moment ago, he had been confident in his intention. Now that he was there, he was suddenly less sure that he was doing the right thing.

It occurred to him that he had never visited his brother in his own room before. While they had inhabited each other's bodies, they had switched bedrooms, partly to make things easier for Sigurd, partly to avoid having to explain to everybody, every night, why they were sleeping in the wrong beds. Before that, he did not remember a single time that he had wanted to speak to Ivar badly enough to seek him out.

How different he felt now.

He raised his hand to knock, but didn't. Things were different now they were themselves again. Allowances had needed to be made while they were still at the cabin, but now they were home again, it occurred to him that Ivar may not want him there.

It had been a day since they had returned home from their trip to the hunting cabin, and two days since he had finally woken up in his own body. It still felt strange. He had imagined that if the gods ever allowed him to be himself again, he would slip back into his own body easily, and find it as comfortable as an old pair of boots that had moulded themselves to the shape of his feet.

He had been wrong about that.

Two whole days later, he was still getting used to it again. Not only that, but he was still... processing... what had happened; still going over things time and again in his own mind. There had been no privacy at the cabin; nowhere for he and Ivar to talk, or even for him to sit and think by himself without interruption from Hvitserk or Ubbe.

He glanced down at his feet, planted side by side outside the closed door, and couldn't help but feel a mixture of disbelief and amazement. Relief, too. Even in the house, he found himself marvelling at how much easier it was to walk from room to room than to have to crawl. As he moved, he still found himself wincing in anticipation of pain that he later realised was not going to come.

He couldn't help but wonder, was Ivar having the same thoughts, only in reverse?

He probably was. After all, how could he not be? And Sigurd surprised himself by feeling guilty about that. It wasn't his fault, and he knew that. He still couldn't help it.

He hadn't seen Ivar since they had returned. His brother had claimed exhaustion, and taken himself off to his room the moment that Ubbe had unstrapped his legs and helped him down from the horse that had carried him home. If Ivar had left his room at all since they had returned, it had not been while Sigurd was around.

Which only made Sigurd more certain that his brother would not want to see him. Of course, Sigurd had spent more time alone than he usually would have as well, and Ivar wasn't exactly the most sociable of the brothers, so maybe it wasn't that strange at all. What was strange though, at least to Sigurd, was how much he had missed his younger brother's company. He wanted to make sure that he was okay. Not that he would ever be stupid enough to admit that to Ivar.

He took a deep breath, raised his hand and knocked gently on the door. "Ivar?" he said. His voice came out far more quietly than he had intended.

There was no immediate answer. Sigurd waited, but nothing. It occurred to him that perhaps Ivar wasn't even there. Maybe he had slipped out when Sigurd hadn't been around to notice, in which case he could be anywhere in Kattegat, and Sigurd could be knocking on the door of an empty room.

He waited a moment longer, then tried again, three raps on the door, slightly louder this time. "Ivar, are you in there?" he tried.

Again, silence from the other side of the door. If his brother was in there, maybe he didn't want to talk to him.