Broken Souls (Book 1 of Seasons of the Cycle)

Chapter 28 - Bothvar Beorcolsson

I've lost track of how many days we've been out at sea. It feels like most of the summer has gone by. Raiding season must be almost over. It feels like a total defeat losing Thorkel and the others. A giant part of me died with him. I do not know what to do as I wander the ship, aimlessly looking for work. The others seem to leave me alone, all but Skardi, Solmund, and Griotgard. Even they seem to treat me like a child. Careful not to say the wrong thing, as if a single word could cause me to shatter. But they too, seem lost. Varin was an important figure in their lives, and he's gone too.

The sun beats down on us like a searing, furious fire. Our water supply is limited, but we did manage to get more food from the last raid. A lot of the men have gone through the loot, talking about claims they will lay when the Earl gives them the chance to take their share. Several of the slaves are passed around to keep the men from getting too agitated. Rognvald thinks that letting them have a good fuck will keep them from fighting each other, but disputes still seem to happen, especially over potential loot. I suppose it's inevitable when you keep men cramped together like this for days.

As days go on, the anger and hate I hold seems to be at a simmer compared to the raging fire it was after Thorkel's death. Despair has taken its place. I feel hopeless. I don't know what to do without my brother. As if I've lost my will to carry on. I am not hungry even though I haven't eaten much for days. If it weren't for Skardi, Solmund, and Griotgard forcing food down my throat, I wouldn't eat anything.

I've taken to the wine, but even it can't drown this void inside me. I look down at the sea and wish it would take me too.

But then I think of that elf. The one with the burning red hair and the anger and rage returns, but it lacks the energy it once had. I'm too weak to feed the fire inside me. The wine seems to be the only thing I can stomach, but even that has begun to make me feel sick. My hair has started to fall out, and I've gained sore spots and begun bruising easily.

But I'm too exhausted to do anything about it. I know I'm getting sicker and sicker, wasting away, but I don't care anymore.

"I can't take this anymore. I won't watch you die, you stupid boy," Rognvald says as he forces an orange fruit into my hands. "Eat this, it'll ward help with the scurvy, that's what's causing all the shit bruising and sores. Also, no more wine. It's dehydrating you."

I wearily eat the fruit before he forces me to drink water. Over the next few days, he watches me closely, making me eat more fruit and drink more water. The sickness slowly fades, but I don't feel any better. I just feel lost.

I head down to see the slaves to find Gizor harassing the women. Fondling and molesting a brown-haired monk girl as she and her compatriots struggle while she cries. The older male monk is unconscious. He must have tried to stop Gizor. "Stop harassing the slaves, Gizor."

He looks up at me. "Oh, don't spoil my fun. They're Southern heathens. They worship a false god. What do we care about what happens to them?"

"They are claimed by the Earl. I don't want them damaged before Sigvor gets a look at them. Do you want to anger my father?" I ask.

He grumbles and sighs. "Fine. What about the elves?"

I look over at them all huddled up in the corner. I don't understand why their ears are long and pointy. It annoys me. And their eyes. It's unnatural the way they glimmer, so blue and shiny. I hate them. I hate them all. "Have at them."

Gizor grins as he walks over to the elves. I ignore him and turn my attention to the monks. The red-head goes to the brown-haired one to comfort her as she tries to cover up. I look at the brown-haired girl as the blonde one rushes down to help the older man. He's bleeding. "Please, you have to help him. He's hurt badly. That man hit him in the head."