Ease The Dawn

Chapter 18

Daybreak was masked by a blanket of low clouds, dark with coming rain and a shifting wind that did nothing to ease Ivar's anguish. Leaving Aethelswith to sleep, he returned to his men by the fire as he could bear to stay near her. Could not lie beside her and keep himself from reaching for her or running his weathered fingers across the skin of her face. Could not feel her body in his arms and then hope to survive a single day with her gone.

He was setting her free, and as a result, slamming the door to his own dungeon.

Ignoring the drink in his hand, his mind was haunted by the details of the coming morning. Remaining in his chair long after the others slowly disbursed to their tents to catch a couple of hours of rest before the trade-off. He could not return. If he did, he would crawl back into the space beside her and never let her leave; his beautiful Princess. She deserved the world, everything! More than a life with a half-of-a-man cripple and far more than a future decided for her.

As the light broke through the trees, reflecting daybreak on the surface of the stream, his restraint proved less than ironclad. The thought of his last words being the cutting, cruel ones he had spoken out of hurt made him feel ill. Made his heart race and force him to swallow back the taste of bile from his stomach.

Moving quickly through the tent doors, he needed to speak with her one last time. Needed to see her, be alone with her inside that tent, hidden from the merciless world, one last time.

She was gone. Stunned, his eyes bounced from object to object as if delaying the impact of the tent's emptiness. Closing his eyes, he cursed his brother for following his orders to ready her by dawn.

Adjusting his crutch under his arm, he swiveled toward the door, his eye catching on something out of place. Squinting through the dim light, he saw at an object on his desk. Moving toward the table, he stood and stared down at her gold dagger. Shuffling around his stool, he picked up the narrow knife, the same knife Hvitserk had removed from her the day of her capture. Ivar only felt it right to return it the night before. She had purposely left it for him. Spinning the handle in his hand, he exhaled quickly, wishing she knew the meaning behind gifting a man a family knife.

Glancing down, he noticed the thin sketching paper the knife had been resting on. Not able to tell what the lines were through the parchment, he flipped it over and his heart sank. Biting his bottom lip hard, emotions bloomed behind his eyes. On the page, etched in delicate charcoal lines was the exact likeness of his large rough hand with her small, fine hand tucked within. He shook his head at the sentiment of the drawing; their sweet embrace while sitting side by side at the feast. She too had felt it, the longing. This offering was her only way to express it. Closing his eyes, pain coursed through his chest.

—

Ivar tugged the reigns to slow his horse, stopping the chariot beside Hvitserk. Standing behind the crowd of warriors already in position, Hvitserk's glance caught the suffering in his young brother's face. Ivar pulled his leather scarf up to just below his inflamed eyes. An attempt to conceal the tremble in his jaw and his tear streaked cheeks. He was afraid to even swallow for fear of sobbing.

Searching the front line of his chapter of warriors, Aethelswith's flowing blue cape caught his eye. Her small frame sat in front of Gussr on his tall grey horse. Her hood was up, shielding the side of her face from view but locks of her warm golden hair, picked up by the wind, stood out against the rich blue fabric.

Gussr jerked the reigns and his horse stepped forward. It was time. Ivar's eyes shot across the expansive field and over the sea of armoured soldiers to the meek, pale skin King sitting atop a black horse. A chestnut horse at the front of Alfred's army stepped forward, breaking away from the Saxon's line. The dark hair of the older man riding was shoulder length and being swept back by the gusts of wind. His face looked weathered and he had the early growth of a beard and below his left eye was a deep indent that crossed his cheek. At the distance, Ivar could not tell if it was a scar or a fresh wound. This man, he thought, would be the recipient of all his rage now.