Ease The Dawn

Part 2, Chapter 7

"Ivar," she pleaded in a gentle voice.

With dark eyes and a scowling face, he sat next to her, leaning against the headboard of their bed. His face was drawn tight and he looked nearly as pale as her.

"I am alright. Ivar, please," she squeezed his hand.

Turning to look at her, his eyes narrowed on the neatly stitched sutures just into her hairline. Squinting he inspected the sympatry of the black thread for the hundredth time. The healer's old hands had been shaking so feebly from his stance over her that he worried her work would leave the wound unrepaired. He threatened the woman a number of times, to have her dragged out so he, himself, could finish the delicate task. All the while, Aethelswith murmured reassurance that all would be well and to give the poor healer room to breathe. 

The light was shifting and the slaves still in the room busied themselves with cleaning the blood from the floors, emptying the tub and removing the soiled linens. The furs on the bed had already been changed and the blood-soaked cloths long gone.

Despite the shaded light, candles were being lit in anticipation of the approaching evening. The older kitchen thrall who had tended to her head entered with a tray, carrying a steaming bowl of bone broth. Being the matriarch of the slaves and in-service the longest, Aethelswith was not surprised it had been her who mustered the courage to alert Ivar to her fall. No question, she was there now as the young girls cleaning the room were more terrified of him than usual.

Forgoing the spoon offered, Aethelswith accepted the broth and blew away the steam, sipping directly from the bowl's edge. Having been wiped clean, she sat with her knees up, leaning back beside Ivar, wearing a fresh slip and a fur tucked around her. Loosely braided and resting down one shoulder, her long hair had been rewashed in a bowl of soapy water to remove the dried blood. It had taken multiple bowls before the water would rinse clear.

Standing at Aethelswith's side of the bed, the older woman adjusted her pillows, careful not to jostle and cause her soup to spill. Picking up Aethelswith's braid, she squeezed it with a fresh cloth to expel any extra water and speed it's drying.

"Will you get your hands off my woman," Ivar sneered. His eyes no less full of danger than they had been an hour earlier. Brigit moved away from the bed and signaled the others to hurry.

"She was only trying to make me comfortable," Aethelswith whispered, looking through the steam rising from her broth as the thralls, scurried from the room, closing the door. They were alone, at last.

"That girl will pay with her life."

Without looking, Aethelswith could sense Ivar's grimace, his words spoken with a rasp from his lips being in a snarl.

"That is absurd, Ivar. No."

"Absurd, Aethelswith? She nearly killed you. You did not see the display that I walk in to. You were cold out and a mess. I have seen less blood on a battlefield. And! There was soap all over the floor. You could have died! If you do not have respect for your life, remember, I do."

"Ivar."

"What, Aethelswith?"

Placing her bowl on the table next, she turned to look at him, lifting her hand and without thinking, gently felt her stitches. Lowering her hand, she maintained his stare, knowing now was not the time to use a sharp tone.

Seeing her blink softly and the way her eyes began to roam his face, pausing on his mouth before flicking back up to his eyes, his expression softened. Leaning down, he pressed a lingering kiss to her bare shoulder exposed by her fresh nightgown.