BLOOD IN THE SNOW

4 Ember and Snow

The sounds of the approaching meal drifted through the walls—I heard warriors shouting and laughing out in the courtyard. But inside the healers' den, it was quiet. Peaceful, even.

Midafternoon light still lingered, streaming through the high windows. Olivia and I sat cross-legged on the floor, sorting through the last basket of supplies—dried herbs that needed bundling, salves that needed labeling.

Until Olivia spoke suddenly.

"Can I ask you something?"

I glanced up from the nettle leaves I'd been organizing. Her tone had shifted—careful, hesitant. Something in it made my chest tighten.

"Of course," I said.

Olivia looked up from her basket of crushed leaves, her fingers stilling. She studied me for a long moment, her expression cautious, almost reluctant.

"I was wondering..." Her voice trailed off, and she bit her lip.

The silence stretched between us, heavy with whatever she wasn't saying.

"Earlier," she continued, finally, "when Axel brought me the cakes?"

Her gaze focused on me now—not the herbs, not the basket. Just me.

"Did... you notice something?"

I frowned slightly, trying to recall the moment. Axel's teasing grin. Olivia's laughter. The warmth between them. "Notice what?"

Olivia bit her lip harder, then sighed—a long, deflating sound. "Okay. Maybe I'm imagining it. But..." She poked at the leaves in her lap, her voice dropping to something quieter, more vulnerable. "He didn't look at me like he used to." She paused. "I could've sworn he looked past me."

Her green eyes flicked up—hesitant, searching mine for something I wasn't sure I could give.

"At you."

The words hit me like a stone dropping into still water. I opened my mouth to protest, but nothing came out. Then Olivia let out a laugh—too bright, too sharp. "Gods, listen to me. Jealous over a glance? I must be going soft." But the way she avoided my gaze as she turned back to her work told me she wasn't laughing at all.

My stomach twisted. "Why would he look at me?" I said carefully, choosing my words. "I don't even know him. We've never spoken."

"Exactly." Olivia's voice was tight now. "That's what's..." She hesitated, fingers twisting anxiously in her lap. "It's what's worrying me."

She looked up again, something desperate flickering in her expression.

"He never looks toward me without smiling," she said. "Always has a joke or... something to say. But this afternoon, he glanced past me and..." Her jaw tightened. "His expression actually changed when you were standing there. Like he didn't even see me."

I shook my head firmly. "Olivia, there's no possible way he was looking at me when you're right there."

Olivia's shoulders sagged slightly. She exhaled, some of the tension bleeding out of her.

"Maybe..." she murmured. Then she forced another laugh—lighter this time, but still brittle around the edges—and stood, brushing dust from her pants. "You're right. I'm being ridiculous. This whole day has me on edge."

She turned toward the shelves along the far wall, reaching for a ceramic jar we'd forgotten to restock earlier. "Come on," she said brightly—too brightly. "Let's finish counting and get some dinner before Astrid hunts us down."

She tried to smile as she stretched up on her toes to grab the jar, but I could still see the worry lingering in her shoulders.

And I couldn't shake the uneasy feeling settling in my chest.

We made our way to the longhouse together as dusk settled fully over the stronghold. By the time we stepped inside, the great hall was already packed. Vikings crammed shoulder to shoulder around long wooden tables that groaned under the weight of platters and jugs. The air was thick with heat and noise, everyone talking over one another in booming voices. Some sang, banging their mugs against the tables in rhythm, creating a thunderous beat that reverberated through the rafters. The scent of roasted meat and woodsmoke was almost overwhelming after the quiet calm of the healers' den.

I hesitated at the entrance, suddenly aware of how exposed I felt in the chaos. But Olivia grabbed my arm, pulling me forward through the crowd.

"Found a table up by the fire!" she shouted over the din, weaving between bodies with practiced ease.

I followed, keeping my head down as curious eyes tracked our movement. The warmth intensified as we neared the massive hearth at the hall's center, flames leaping and crackling, filling the air with smoke that hung in lazy clouds near the ceiling.

Olivia dropped into a seat at a smaller table slightly removed from the worst of the noise, setting down two bowls and a jug of mead with a satisfied sigh. She gestured for me to sit.

"Hope you still like deer," she said with a grin, pushing one of the bowls toward me. "It's a delicacy here."

I lowered myself carefully onto the bench, my injured leg protesting slightly. "Oh... really?" My voice came out softer than I intended. I glanced down at the steaming bowl—chunks of dark meat swimming in thick gravy, root vegetables visible beneath the surface. "I've never tried it."

Olivia's eyebrows shot up in surprise, but she didn't comment. Instead, she tore into her venison with her fingers, pulling apart the tender meat with ease.

"You get used to eating the same things," she said between bites. She chewed thoughtfully, humming with satisfaction. "This is really good. Even the mead—" She lifted her mug and drained half of it in one go, slamming it back onto the table with a satisfied gasp. "Maybe that's my sweet tooth talking, though."

I stared down at my bowl, then at the eating utensils laid out beside it—a small fork and knife, worn but functional. My fingers moved automatically, reaching for them as I'd done a thousand times before at carefully set tables in marble halls.

Olivia froze mid-bite, her eyes going wide.

I looked up, fork and knife poised over my bowl. "What?"

"Wait—wait," she sputtered, nearly choking on her mead. She set down her mug, staring at the utensils in my hands like I'd just produced a viper from thin air. "You just... eat with those? Like... like at a Southern court?"

My stomach dropped. Too late, I realized my mistake.

"Who even brought those here?!" Olivia's voice pitched higher with genuine bewilderment. Then her eyes widened further, something clicking into place. "...Oh no. Don't tell me Astrid was right about you hiding silver in your boots."

She burst out laughing—a bright, startled sound that drew a few curious glances from nearby tables. But there was no malice in it, just playful disbelief and amusement at the absurdity.

"She didn't actually say that" Olivia clarified, wiping tears from her eyes, "but do you?"

I forced a laugh, setting down the fork and knife quickly. "No, of course not. I just... I thought..."

Olivia shook her head, still grinning. She reached down and pulled a small eating dagger from her belt, tossing it across the table to me. It landed with a soft thunk near my bowl.

"Here," she said. "That's what we use. Forks are for poking dead things before you cook them."

I picked up the dagger gingerly, studying its worn handle. "Right. I knew that."

Olivia snorted but didn't press further. I carefully tore apart a piece of the tender venison with two fingers, bringing it to my mouth. The flavor was strong—gamey and rich, nothing like the delicate dishes I'd grown up with. But it was warm, and I was hungry, so I forced myself to eat what I could.

The rest of dinner passed more easily. Olivia kept up a steady stream of conversation, pointing out various Vikings across the hall and sharing gossip about who was feuding with whom, who'd just returned from a successful raid, and who was courting whom. I listened, grateful for the distraction, and managed to finish most of my bowl.

By the time we stepped back outside, the night had turned bitter. The temperature had dropped sharply, and our breath formed thick clouds in the air.

Olivia stood on the longhouse steps, stretching and immediately shivering. "Gods, it's cold," she muttered, looking up at the clear, starry sky. The stars were brilliant tonight—thousands of them scattered across the darkness. "Almost makes you wish for a cloud to cover them up so you can't see your breath freezing in the air."

Her teeth chattered audibly.

"Should have worn my fur cloak."

I nodded in agreement, wrapping my arms around myself. The cold bit through my tunic despite the layers. But I said nothing. I was waiting—watching the training yard across the courtyard where torches still burned, where I could hear the distant ring of steel on steel.

The yard was a storm of movement and sound—warriors clashing under the cold moon, swords ringing like cracked bells. Snow clung to their cloaks and hair, and steam rose from their skin in ghostly plumes. They moved like shadows, brutal and efficient.

And there, near the center of it, was Erik.

He didn't fight with fury or recklessness. Every movement was calculated, precise. Each strike ended just shy of drawing blood, each parry perfectly timed. He moved like water—fluid and unstoppable—and his opponents struggled to keep up.

Then he saw me.

Standing at the edge of the yard with Olivia, frost gathering in my hair, fingers tucked into my sleeves for warmth.

He didn't stop immediately. But his next opponent flinched when Erik's blade suddenly hovered an inch from his throat. Then one swift disarming twist, and the man's sword clattered to the ground.

A few minutes later, what seemed like Olivia's younger brother appeared—a stocky boy with windburned cheeks who grabbed her arm impatiently.

"Liv, come on. Ma's waiting."

Olivia rolled her eyes but smiled. "I'm coming, I'm coming." She turned to me, waving. "See you tomorrow, Marielle! Don't freeze out here!"

I waved back, watching as she disappeared into the darkness with her brother, their voices fading.

And then I was alone.

I lowered myself carefully back onto the longhouse steps, my injured leg throbbing faintly. The cold seeped through my clothes, but I stayed, watching as the training yard slowly cleared. One by one, the warriors sheathed their weapons and trudged off toward their homes, leaving nothing but trampled snow and the quiet hiss of dying torches.

Erik remained.

He finally sheathed his sword, his breath still visible in thick clouds. A beat of silence stretched across the moonlit courtyard... and his eyes found mine again.

Even from this distance, his gaze burned.

Slowly, he began walking toward me. His boots crunched through the snow with steady, deliberate steps. The courtyard felt impossibly vast, and yet he crossed it in what felt like heartbeats. Then he stopped, just a few feet away, looking down at me.

"You're still here."

His voice was low. Steady.

I stood quickly—perhaps too quickly—and nodded. My heart was beating faster than it should have been. He stepped closer, his coat dusted with snow, his presence somehow filling all the space between us. His eyes flicked over my face—lingered for just a moment—then shifted away.

"...Come on."

He turned slightly, one hand lifting in a given silent direction.

"The path's clearer now."

I fell into step beside him as we left the courtyard, following a narrow path lit by lanterns hung at intervals. Their soft glow illuminated the snow in pools of golden light.

"Are we going back to that place you took me yesterday?" I asked, my voice quiet in the stillness. I was referring to the stronghold—the infirmary where he'd first brought me, where he'd bandaged my wounds.

Erik kept walking, hands loose at his sides, breath curling in the cold.

"That place?" He glanced sideways at me. "No. Not tonight."

He hadn't given me an actual answer as to where we were going exactly—just another cryptic response that left me with more questions than before. Erik seemed to specialize in vague answers and silences, leaving me to piece together meanings from scraps. But something in the set of his jaw told me not to press further.

We walked in silence for a while. My leg ached with each step, the injury from yesterday flaring with a dull, persistent throb. I tried to hide the limp, but it was impossible—each time I put weight on my right leg, I faltered slightly.

It didn't take long for him to notice.

"Your leg—"

He stopped abruptly, turning to face me fully.

"Why didn't you say something?" His voice was a low rumble. Not angry, however, it was something else. "Why didn't the healer check it?"

"Well..." I hesitated, embarrassed. "My job was mostly sitting down. It didn't seem—"

"That healer," he grumbled, cutting me off, "can't see past her own nose." He stepped closer, his hand briefly touching my arm—steadying me. "Can you walk?"

He was watching me now with that same intensity from the training yard. Like he was expecting danger.

"Or do I need to carry you?"

My face flushed hot despite the cold. "N-no, no... It's fine. You've done enough already."

I remembered yesterday—being held in his arms, too weak and bloodied to protest. The memory made my chest tighten. I shivered, but not from the cold.

He stepped closer again, voice dropping.

"I didn't carry you yesterday to watch you break open that wound tonight."

Then, without warning, he bent slightly and swept an arm behind my knees, lifting me in one smooth, effortless motion.

I gasped. He didn't flinch.

"Erik—!"

"Quiet," he said, but there was something rougher beneath it.

"The path's icy."

And with that—strong arms holding me firm—he started walking again, carrying me through the lantern-lit snow like I weighed no more than a breath of wind.

I was mortified. Heat flooded my face, spreading down my neck despite the freezing air. I was acutely aware of everything—the solid warmth of his chest, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the way his arms felt impossibly secure around me.

Yesterday, I'd been too dazed and wounded to feel flustered. But now...

Now I was painfully, embarrassingly aware.

He felt it too—I was certain of it.

He didn't look down. But he knew.

I could feel the tension in him, too. The slight quickening of his pulse where my hand rested against his shoulder. The way his grip tightened almost imperceptibly.

"Relax," he said gruffly, shifting so my head rested more comfortably against his shoulder. "I won't drop you."

I nodded mutely. That wasn't what I was worried about. Not at all.

"Where are we going exactly?" I asked after a moment, my voice much softer than before.

Erik didn't reply immediately. He kept walking, the crunch of snow and our mingled breath punctuating the quiet.

Finally, just as I thought he wouldn't answer—that we'd walk through the silent moonlight in silence forever—he said:

"My cabin."

His voice was rough. Quiet.

"You'll see soon enough."

I nodded again, not trusting my voice. Erik's grip tightened slightly—just enough to feel it, not enough to question. The wind stilled as we left the main path, entering a stretch of forest where the path ended. Moonlight filtered through bare branches overhead, casting everything in silver and shadow.

And then—there it was.

A small cabin stood isolated among the trees, set back from the path. It wasn't grand or decorated. No banners hung from the eaves, no intricate carvings adorned the door, like in the courtyard. Just solid timber walls, a sloped roof heavy with snow.

Erik stepped up to the door—still holding me—and pushed it open with his shoulder.

Inside, the cabin was dark. The only light came from the moon streaming through the windows, illuminating the sparse interior. I could make out the shapes of things: swords mounted above an unlit hearth—ancient-looking, their blades catching the moonlight. A single low couch covered in furs. A small wooden table. Shelves lined with jars and tools I couldn't identify.

Everything was neat. Orderly. Nothing wasted.

Erik shifted, finally setting me down gently near the cold hearth. One hand lingered at my back until he was sure I was steady.

"Stay off that leg," he said, turning toward the fireplace. "And don't touch anything."

He paused, glancing back.

"...Unless I give it to you."

I watched as he knelt by the hearth, pulling logs from a neatly stacked pile beside it. His movements were efficient—practiced. He arranged the kindling first, then struck the flint against steel. Sparks flew, catching on the dry tinder. He blew gently, coaxing the flames to life.

The fire grew slowly, crackling and popping as it spread. Warm orange light began to fill the cabin, pushing back the cold shadows. It flickered across the walls, illuminating the mounted weapons above and casting long shadows that stretched across the room.

I sat carefully, keeping weight off my injured leg, and let my eyes wander.

The cabin was small, but it was meticulously kept. Near the hearth sat a low wooden chest, its surface worn smooth with age. On top of it was a small silver locket.

It looked... delicate. Precious.

Not something I would have expected Erik to own

I clasped my hands between my thighs as I sat on the couch, leaning slightly toward the hearth. The fire's warmth seeped into my bones, chasing away the deep chill that had settled there during our walk.

Erik busied himself across the room, moving to a shelf lined with jars and pouches. He selected a worn leather pouch and dumped its contents into the kettle hanging above the fire. The scent that rose was sharp and spicy.

"A tea Astrid made," he said, glancing back at me briefly. "It will warm you."

Astrid.

The name landed strangely in the quiet cabin. I thought of her sharp eyes, her thinly veiled hostility, the way she'd watched me all day like I was something dangerous.

Did they have history? Or was I reading too much into a simple mention?

I opened my mouth to ask, but Erik was already moving toward the door.

"I'm going to get water from the spring," he said, nodding toward an empty bucket beside the hearth. He paused, one hand on the door frame, and glanced back. The firelight caught the edge of his jaw, sharp and shadowed. "Don't go anywhere."

And then he was gone—the door closing with a soft thud, leaving me alone in the cabin.

I stared at the space where he'd stood, my unasked question still hovering on my tongue. Then I turned back to the fire, watching the flames dance and twist.

Astrid.

Why did the mention of her name unsettle me so much?

The fire crackled and hissed, throwing sparks that died before reaching the stone hearth. I sat in the warmth and silence, listening for any sound beyond the cabin walls. But there was nothing—just the muffled quiet of snow-covered woods and the occasional groan of wind through the trees.

Minutes passed. Maybe longer.

Then the door creaked open, bringing with it a gust of cold air and Erik, snow dusting his shoulders. He kicked the white powder from his boots and crossed to the hearth, setting down a bucket full of clear spring water.

He worked efficiently, pouring water into the kettle and adjusting its position over the flames with an iron hook. Steam began to rise almost immediately, curling upward in lazy spirals. Erik didn't speak as he waited, one hand resting on the stone mantle.

When the tea was ready, he poured it carefully into a simple clay mug, then crossed the small space and held it out to me.

"Drink," he said. "Slowly."

I reached for the mug with both hands, my fingers closing around the heated clay. The sudden warmth was almost painful—too hot—and I nearly dropped it before adjusting my grip.

Erik's hand shot out, steadying the mug before it could spill. His fingers brushed mine for just a moment, and then he pulled back.

"Careful," he muttered. "You'll burn yourself."

I nodded, lifting the mug to my lips and blowing gently across the surface. The steam carried that sharp, spicy scent again—bitter but not unpleasant. I took a small sip.

It burned going down, but in a way that felt medicinal.

The silence stretched between us, comfortable but charged with unspoken things.

Finally, I couldn't help myself.

"Astrid," I said quietly, cradling the mug in my hands. "You and her... are you...?"

I trailed off, not sure how to finish the question without sounding presumptuous. Or worse.

Erik's gaze snapped to mine, something unreadable flickering across his face.

"Astrid?" he repeated, his voice flat. Then, almost amused: "No."

"She's a healer. A good one." A pause. His gaze stayed fixed on the fire.

“She was supposed to be my healer.”

I caught the distinction immediately. He'd said "was," not "is."

“She wanted more. I gave her nothing.”

The bluntness of it struck me. No apology, no justification—just a cold fact delivered like a sentence. I wondered what "more" meant. I took another sip of tea—her tea—the bitterness suddenly felt appropriate.

"She seems..." I hesitated, choosing my words carefully. "She seems to care about you."

He looked away, into the fire.

"Astrid cares about a lot of things that aren't hers to care about," he said quietly. "They want control. Order. A chieftain on their arm like a prize."

The weight of his words settled heavily in the small cabin.

I took another sip of tea, letting the warmth spread through me, and decided not to press further. Whatever lay between Erik and Astrid—or didn't—wasn't my business.

But as I sat there, watching him stare into the flames with that distant, guarded expression.

When he finally spoke, his voice was rougher than I expected.

"You really should have said something about your leg." He looked down at where it rested, barely visible beneath the loose wool. "The healer could have helped."

"It's fine, really," I said quickly. "I just didn't know at the time—"

"You were in pain," he countered, looking back up. His eyes narrowed. "You know better than to hide an injury."

"Well, it didn't hurt until we started walking."

Erik exhaled through his nose—sharp, like a man trying not to argue with a stubborn flame.

"Of course it didn't," he muttered. "It never does. Not until you've walked on it long enough to make it worse."

He stood abruptly, taking the mug from my hands before I could protest and setting it aside on the fur carpet.

"Then we'll fix it now."

Before I could say anything, he knelt in front of me. His hands found the hem of my trouser leg—the fabric loose enough that it slid up easily—and he pushed it carefully past my knee, exposing the wound I'd been trying to ignore.

In the firelight, the angry red line along my thigh became impossible to dismiss. The edges were inflamed where the wound had started to pull open again during our walk. Barely bleeding, but bad enough.

"...Stupid," he muttered under his breath—more at himself than at me. "I should've carried you sooner."

"It's not your fault," I answered softly. I shifted slightly, gathering the fabric higher to give him better access to the injury—but no more than necessary. My fingers trembled as I held the trouser leg in place.

The wound was worse than I'd admitted. Angry red at the edges, starting to seep.
Erik straightened suddenly, moving to one of the shelves near the hearth. He returned moments later with clean linen strips and a small clay jar.

Then he pressed the cloth a little firmer against the wound—just enough pressure to stanch the bleeding.

The sudden sting tore through me. I gasped sharply, my hand flying to my thigh just above where he worked. A quiet whimper escaped before I could stop it, and I winced again as the pain flared hot and immediate.

Erik's head snapped up at the sound, his brow furrowing deeply.

"Did I tie it too tight?"

I tried to take a deep breath—attempted to, at least—but even that small movement made the wound sting anew. My exhale came out shaky.

"Easy," Erik murmured, his voice dropping lower. His hand returned to my thigh, but gentler this time—steadying rather than pressing. His thumb rested just above the bandage, warm through the fabric. "I'm almost done. Just... breathe."

I nodded. The heat of his palm against my leg was distracting in a way I couldn't afford to think about right now.

He worked quickly after that, his movements precise and efficient. He secured the bandage with a final, careful knot, then smoothed the fabric once to ensure it wouldn't shift. When he was satisfied, he rolled my trouser leg back down.

"There." He stood and crossed to the kettle hanging over the fire, refilling my cup with fresh tea. He returned and held it out as he passed it to me. "Drink."

I took it carefully, our fingers not quite touching. The air between us still felt charged—humming with something unspoken—but if Erik noticed, he gave no sign. His expression remained unreadable as he stepped back, giving me space.

I lifted the cup to my lips and drank slowly. The tea had cooled slightly but was still warm enough to spread through my chest, easing the sharp edges of pain and exhaustion.

Erik moved to stand by the fire, his back to me, staring into the flames as if they held answers to questions he hadn't asked aloud.

I finished the tea in silence, each sip quieter than the last. When the cup was finally empty, I set it down beside me. The warmth had seeped all the way through me now, making my limbs feel heavy and my eyelids impossibly weighted.

Erik must have sensed it. He turned from the fire, his gaze settling on me with that same steady intensity.

"You need rest,"

Before I could argue—or agree—he crossed the room and gestured toward a doorway I hadn't noticed before. "This way."

I stood carefully, testing my newly bandaged leg. It still ached, but the sharp pain had dulled to something sustainable. Erik waited, then led me through the doorway into a smaller room.

It was sparse, like the rest of the cabin. A single bed dominated the space—piled with furs and woolen blankets that looked impossibly warm. A narrow window let in slivers of moonlight, casting everything in soft silver.

"This is your room," I said, realizing it immediately. The few personal items—a worn leather belt draped over a chair, boots lined up neatly near the wall.

"Tonight it's yours," Erik corrected, his tone leaving no room for argument. "I'll take the couch."

"Erik, I can't—"

"You can." He moved past me to the bed, pulling back the furs in a practiced motion. "And you will. Your leg needs rest, not a cramped couch."

I wanted to protest further, but the exhaustion pulling at me was overwhelming. And truthfully, the bed looked like heaven.

"Thank you," I said quietly.

He nodded once, then he was gone, the door falling back into place behind him.

I stood there for a moment longer, alone in his room, surrounded by his scent—leather and pine and something distinctly him. Then I carefully lowered myself onto the bed, sinking into the softness of the furs.

The warmth enveloped me immediately. I pulled the blankets up over my shoulders, my body finally relaxing for the first time since... I couldn't even remember when.

Sleep came quickly, pulling me under like a tide.

But just before I slipped away completely, I heard the soft creak of the door opening.

Erik stepped closer, mostly silent. For a moment, he just stood there, watching. Then I heard his voice, barely above a whisper.

"Sleep well, little bunny," I heard him murmur, his voice barely above a whisper.

Then he was gone again.