• * * * *

    I sat beside my pallet bed, watching Sjuld sleep. The little drengr whimpered and moaned, clawing out, the stitching in his forehead raveling away from his skull. Blood-streaked, swollen skin surrounded the cleft in his forehead—if I was not careful to keep the wound clean, it would gather poison....

    I won’t let that happen. Not to Sjuld.

    Rising, I stepped quietly over to my bedtable, careful not to wake Sjuld, and removed a bottle of prepared black mustardseed and a length of linen. I returned to the pallet and opened the little bottle, smearing Sjuld’s forehead with the aromatic paste, and after tightening the stitches, wrapped his forehead with the linen. Sjuld gave a little moan and blearily opened his eyes, unable to say anything, but reached out for my hand with fingers that shivered. I lifted Sjuld’s frail little hand and pressed it to my chest.

    “It’s all right,” I soothed. “I know, Sjuld.”

    Sjuld’s eyes unfocused and brimmed with moisture. His fingers weakly sifted over my thin curls of chest-hair and nestled into the warmth of my breast, stirring with my heart-beat. Min fylkir, his fingers said with each loving caress. Min fylkir, my friend, my caretaker. Have thanks. The guilt you feel for Skael’s death is absolved. You need not worry.

    “Sjuld, little one, my friend.” I drew Sjuld’s thin hand to my mouth and kissed the curled, shaking fingers. “You will live, you are strong. I will make sure of that.”

    But will I ever be the same?

    “No one can be certain,” I sighed. “I pray every hour for your safety...but you are fortunate to be alive. It is nearly impossible to survive such a strike from a magical weapon.”

    I would like my flute, Sjuld’s pale lips said, pursing and quivering, and blew little breaths of air. I would like to play for you, min fylkir.

    I chuckled low, remembering Sjuld’s words not so long ago. “You are Sjuld, not skald,” I said, with a note of gratitude to Freyja and Óðinn that my friend was still alive, had remained so, for nearly a fortnight now. Sjuld was still flushed with fever, and his eyes were still dulled with a sickened glaze, but he was alive. Alive! Roger could not take everything I loved. I handed over the thin whalebone flute, smiling as Sjuld held it and shakily lifted it to his lips.

    A dirge, mournful and lonesome, fluttered from the flute, pausing and faltering with his shaky breaths. His fingers could scarcely close the sound-holes, but a happy little gleam shone in his eyes. He played, and played, and when he stopped to draw in a quivering breath, I placed a hand on his chest and slowly rubbed it.

    “If you ever want mercy from this torture, from living in such agony,” I whispered, “I will give it to you.” A tear slipped from my eye and down my cheek as I thought of living without my dearest friend.

    The flute tweeted. Sjuld looked at me, his eyes showing a melancholy, needful pain. I love you, min fylkir, the pain in his eyes seemed to whisper. I do not want to hurt you. I do not want to leave you. I will not abandon you, not when you need me most.

    “Thank you,” I said softly. I reached out and gently pulled the flute from Sjuld’s trembling hands. “Rest now, min dýrr vinr. Let sleep be your respite. I will not leave you tonight.”

    Sjuld leaned back into the furs, his heavy lids slipping down over his eyes—lower, lower, until they closed. My hand remained on his chest, gently rubbing and soothing.

    “Fair dreams I wish you, Sjuld....” I whispered and closed my eyes.

    * * * *

    I woke in the night, and wept. Skael was gone. He would never come back to me.

    Leaning close to Sjuld, I pressed my lips to his forehead, and rose to slip out of my tunic and brœkr. He did not move as I lifted him and set him down nearer to the wall. I slid into the furs and held his frail little body close to me, kissing his cheeks and nestling my nose into his thin, loose braids, which were dull and blood-stained. I had to give him a proper bath soon; 'twouldn't do to leave him smelling of death....

    A death he still faced, standing at Valhöll’s gates, halberd in hand, ready to battle eternally....

    How fortunate he was. If I could not have him, I would go to the grave with him, and meet both of them in Valhöll. Or Freyja would take me to her hall, to eternally sup with the great goddess, the only mother I had ever known. I did not know which I wanted more, him to live or both of us to die.

    "Gods," I murmured, "what a choice. If there were only some way to bring Skael back." But it was a selfish endeavor, for I was not thinking of the rest of my men so dearly...I failed as a commander. I had failed. They were dead.

    And soon, Sjuld would be too. Thursson would doubtless follow.

    ...And I would be alone. How ironic. I had been alone at birth, and at my death, I would be as well.

    "My only wish, Sjuld, is that when you die, you send a message to me, to tell me of Skael...." I leaned my head into Sjuld's shoulder and bitterly wept.

    The door cracked open. I didn’t turn.

    “Master Sirius,” Thursson said calmly from the doorway, “you are needed. The men must be laid to rest.” He strode forward and laid a hand on my back, stroking it. “Hush, my commander. It isn’t as though you could’ve prevented this. Scurvy was a fearsome foe indeed...but you have him."

    “But at what price, man?” I choked between my tears. “Are you well, Thursson? Is it healing?”

    “Ja, ‘tis healing.” Thursson knelt and pressed his chin to my shoulder thoughtfully. “I am well. No need to fear...and if Sjuld survived this long, he’ll likely survive forever. Death comes for such a wound in the first sennight. Keep it clean, and Sjuld warm, so his fever breaks, and give him brandy to dull his pains. He will be fine, my commander.”

    “Min vinr,” I murmured, wiping my eyes, “I will be there in the morning.”

    “As you wish, Master Sirius. I will keep the gulls away from them.” Thursson stroked my back, and left.

    “I feel my death coming for me,” I whispered in the darkness.

    * * * *