Page 9 of Edge of the Wild

Erik pushed up onto an elbow, growing serious. The pillow crease had left an impression on his cheek, and his beard needed tidying. “I’m not asking you to take up sword fighting. But once we go over the edge of the wild…when we get to Dreki Hörgr…” His head tilted to its most earnest, devastating angle. “I would at least have you know how to handle a knife properly.”

A snarky comment about knife-handling formed and died on Oliver’s tongue; Erik looked too serious to be teased now.

He sighed. “If it will make you feel better–”

“It will.”

He gathered his dressing gown into his arms and glanced toward Bjorn with reluctant acceptance. “Breakfast first?”

Bjorn snorted and moved toward the door. “You just had to pick an insolent one, didn’t you, Erik?”

“My whole household is insolent,” Erik shot back, smirking. “Why would Oliver be any different?”

~*~

With great reluctance, Oliver climbed out of bed – not at all helped by Erik turning him loose only at the last moment – dressed warmly, washed his face, and combed his hair in front of the mirror. His braids were beginning to unravel, fine hairs come loose of the beads. He fiddled with them, frowning to himself, until Erik’s reflection loomed up behind his, tall and, broad, and totally eclipsing.

Erik had dragged on his own dressing gown, but left it open, and still wore nothing beneath. Watery, gray sunlight bounced off the mirror and onto his face, so his eyes appeared translucent. The rest of him appeared godlike and mouth-watering.

I am thirty, and I have self-control, Oliver told himself. Firmly. Still, his voice wavered when he said, “How long do these normally last?”

Erik shrugged, sending the gown sliding a little, revealing a wider gap of furred chest. “A few days. Weeks, even, if they’re tight enough.” He reached to finger one of the beads, fingertips brushing along Oliver’s neck. “As your hair gets longer, their own weight helps hold them in place.”

“As my hair gets longer?”

Erik’s thumb paused in the act of smoothing over the tiny runes etched in the silver, and his gaze met Oliver’s in the mirror. “Do you not want it to?”

Oliver had trouble envisioning himself with hair down his back, oiled, and elaborately braided, as if he were a true Northman. Would he grow his beard out, too? That idea seemed ludicrous.

“It’s only,” he said, hesitating.

Erik’s fingertips slipped up and down the side of his throat, over his pulse, where it quickened, faintly, in response to the touch.

“It’s only – I don’t know if it’s going to help. Looking like I belong – is that even possible? Won’t I look like a soft Southerner playing dress-up?”

Erik frowned. His hand landed on Oliver’s shoulder. “If you don’t want to style yourself as a Northerner, then I won’t force you.” He looked almost…hurt.

Oliver understood, then, and wanted to kick himself. He’d been looking at it pragmatically: thinking that Erik wanted to clothe him in Northern fashion, even braid his hair and thus declare his own feelings, for Oliver’s safety. That was doubtless true, but it was also about showing a personal acceptance of Oliver, he thought. About Erik sharing his culture with him in this most personal of ways.

He reached up to cover Erik’s hand with his own where it rested on his shoulder. Smiled. “I suppose I’ll have to learn how to braid, then, won’t I? You’ll be far too busy kinging to do it for me every time.”

He got to watch Erik’s face soften; watched his smile bloom, the small, tender thing that he shared with his family – and now with Oliver, when they were alone together like this. “Perhaps Bjorn won’t be the best tutor on that front.”

Oliver chuckled. “Perhaps not.” He sobered. “Speaking of Bjorn, I guess I should be off.” He managed to withhold a sigh. “Will the knives be provided, or am I expected to bring my own?”

Erik’s turn to chuckle. He moved away and toward the mantelpiece. “Here. Take this.” He took up the unadorned dagger in its hide sheath that Oliver had inspected night before last and, turning, lobbed it to him underhanded.

Oliver managed to catch it. Barely.

Just as Erik barely managed to keep from grinning. His lips quirked, but held steady. “I first learned how to fight with that.”

“When you were three?” Oliver asked, innocently. The dagger weighed a surprising amount in his hand, though it was well-balanced.

“Four,” Erik said. “Father had me stab it into sandbags so I could get the feel of pushing past resistance.”

“A charming childhood pastime: stabbing.”

A single, dark brow went up. “Will you just take it?”

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