Page 103 of Blood of Wolves

“Olaf’s surgery is intact, by some miracle,” Revna said. “Though he claims his birds are unsettled.”

“Fuck his birds,” Erik said, and reached for his ale. “What other damage?”

“The whole of the southern ramparts, and our chambers below – caved-in, but not obliterated. We might still salvage some of the furnishings and heirlooms. The east tower is more or less gone, and the signal flares with it.” A necessary point of light for the longships when they returned home, but not a devastating loss. “We’ve lost bedchambers and an upstairs parlor. The sewing room. It will be a tight squeeze, accommodating everyone, now. But.” She breathed out a weary, relieved breath.

“But we can sleep on the floor, or in the dungeons, or in the bloody baths,” Erik said, “if we’re still alive.”

She nodded, smiling softly – and that was when Erik realized that, where her hand lay on the tabletop, Bjorn’s lay overtop of it. He blinked, and wondered how long they’d been sitting like that.

Then he blinked again, and realized what it meant. His gaze slid slowly to Bjorn, who ducked his head in a very uncharacteristic show of bashfulness, cheeks stained pink.

Oliver’s hand landed on his elbow. “Now, darling,” he said, in alet’sdon’t overreactsort of tone.

Erik searched for a flare of anger, indignation that his oldest friend would feel romantically inclined toward his sister…and came up blank. She’d married one of his friends, why not another? It wasn’t as if he didn’t love Bjorn as a brother already.

He waved his soup spoon in silent congratulations, and Bjorn’s broad shoulders sagged.

“Now,” Revna said, head whipping around, attention sharpening on her elder son. “What was that noise you made earlier?”

Leif sighed, and attempted to explain to his mother that he was now a skinwalker. It took a long time, and there were tears involved – angry ones, on Revna’s part, shocked, silent ones on Tessa’s – but the children and grandchildren of King Frode were not the Drakes of Drakewell: even if they’d only come into contact with it recently, theirs was a family that acknowledge the existence of magic in the world. It was accepted, finally, though a pall hung over the table; even the cooks and kitchen maids had grown quiet in their duties, clearly listening over their shoulders.

Erik drained off his ale and thumped his mug down, hard. “I want to see the general.”

Bjorn frowned at him. “Erik.”

“Captain,” Erik snapped, and pushed to his feet – only to go listing wildly to the side.

Oliver gripped his arm. “The general can wait,” he said, entreating. “Interrogate him when you’re fresher.”

“That’s…that’s probably for the best,” he agreed, reluctantly.

“Come along.” Oliver hooked their arms together and led him away from the table.

To his shame, his eyes slipped closed more than once on their way to – wherever Oliver led him. But it was only Ollie to see, and wherever he towed him, Erik knew it was someplace safe. It seemed to go on forever, and with a full belly, and the comforting scents of home in his lungs, the exhaustion he’d staved off for days and days crashed over him now like a wave, threatening to drag him under any second. He stumbled, more than once, but Oliver’s arm was surprisingly strong around his waist, steadying him.

He was guided through a door, into a warm room full of the crackling of a hearth fire. Pressed down onto a soft surface, and had his hair smoothed off his brow, before Oliver leaned down to kiss him there.

“Sleep,” he urged.

Erik roused himself enough to catch Oliver’s hand, when it would have trailed away. His throat was suddenly tight, his voice thick, when he said, “Stay?” More a plea than anything else, pulse fluttering desperate when he thought of Oliver leaving again, so soon, when he’d just gotten him back.

His eyelids flagged, so he couldn’t see, but heard Oliver’s chuckle – heard the softness of his smile – and then the bed dipped and a warm body curled up against his own. He was asleep before Oliver could finish saying goodnight.

~*~

Náli dreamed of familiar, beloved hands, sword calluses smooth and hard. He clawed his way sleepily awake and found that he hadn’t dreamed the hands, but that they were real, and here, resting gently on the side of his neck and smoothing his hair back. Effort though it was, Náli forced himself fully awake, lifting his head, propping up on an elbow – which turned out to be a poor idea, because then Mattias’s hands slid away to rest on the edge of his pallet.

“What–” His mouth was so dry his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth. He cleared his throat, and someone stepped forward – Klemens – to offer him a cup. He sipped and nodded his thanks, taking a moment to scan overtop of Mattias, crouched on the floor beside him, to see that all of his Guard was present. He amended his question. “When did you arrive?”

Mattias answered, the captain, always the first to speak, to suggest, to reach for him. “Less than an hour ago, my lord.” He withdrew his hands completely, resting them on his own thighs, and since Náli couldn’t reach for them, and bring them back to his face, not with the others watching, not with Mattias’s stubborn insistence on formality, save those rare occasions when he initiated something more, Náli sat up and swung his legs over the side. It was alarming how weak he felt, the way he wasn’t sure he could manage it if he tried to stand. He touched his own hair and found it a rat’s nest. Rubbed the grit from his eyes.

“If you’re here, then Erik’s here. I should go–”

“You should rest, my lord.”

“No, I need to–”

Those longed-for hands landed on his thighs, heavy, holding. Mattias tipped his face up, his expression entreating, earnest, concerned.

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