milliways_bar | (no subject)

"I'm glad at least one of them lived," Ragnar says. "What is his living now?"

"The Princess left him a small villa. Enough to keep him in comfort, if not in luxury. He does well enough." He rests his head on Ragnar's shoulder. "I'm sure others lived. I trust that Nobelissimos Niketas got them safely away. All but Probus." He reaches under his shirt and toys with a gold coin on a chain.

Ragnar reaches out to touch Sinric's hair, once quite as golden as the coin, and now the more varied blond of a traveller touched by the sun.

"I've seen those," he says. "Coins of Miklagard."

And here and there a little greyness that gives away how rough life has been with him at times.

"A solidus. My solidus. The one with which I was bought." he toys with it, twisting the chain to make the coin spin and catch the light. "It has travelled since then. As have I. But it would seem our paths were meant to cross again."

"How did you find it?"

Edited 2017-12-22 12:30 (UTC)

"It was paid to me, for a night's playing at the wedding of a Frankish merchant's daughter. Once my life, body and soul what worth this. And now; an evening of my time. Even if the pay was over generous."

"As soon as I touched it, I knew. I felt it warm as if it had just come from Cyril's hand."

"And now, you have your own life's worth in your hand, and carry it with you," Ragnar nods.

"Just so. I have earned back my buying. I am my own, as much as I can be. It is... reassuring."

"Freedom," Ragnar says, "sometimes does lie in coin, as much as in the blade."

"You know me. I have no use or gift for a blade. Perhaps it is that my freedom was bought on a song."

He sighs and kisses Ragnar's cheek. "Dawn is coming. We should find warm furs and boots. It's deep in snow out there. And I may have to ask you to wait a while, while I'm in the tree."

"We should," Ragnar says. "And of course I'll keep watch over you. We'll bring something warm to drink."

Sinric will need it when he comes from the tree.

The bar offers them thick fur cloaks and good comfortable boots. As well as a pack with a couple of full thermos and a fire-making kit.

Sinric dresses swiftly, resolved and ready. He reaches out for Ragnar's hand, squeezing softly.

Ragnar squeezes back, covered in fur and boots and carrying the rest of the stuff.

Sinric smiles and leads Ragnar outside.

The moon has long set and the sky hasn't quite started to lighten but the stars are out. And the tree, some distance off seems to have its own eerie radiance.

Sinric steps lightly and sure over the snow and onto the path that leads to the tree.

Beside them, there are rustlings in the undergrowth, keeping pace but Sinric pays it no mind.

Ragnar walks beside him, tall and wide and powerful. He keeps his eyes on Sinric and pays the rustling things no heed. He did not, however, take off the sword he is carrying as a matter of course.

It doesn't take long to reach the base of the tree. Its limbs are bare and stark this time of year, almost skeletal. Sinric finds a patch of clear ground to set down their things, shedding the heavy furs and boots and beginning to strip naked.

All but the coin which sits warm against his chest.

Ragnar watches him, taking his things from him and rolling them up so they shall be warm when Sinric needs them again.

Sinric smiles, unselfconscious in his nakedness and kisses Ragnar soundly. He pours it all into the kiss, all his love. But takes too. He take Ragnar's trust and hope and fear for the future of his crippled son. Those Sinric taking with him onto the tree.

Ragnar kisses him just as deeply, giving freely all he wants.

Sinric smiles and strokes Ragnar's cheek before stepping back.

He climbs the lower branches deftly, his bare skin already turning blue with cold but dappled with gold light. He finds a spot, some distance up and stretches out, gripping a branch either side of him as he stretches out, almost as if crucified.

He closes his eyes and breathes slowly, the gold pulsing with the rhythm of his heart and breath. It slows and dims, as his heart slows, seeing to go still there in the branches. Like a dead man left tangled there for the birds to find.

The rustling things draw closer till a dozen or so demon bunnies circle the place. Watching Ragnar, watching Sinric. Just watching.

Ragnar, deep in furs, sits among their things, just watching as well.

He won't harm the black-and-red rabbits if they don't attack or make a nuisance, disturb Sinric's trance, anything.

The bunnies show no signs of threat or nuisance. If anything, they seem to be guarding Sinric.

It's some hours before Sinric draws breath again, coughing and weak. He clings to the branches, shaking with cold as he starts down.

Ragnar stands silently, picking up a fur cloak and reaching for Sinric to help him down.

Sinric all but falls into his arms, shaking violently with cold. He curls into the furs, teeth chattering.

The bunnies inch closer, burping little gouts of flame.

"Gather wood." Sinric manages to whisper from between blue lips. "They'll make sure it burns."

Ragnar presses a thermos into Sinric's hand, then hurries off as instructed and returns, only six minutes later, with a sizeable bunch of branches and twigs in his arms, pulling a rather large branch behind.

He dumps them, then roughly orders them into vague bonfire shape.