milliways_bar | (no subject)

"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.

Sinric sips the hot, alcohol-laced tea, cuddled close in the fur.

The bunnies circle, waiting for Ragnar to be out of the way so they can light it up. It may stick of kerosene but the wet branches burn all the same.

Sinric holds his arms out to Ragnar, wanting to be held.

Ragnar comes and holds him, letting the rabbits do their thing; Sinric now may need touch more than practical help.

That he does. Sinric clings, his hand wrapping around Ragnar's arm to cover the tattoo he knows is hidden there under many layers of cloth.

"Dove, Raven, Lark." He repeats over and over, chanting the words in Latin.

Ragnar holds him, smoothing his hair and quietly murmuring along with the chant, even if he doesn't know the meaning.

He changed to Norse as he starts to get himself back under control. "Dove, Raven, Lark." He buries his face in Ragnar's neck.

Ragnar murmurs along as readily, invoking the triskele of magic and necessary tale wanted by the gods that the three of them make -- even if they lack one of the three, in this moment.

Athelstan is with them and part of them. Always. Only as far away as their hearts.

Sinric sips some more tea, offering some to Ragnar.

Ragnar takes a sip, and picks up another fur to wrap around them both.

Also, a pair of those clever pliable socks from the future, to put on Sinric's icy feet.

Sinric lets Ragnar manipulate him as needed to get the socks on. He's starting to get colour back now, reaching for his clothes to dress.

He may need help with that.