"Saga" - Chapter 23, Part 1
Content - Saga is a Brokeback AuAu fic taking place in the Viking era (Scandinavia, ca AD 850). This chapter rated strong R, and ca 5,200 words long.
Disclaimer - The original Ennis and Jack who inspired this fic do not belong to me, but to Annie Proulx, Diana Ossana, Larry McMurtry and Focus Features. I intend no disrespect and make no profit.
A/Ns - Links to previous chapters follow after the cut. Explanations of names and terms follow after each chapter. Thank you to Soulan for thorough and inspiring betaing of this chapter!
Links to all previous chapters are available here: http://gilli-ann.livejournal.com/43336.html
Saga - Chapter 23
Muirenn kept herself apart as much as possible the next few days, though she cared for Sverri as always. Both Eoin and Gunnar gave her the space she so evidently required, and went about their work quietly and without speaking about the future. In the early evening of the second day Muirenn asked Eoin to come outside with her to sit in the open space behind the house for a spell. Gunnar kept a wooden bench of his own making there for summer afternoons like this; pleasantly warm and comfortable, with flies buzzing about the sun-baked timber walls and the sound of distant laughter and good cheer coming from the harbor and the neighboring houses.
Muirenn brought Sverri along and set him down in the high grasses where he immediately started pulling up tufts of weeds and summer flowers to feed to his friend Sleipner. She sat down next to Eoin and watched her son in silence for a little while. There seemed to be a hint of distance in her eyes as she looked at the boy, as though she were protecting her heart from anticipated pain, laying the groundwork for a barrier to be built in a hurry if required.
Eoin waited patiently, not disturbing her thoughts. At last she leaned her head against the wall and sighed. “Torgeirr does care for his son,” she said. “There’s no denying that.”
“We all of us do,” Eoin said.
“You all care so much for the boy that you’re willing to take his mother as part of the bargain, is that what you mean?” Muirenn retorted with a brittle laugh. Eoin had no reply, and just reached over to briefly squeeze her hand.
She sent him a side-long glance, and grew serious. “I talked to Gunnar while you were at the lumberyard today. He told me…. He promised me that if I marry him, and I afterwards one day start to long for Ireland so much that I can find no joy nor peace of mind here in Kaupang anymore, he’ll move back home with me. He believes his fame will go with him and that he’ll still have work enough. Perhaps there’ll even be more to do there, he says, since the Norse townships are being built for the first time and they’ll need all manner of wood carvings for their new houses and such…. Though God grant they will not get more powerful in Ireland than they already are!”
She shook her head, saddened. “The Norse have built a stronghold and a township on the east coast. Dubh Linn, it’s called, and he thinks it sounds promising.”
Eoin nodded at her words, but kept quiet, not wanting to disturb her now that two days’ worth of Muirenn pondering her options was finding expression.
She looked into his eyes. “Gunnar is a kind man. I do trust him to keep his word….as long as he stays sober.” She bit her lip and looked away. “But if he starts drinking again, he won’t be himself and I couldn’t rely on him. Not where my own future was concerned, and certainly not Sverri’s.”
She leaned forward, elbows on knees, staring down to the ground at her feet. “The Norse are ravaging our land. And Gunnar is a heathen. Surely I would be committing a dire sin and endangering my immortal soul if I willingly married such a one? I do call to mind the example set by St. Lucy and St. Dorothy and many more such as they, and then I feel ashamed at my own weakness. They had to choose between marriage to a heathen and martyrdom, and they held to their faith and trusted in God and rose above the fear and the torment. Yet here I am, thinking I might marry Gunnar simply for my own convenience!” She grimaced. “What would my parents say, and our priest? They would be devastated at such a betrayal of our faith and our people!”
Eoin shook his head slowly. “I don’t think we were cut out to be saints, either one of us, Muirenn. Few people are. We just have to live our lives as best we can, even so. The virgin martyrs, blessed be their memory, were not only told to marry heathens, but to foreswear the Lord Christ. There’s a difference.”
He was silent for a moment, choosing each word with care when he continued. “I think that… we may in our own way serve as examples for the Norse heathens to see, if we strive to live as good Christians. Then it cannot be very wrong to share a home and a bed with one who hasn’t yet received the Lord as his savior. Our prayers and presence might lead that heathen to God, and so save for Heaven a soul that otherwise would be lost to the fires of eternal damnation.”
Eoin paused again, reflecting. “I sometimes feel like St. Bréanainn, who sailed across dangerous waters, seeking unknown shores. In the monastery we heard tell of other monks, leaving Ireland in rudderless boats, placing their lives in God’s hands. The two of us crossed the sea much like that, Muirenn, not knowing what awaited us. The Lord alone sees where our road leads next. We should trust in His grace and guiding, and go forward unafraid. Remember, St. Bréanainn reached the Isle of the Blessed.”
His eyes took on a far-off look. “The saints rejoice forever in Heaven, but I know it’s possible to experience fleeting glimpses of Heaven here on earth. That’s why I am certain God has not abandoned us, and He never will.”
Muirenn was staring at him, her eyes wide and her hands firmly clasped together. “You know more about these things than I do, Eoin. You’re a man of God. And what you say speaks both to my heart and my common sense.”
She hesitated for a moment, her eyes now shimmering with unshed tears “But marriage is such a serious commitment. Sharing a bed every night of your life with someone that…. “
Interrupting herself, she shrugged imperceptibly, and looked to the side, away from Eoin. Her voice had a bitter and sharp edge to it when she spoke again. “I know how seriously you take your vows to God. I am certain you wouldn’t let yourself yield to the temptations of the flesh - not for any reason.”
Eoin turned beet red with sudden embarrassment, outdoing the slow flush rising in Muirenn’s cheeks. The moment of heated desire cut short that quiet Christ mass night would always lie between them. She hurriedly changed the subject.
“Do you not want to tell me more about this mysterious event you’re hoping and praying for, Eoin, so that I may understand?”
He shook his head. “I have been honest as far as I may, but I can say no more.”
“But don’t you want to go home to Ireland? Don’t you dream of leaving these dark woods and heathen, barbaric customs behind? Don’t you long to kneel down in your monastery once more, grateful to be back among your own?”
“Yes, of course I long for Ireland, always. My heart is torn. But I know without a shadow of a doubt which force has the strongest hold on me, and it tells me to stay here…. At least for now.” He shrugged, embarrassed. “It is easier for a man. No-one tells me I must marry so that people will not judge me and call me vile names. And even if they did, I could tell them about my vow of celibacy. They may not comprehend its significance, and they may mock and jeer, but even so they do understand that such things matter to the Irish.”
Eoin paused again, looking over to Sverri who was sitting on the ground still, lost in his own world of grass and weeds to feed his wooden horse, building a haphazard, nearly boy-sized haystack.
“Recall that your son will remain Norse,” he said gently.
Muirenn flared up. “He has been baptized, the Lord will know his own!”
“So He will,” Eoin said evenly. “But I know you will not love your son any less for growing up Norse, than if his only name was Padraig and he was even now tearing up tufts of the green grass outside your childhood home. Even if you do one day go back to Ireland, your heart will always be tied to this land where your son will grow to manhood and his line will flourish, God be willing.”
She sighed. “All my options seem flawed. The future’s so uncertain, it’s like walking in the dark, knowing there may be quicksand ahead. I thought I had made my decision, but I am still in doubt.”
Eoin once more took her hand. “I think in the end, instead of endlessly weighing the merits and the faults of the ways that are open to you, you should look into your heart and find its single most important desire. Once you’re sure about that, choose the path that offers you the best chance of one day seeing that one cherished wish of yours fulfilled, if God will but grant it. That is what I myself have done.”
Muirenn looked into his eyes, and a small smile suddenly bloomed on her lips. “You are right, Eoin. That is good advice. Thank you.”
She closed her eyes and leaned back against the wall, her posture calm and her face concentrated in thought, frowning slightly. Eoin waited patiently by her side, lost in his own thoughts and dreams as the sun dipped towards the woods. Sverri had fallen asleep in the grass, and the evening shadows grew long and stretched their dark shapes across the field towards the three of them.
Eventually Muirenn looked up to the darkening sky, and drew a deep breath. “I know what to do,” she said firmly.
Eoin sat up in his turn, surprised at the certainty of her pronouncement. “Will you tell me what you’ve decided?”
“Ireland,” she said. “Home. Yes, I choose Ireland. I want to know that when my longing becomes unbearable, when I can stand it here no more, then I can travel back and see my home again. For one day I’ll surely want to go. And when I return there at last I hope my loved ones are still alive and will understand and forgive what I am about to do.”
---
The next day Muirenn accepted Gunnar’s offer of marriage.
The woodcarver was visibly pleased, and sent for Torgeirr to sit down at once with him to work out the arrangement of Muirenn’s modest dowry, bride-gift and mundr. Torgeirr was in a hurry to return home, and told Muirenn that according to Norse law a betrothal was as legal as a marriage, and that she could consider herself married from the day he shook hands with Gunnar on the agreement. But Muirenn heatedly refused to accept such a shortcut and declared that she wouldn’t consider herself wed until they’d had a proper ceremony.
Without delay therefore, Sigrid had one of her women make Muirenn a wedding dress and gifted her with a string of small amber beads to wear at her wedding. She also took care to have the seamstress teach the Irish woman the contents and words of the marriage ceremony so that she would be able to do what was required of her.
And so, with Torgeirr Haraldson and some of his men, Sigrid Elmarsdottir, Eoin and a few of Gunnar’s neighbors and fellow craftsmen as witnesses, Gunnar Grimson took Myrunn the Irish to wife one sunny late-summer day at the horg outside of Kaupang. The location had been chosen to accommodate Muirenn, who that way didn’t need to set foot across the doorstep of a hov in order to make her marriage vows. Torgeirr carried Sverri on his arm, though the boy slept soundly all the while through his mother’s wedding.
The company returned to Torgeirr’s clan house for a cheerful but hastily prepared and rather simple feast, where the groom broke with every tradition in sticking to water and sour milk all evening long.
In the late evening Torgeirr and Sigrid were the only witnesses as Muirenn and Gunnar knelt down to have Eoin lead them haltingly through a brief Christian ritual so that Muirenn could make her marriage vows. He very carefully made the sign of the cross over her head at the end. “In the name of the father, and the son, and the Holy Ghost, I pronounce that you surely are man and wife in the eyes of the Lord.”
Muirenn looked up at him under the simple linen veil, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright with emotion. And she smiled.
---
Immediately after his former ambatt’s wedding, Torgeirr and his wife left Kaupang and traveled back north to their own farm, for they had yet another wedding to prepare. Torgeirr’s young sister Jorunn was getting married to one of the many sons of a local chieftain. Though Torgeirr wasn’t the head of their clan, it still fell to him as the older of Jorunn’s brothers to arrange her wedding feast. They had little time now to get everything ready for the festivities.
Muirenn’s and Gunnar’s marriage in the meantime brought very few changes in the daily routines at Gunnar’s house, but every night Muirenn retired with Gunnar to his boxed-in bed. Eoin could hardly fail to hear the noises they made, sometimes long into the night - rhythmic sighs and moans and muted sounds of pleasure.
Muirenn looked tired in the mornings, but not unhappy. She would hum quietly to herself while spinning or preparing the meals, and be more caring and patient with Sverri than she’d been for a while. If Gunnar should place a hand on her shoulder in passing, she would lean into the caress like a cat, nearly purring with contentment, but blushing a shade fit to rival her newly-dyed hair one time when she saw Eoin noticing her reaction.
Gunnar looked no less pleased. There was a gleam in his eyes that Eoin had only ever seen when the wood-carver was about to get blindingly drunk. Gunnar now sometimes looked distracted, as if dreaming while he worked, caressing the wooden objects and their emerging patterns with his sensitive fingertips and smiling secretly to himself.
The newly-weds’ intense couplings and the obvious delight they were taking in each other were impossible to ignore. Eoin’s body and mind stirred with fierce desire and longing as the distinct nightly noises flooded his senses with inescapably vivid memories of Einnis and their winter nights together in the distant woods. He could hear the hearth fire’s crackling, overpowered by deep groans of pleasure in his ear, could feel warm slick skin rubbing his own, could taste and smell musk and sweat and semen, could look into eyes melting with helpless desire, could relive every touch and kiss and breath like flames licking his body. The memories were forever impressed on every fiber of his being.
Eoin tried to keep away from the house as much as possible. That was why, when he bumped into Ragnvald Ratatoskr again, he readily agreed to follow the man for another evening at the ale hall. Once more Eoin was surprised to find that he enjoyed himself. Though sometimes talkative to excess, Ragnvald was cheerful and friendly, and his gaze was open and filled with lively curiosity. Unlike many of the other guards and warriors swarming the ale halls, who frequently communicated by no more than single words and growls and grunts, Ragnvald was a good and eager story-teller. And though he was frequently crude, he was never mean-spirited.
Ragnvald came into contact with many folks along the wharfs and storage-houses, from tradesmen and their guards to well-traveled warriors returning from distant places. That way he learned news of the Kaupang and the world, and if he added some spice to each tale for good measure, still he was an entertaining and informative companion.
Eoin relaxed in his company, feeling inconspicuous as one man among many, enjoying the noise in the hall and the dim smoky atmosphere, vaguely reminiscent of days in the acolyte’s hall in the monastery, if the monks in charge had to step out for a spell. This time Eoin did not make up any excuse to leave early. When they stepped out of the hall in the late hours, slightly wobbly on their legs, Ragnvald leaned heavily on his shoulder, appearing to steady himself, his hand incidentally sliding down Eoin’s arm and across his buttocks.
“How about that sword training I talked about once…. You game?” Ragnvald slurred.
Eoin looked right past him, his eyes going distant and his face sad, but not for long. He drew a deep breath and steadied himself with one hand against the wall, as if suddenly feeling lightheaded. “Yes,” he said plainly and firmly, his eyes rising to meet Ragnvald’s. “You just tell me when and where, and I’ll be there.”
Ragnvald’s eyes gleamed in response, catching the light of the ale hall’s torches in the darkness. “Good!” he grinned, and stepped closer to give directions in a low and surprisingly clear and precise voice.
Continued in Chapter 23, Part 2: http://gilli-ann.livejournal.com/45911.html