The world was coming to pieces around him, and Lorel could do nothing but watch helplessly. It broke him, watching the herd who’d sheltered him during the winter suffer the grief of the loss of Sabela. Though he couldn’t claim to have known her, beyond what little time he’d been privileged to spend with her, he grieved for her deeply in his own way, the grief of the Bay herd resonating within him, stirring up memories of his own mother (mute as Sabela had been) and how the very heart inside him had almost stopped beating when hers had.
The grief. And the terror that settled upon him like a blanket. War was coming to the islands, and Lorel was tormented by the thought of all the suffering and pain that was to come. Anguish ravaged him, dulled his appetite and kept him awake at night, for fear of the dark dreams that would haunt his sleep. Despite feeling welcomed by Liland and his small, close-knit herd, Lorel had never felt more alone. It drove him to wandering the tundra alone at all hours, delirious with exhaustion. He dreamed while he was awake, saw his brothers waiting for him in the distance, all of them come together when he needed them most. But no matter how he tried, he could never reach them.
Desperation drove him into the cold sea. He struggled through the surf in his weakened state and stumbled ashore, thin leg trembling, still sporting grazes over his knees from the times he’d stumbled and fallen during his restless roving of the Bay. It was too much, it was all too much for him. He’d seen the great gathering of souls upon the shores of the inlet, watched as they’d taken to the surf as one, eager for blood. It was too much. Lorel was a sensitive soul, delicate and fragile. He would drown in his empathy.
He ran blindly, vision blurred and muzzle wet from the tears of sorrow that he couldn’t hold in. The tiny, frail Icelandic knew not where he was going, did not understand where he was, or what he was running towards. Lorel couldn’t even trust himself, for he was dreaming wide awake again, and this time it was Ivar alone who haunted him. But Ivar was not alone. There was a stranger here, a mare that Lorel had never seen before, a pair of younglings at her heels. The young stallion skidded to a halt, his chest heaving as he struggled for breath.
Ivar’s scent washed over him. This was no dream.
A spark of hope brought life back into the dishevelled male, and he stumbled across the uneven ground, struggling against the muck. Just in the manner of his relationship with Ragnarr, nothing Ivar had done, or ever could do, would tarnish the love Lorel felt for him – a brother that he chose for himself, bound not by blood but by heart. “I knew,” Lorel wheezed raggedly, drawing close and not hesitating in his approach. The smoky grullo’s scars, demeanour, and actions had never given him reason to pause. Lorel saw something in Ivar that went beyond all that, and not even the warnings of those who knew Ivar best would ever change that. “I knew I would find you.”
And Lorel pulled himself through the bog, reaching to press his delicate muzzle to Ivar’s shoulder in an affectionate touch. “I dreamed I was lost in a darkness deeper than any other, but I was not alone, because my brother was with me.” Lorel trembled where he stood in Ivar’s shadow. “War has cast its shadow over these islands, Ivar, and I am afraid.” His breathing began to steady, and he pulled away, just a fraction. The reunion with Ivar had been enough to steady the small, timid male, and for the first time in weeks, he felt his mind begin to clear. The weariness he’d been fighting off for so long settled heavily upon him, and his thin, scraggly body slumped under the weight of it. He gestured with a delicate tilt of his muzzle to the mare and foals. “Who are they? And what is this place? Is this where you’ve been hiding from me, úlfabrúður?” Despite his exhaustion, a small smile curled across his lips, and his eyes brightened with humour. He turned to the mare, gently curious. “I am Lorel,” he said softly, a simple, humble greeting.
There was so much he wanted to speak of with Ivar, but not here, not now. And though his troubled heart was troubled no longer, he couldn’t shake the persistent uneasiness that sank into his bones, chilling him like the winter frosts. He couldn’t help but feel that each moment was precious, and none of them could be sure how long their safety would last. Lorel had seen war, and what it was capable of. It was the deep darkness he had dreamed of, and whatever hope he’d had of escaping war-torn places when he and Ragnarr had left the Norðurland behind them in search of Bjorn was now buckling beneath him like great sheets of sea ice. Though it had remained unspoken, it was an uneasy knowledge between him and Ragnarr that Lorel was searching for Ivar too. No matter the bad blood between Bjorn, Ragnarr, Ivar and even Lagertha… Lorel’s one strength was his faith that, no matter how far any of his brothers - his family - strayed from him, there was still hope. Ivar would always be his brother.
Nothing that was lost could not be found again, if one only searched hard enough.
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