Lifeline - Vikings (Ivar)

chapter 22

"Ugh!" I groaned flopping onto my bed exhaustedly. "Three weeks and no bed, you've got no idea how much I've missed this place!"

My father laughed, tucking me under the blankets of my bed - as though I was still a little girl. I was grateful for the company, still achy and tired from the miles of walking.

A group of my friends and I had organised to walk from the top of the country to the bottom in three weeks. We'd done it for charity, to raise money for the disease that one of our flatmates was slowly dying from. Though I hoped we'd raised a good amount, none of us were even sure it was curable. And, though the charity tried their best, it was far too late for our friend.

So, what was a pair of sore legs and an aching back? Nothing compared to what my friend had already suffered.

"You're strong, Iris," My father commended, gently brushing a strand of flaming hair away from my face. "I know that you're afraid for your friend, it's okay to be upset."

"There's no use being upset over things that I can't control, dad." I returned, breathing steadily as I tried my best to maintain my heart rate. I had to maintain my composure. "Everyone is counting on me, dad." I explained. "They need me to be strong, so that they don't have to be."

My father gave a small frown, gently kissing my forehead. "You may not be able to fight," He spoke softly, leaving a warmth in my heart as I listened. "But you're a warrior through and through, Iris."

As my gaze blurred back out from the darkness, I felt a heavy pounding in my head. I couldn't help but groan as I pushed myself upwards, eyes quickly darting around in an attempt to find one specific person.

"Iris," Whitehair's voice made me start, turning around to face him with a rather shocked expression. "It's alright, you're safe." He explained, helping me up off of the wooden surface. "We won the battle."

"And Ivar?" I asked rapidly, my mouth moving before my mind could even catch up. "He's alright?"

Whitehair gave a small smile, sighing heavily as a wary look crossed over him. He'd been there for all of it, in the background every step of the way. He'd seen how much I'd grown to care about the Viking warlord, how I'd grown attached to him in a way that I never could've predicted. "Ivar lives, yes." He answered, helping me towards the ladder.

I paused in my steps, knowing full well what that phrasing meant. "Whitehair," I warned, turning back to him with a glare. "He's alright, right? Uninjured?"

"The Prince fell from his Chariot," He began explaining again, my heart rate increasing as I listened to his words. "He was shot in the leg and remains injured but-"

Before he could finish his sentence, I'd already darted up the ladder. Below, I could hear the older man calling up to me as he began to scale the rickety old ladder as well. Without a single thought, I raced through the streets of York, dodging corpses as I nearly slipped over the crimson blood that ran rife through the streets. When I reached the large wooden doors of the old church, I was agonized to hear a short yell of pain as one of the healers extracted the splintered arrow from Ivar's leg.