He stifles a groan.
“Shit, sorry.” I quickly pull back.
“No, I should be sorry,” Amund says tightly. “I didn’t believe you when you said the berserkr was bipedal, but I should have. You were right. I saw it for myself when I was attacked.”
“Don’t worry about it.” I could never be mad at him, not when he’s hurt like this. His bruised body reminds me of all the damage my mom tried to hide. There’s a small tin resting on the table beside him. The medicinal scent is familiar, taking me back to my childhood. “Is this bruise cream?”
“My mother insisted I use some, but I don’t need it.”
“Nonsense.” I take the tin and dip my finger in. “I’ll do it for you.”
Amund hesitates. Nods.
He looks embarrassed as I lean closer, my fingertip brushing over a large bruise. The muscles in his arm tense at my touch. I try to be as gentle as I can, but his skin is hot and tender under my finger.
“Why is this berserkr bipedal?” I ask while I work.
Amund shakes his head. “I’m not sure. It isn’t a normal berserkr.”
“I thought it had yellow eyes, though.”
“Yellow?” He hesitates. “Its eyes were white.”
I sigh. “I don’t know.”
Uneasy silence settles over us.
This close, I realize those aren’t just new bright red and purple bruises blooming on his skin. There are plenty of others old enough to have faded. His arms, his chest, and his ribs are covered with welts. I had no idea he was hiding so many injuries beneath his leathers.
“Who did this to you?” I ask, tracing one of the older bruises. “These aren’t recent.”
Amund looks away. “Those are from training.”
“That doesn’t look like training. That looks like abuse.”
When Amund tries to shrug his shoulders, he winces. “My father is hard on all of us.”
Hisdaddid this to him?
“Even so, this… isn’t normal.”
Breathing in the faint smell of arnica brings back bad memories. As terrible as my dad was, he never laid a hand on me. I can’t imagine any parent willingly hurting their child. Or how that must feel to be on the receiving end of it.
“I’m sorry, Amund.”
His face softens. “It’s fine. I can take it.”
“You shouldn’t have to,” I whisper, drawing closer to him. “No one should.”
I dip a finger into the tin of arnica. Tentatively, I reach for his face. He searches my eyes but makes no move to stop me.
I trace along his bruised eye and down his jaw, spreading the salve in the slow wake of my fingertip. He leans into my touch, closing his eyes. Long lashes graze his cheeks. He winces a little when I reach his cheekbone.
“Sorry, sorry, I’ll try to be more careful.” I apply some more salve to his bruises, as tenderly as Amund did for me when I was attacked. I realize now that it isn’t as easy as he made it look. He was so careful not to cause me any pain.
I stroke my thumb over his cheek. Like this, Amund looks younger and more vulnerable. We stay like this, neither one of us moving. The silence unites us more meaningfully than any words. This is a new calm, safe space.
One just for us.
