41. The Newfound Family
XLI
THE NEWFOUND FAMILY
Erik woke to warmth. Weight pressed against his chest, his side, and his legs. It took him a moment to realize he couldn’t move because there were furs wrapped tightly around him.
His ribs ached like they’d been split and sewn back together. He drew a shallow breath, and his lungs seized at first, then relented. The sharpness ebbed.
Though his muscles ached down to the marrow, the next breath came easier.
The room was still. The hearth light burned low, making the far stone wall glow with soft orange. He wasn’t even sure where he was. He tried to roll up to look around, but the weights were exceptionally heavy.
A shift tugged at his awareness first. A head on his shoulder. He turned his head to see, but there was a cheek pressed against his cheek, and a soft breath grazed his ear. Warm women’s fingers were soft on his neck.
He turned the other way, and Elen’s face came into focus. She clutched the furs around his arm. He struggled to lift his head, but he finally made out David and Aveline by his legs. Vala held Elen, and David had Cari tucked in the crook of his arm.
He tilted his head and caught the shape of a figure near the window—large and lean. He knew that build anywhere.
It meant the person on his shoulder had to be Seren. She’d curled around his head like she’d laid her soul there and refused to move.
Her breath warmed the hollow of his neck.
His heart twisted. She was alive. But why was she with him? Why were they all with him?
That couldn’t be right. It had to be a dream, or he was dead.
He remembered using the last of his energy to throw Henry to the ground. But then, fragments. Pieces of memory tried to stitch together, but failed.
"Ragnar," Erik rasped.
The figure turned. A moment passed. Then footsteps padded across the floor.
Finding space by his arm between Aveline and Seren, Ragnar lowered beside him, one knee down, one arm braced on his thigh.
“You’re awake,” Ragnar whispered.
Erik’s throat burned raw, his voice a breath more than sound. “Barely.” He still wondered if it was all real.
Ragnar shifted closer, his fingers brushing over Erik’s neck to check the pulse. He nodded once, lips pressed tight.
“You almost left me,” Ragnar said.
Ragnar’s gaze flicked down. His fingers curled over the edge of the fur blanket.
Erik’s throat tightened.
He didn’t speak. Just stared at the impossible gathering—the family he thought he’d lost. The sons. The daughters. The woman forbidden to him guarded his heartbeat with the curve of her body.
He closed his eyes. Tried to make the moment last longer; didn’t matter whether he was dead—it felt real.
Ragnar grabbed his hand and gave a squeeze through the furs.
“I missed you, little wolf,” Erik whispered in a slur, opening his eyes.
The corners of Ragnar’s mouth raised, and for a brief moment, Erik saw his little boy wearing a man’s mask. He was alive.
“I know,” Ragnar whispered. “I missed you, too, Father.”
Ragnar stayed there, crouched by his father’s side, as sleep held the rest of the world.
But his chuckle broke the silence.
“What is it?” Erik asked.
Ragnar glanced at the sleeping bodies. “Lord Henry’s son, daughters, and wife aren’t in the chapel with his body. They’re with you.”
The slow-crawling memory made its way back to the present: Henry was dead.
No loyal son kneeled beside Henry’s body. No grieving wife held his hand. No one curled against him to hold his soul near.
Henry had ruled like a king and died alone.
But Erik—pagan, outsider, marked by war—had nearly died, surrounded by the people Henry had once claimed as possessions.
The boy Henry had chained. The woman he had beaten.
The children he had barely acknowledged.
They had chosen Erik with love in the shape of sleep, curled around his broken frame like a fortress of breath and blood and bond.
Maybe it was a dream; maybe it was real. Either way, when Erik slipped into sleep, peace met him there.