Chapter 4: Blood on Wool
Dawn arrived with a scream and the wet crunch of axe meeting wood. Olaf’s men swarmed the deck like roaches, their faces twisted in the grey light. Kenji slipped on blood-slick planks, a swinging blade tearing the air where his neck had been. Then Ragnar was there, a thunderclap of muscle and rage, his new grey yukata ripping open across the shoulder as he drove his own axe into the attacker’s chest.
The battle was a deafening, shoving nightmare. Kenji crouched behind a barrel, clutching a rusted gutting knife he’d snatched, useless. He watched Ragnar fight—a brutal, efficient dance of power that left men broken in his wake. But a spear thrust from the blind side, a glancing tear across the giant’s shoulder, drawing a bright line of blood.
Later, in the relative quiet of the hold, Kenji’s hands trembled as he pressed a torn strip of clean linen against the wound. Ragnar sat immovable on a crate, his breathing steady. Kenji focused on the task, the blood warm and shocking against his fingers. Then a massive, calloused hand closed around his wrist, stopping him.
Ragnar pulled Kenji’s hand toward his own face, his dark eyes locked on Kenji’s. He held that gaze, unblinking, as his tongue, rough and hot, swiped a broad stripe across Kenji’s bloodied fingertips. The act was slow, deliberate, a challenge that vibrated up Kenji’s arm and settled low in his gut. Kenji couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, the metallic taste now a shared, intimate secret.
Ragnar released him, a faint, satisfied grunt escaping his lips.
The meaning crashed into Kenji, clearer than any shouted word. This was no random gesture. It was a vow, written in salt and iron, a promise sealed with the very blood spilled in his defense.
Kenji held Ragnar’s unwavering stare, the chaos of the deck above fading to a distant roar. He gave a single, slow nod, his throat tight. Then he bent his head to the torn flesh of Ragnar’s shoulder.
His tongue touched the seeping wound. The copper warmth flooded his senses, a shocking, intimate tang. He didn’t flinch; he pressed closer, a silent echo of the oath just given.
My protection for yours.
A rough shudder wracked Ragnar’s entire frame. A sound escaped him, a fractured, voeless thing that was pure ache. His hand came up, fingers tangling in Kenji’s black hair, not to pull him away, but to hold him there.
Then he dragged Kenji up, his other arm banding around his slender back. The kiss was a claiming, desperate and grateful, all heat and the shared taste of his own blood on Kenji’s lips. It was an answer, and a beginning.
It was an answer, and a beginning. Ragnar’s grip gentled, his broad thumb stroking Kenji’s cheekbone, smearing a faint trace of blood there. “Clean it,” Kenji whispered, his own voice raw, and he reached for the water skin and a clean strip of the linen he’d sewn.
He worked quickly, pouring water over the torn flesh, the pink runoff dripping onto the deck between them. Ragnar didn’t flinch, his eyes never leaving Kenji’s face as Kenji pressed a dry cloth firmly against the wound to stem the fresh welling of blood. He then took a longer strip, winding it tightly around the massive shoulder and knotting it with a sailor’s secure hitch he’d only read about in books.
Ragnar caught his hands again after the knot was tied, leaning in. This kiss was different—softer, a swift press of lips that tasted of salt and promise. He pulled back, pointed a thick finger at the dark space beneath the deck stairs, then pointed at Kenji. Stay.
From his belt, Ragnar drew his own short, heavy-bladed dagger, its leather-wrapped hilt worn smooth from his grip. He pressed it into Kenji’s palm, folding his fingers around it. The metal was still warm from his body. “Be safe,” Kenji breathed, the words barely audible over the distant shouts and clash of steel above.
Ragnar gave one final, slow nod, his gaze a tangible weight. Then he turned, hefting his axe, and vanished up the companionway into the screaming light. Kenji scrambled into the dank hiding place, the cold dagger gripped so tightly his knuckles ached. He watched the empty space where Ragnar had been, listening to the chaos, and waited.
He watched the empty space where Ragnar had been, listening to the chaos, and waited. The shouts and clashes above suddenly crescendoed, followed by a heavy thud and the clatter of someone tumbling down the companionway stairs. A bruised and bleeding Olaf crewman landed in a heap on the hold deck, his eyes widening as they adjusted to the dim light and found Kenji crouched in the shadows.
“The red-eyed rabbit,” the man slurred, pushing himself up with a guttural laugh. He lurched forward, his meaty hand closing around Kenji’s wrist before Kenji could raise the dagger. “A pretty prize to take before we sink this hulk.”
Kenji twisted, driving his free elbow into the man’s ribs. The man just grunted and backhanded him across the face with a crack that snapped Kenji’s head to the side. White light flashed behind Kenji’s eyes, the coppery taste of blood flooding his mouth from his split lip and now-flowing nose. The man shoved him hard against the hull, the impact driving the air from Kenji’s lungs, and began yanking at the rough fabric of his tunic.
A cold, clear silence enveloped Kenji’s mind. He felt the warm weight of Ragnar’s dagger still clenched in his fist. With a desperate, jerking motion, he drove the blade up and into the hollow beneath the man’s sternum. The man’s breath hissed out, hot and sour in Kenji’s face, his grip going slack. Kenji pulled the dagger free and watched him slide to the deck, his eyes glazing over as he became a limp, heavy thing.
The sounds of fighting above ceased, replaced by retreating shouts and the splash of oars. Kenji stared at the body, at the dark pool spreading across the wood grain, the dagger dropping from his numb fingers. He took a stumbling step back, his back hitting the cold planks, a high-pitched ringing the only thing in his ears.
Boots pounded down the stairs. Ragnar’s broad form filled the space, his chest heaving, new blood speckling his torn yukata. His eyes scanned the hold, first finding Kenji alive, then the dead man at his feet, and finally the fallen dagger. He crossed the space in two strides.
Ragnar’s large hands, still slick with battle, framed Kenji’s face, tilting it up. He used his thumb to wipe the blood from Kenji’s nose and lip, his touch astonishingly gentle. Then he pulled Kenji into his chest, one arm banding around his shaking shoulders, the other hand cradling the back of his head. A deep, vibrating hum resonated through Ragnar’s torso and into Kenji’s own.
A deep, vibrating hum resonated through Ragnar’s torso and into Kenji’s own. It was a sound of comfort, a language without words that said you are safe now, and Kenji’s shaking began to subside against the solid warmth of him. The moment broke with Bjorn’s heavy boots on the deck above, his voice a rough bark ordering the cleanup.
On deck, the morning light was cruel, illuminating the red slicks and the prone forms being unceremoniously rolled over the side. Kenji helped, his movements numb, avoiding the empty stare of the man whose life had wet his hands. He fetched buckets of seawater, the salt stinging his fresh cuts as he sluiced the dark stains from the scarred wood.
Later, amidst the sounds of hammering and the scent of fresh-cut pine for repairs, Kenji found Ragnar inspecting a splintered rail. “Your yukata is ruined,” Kenji said softly, fingers brushing the blood-crusted tear over Ragnar’s shoulder. “I’ll make you another tonight. A proper one.”
Ragnar turned, capturing Kenji’s hand. He shook his head, a firm and final motion. Instead, he pointed to the torn garment, then pressed his own fist over his heart. He gestured between them, a binding motion, then pointed again at the ripped fabric.
He mimed cleaning and stitching, then shook his head once more at the idea of a new garment. His meaning was unmistakable. “This one,” Kenji whispered, understanding dawning. “You want to keep this one.”
A slow, profound nod. The tear wasn’t a ruin; it was a witness. The blood was their oath. Kenji felt a smile touch his lips, fragile and real, as he looked from the steadfast resolve in Ragnar’s eyes to the stained, torn cloth. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll clean it. I’ll mend it.”
He leaned in then, closing the small space between them, and kissed Ragnar with a gratitude that softened his entire weary body. It was a gentle promise, sealed not in blood this time, but in breath and touch.