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"Are Saxon men afraid of touching?"
It would have been offensive if it was not the third time in as many days that Leofric had heard the phrase. It seemed the Dane never got tired of saying it, that cheeky grin hiding behind the fake question. It had been an actual question at one time, months ago now, and the stupid look on his face when he asked it was something he wouldn't forget.
They had been working on training the troops in the mind of a Dane, trying to perfect the shield wall formation. Uhtred walked along the wall, a sharp eye inspecting for sloppiness, any break in the formation that could be exploited. He hardly noticed when he would slip back into Norse as he shouted at them, though it seemed the instructions were becoming so ingrained in them that the men hardly noticed it either.
Leofric had to admit it, the Dane was doing better at this than he would have thought. In only a small amount of time they had advanced a fair amount, and as much as Young Odda might protest he was proving again and again to be a valuable asset. They were quickly becoming allies, if not friends, and teasing had become playful for them.
So when Uhtred joined him for dinner that night and asked that same question, he assumed it was supposed to be a joke. Looking up from his ale though all he saw was confusion, worse than he had seen in him when questioning Alfrid. "Come again?"
"Touching, why are your men so afraid of touch?" Uhtred asked again, his food momentarily forgotten as he crossed his arms on the table. "I adjust a man's grip during training, it is like I burn him. I touch a man's shoulder, and he is looking for a dagger in his back!"
Leofric stole a piece of bread off his plate, chuckling as the man grabbed his wrist. He broke a chunk off instead and he was released. "And for good reason, you could take a number of them without a weapon at all."
"I pledged my sword-"
"Doesn't matter. You're a Dane to the people of Wessex, that's all they need to be afraid."
A humorless laugh left Uhtred. "So you are the only Saxon not afraid of my touch?"
"Guess so."
The question became something of an inside joke for them whenever they needed a quick spar or insult. Uhtred would shove him or slap his back harder than needed, throw his taunt, and roughhousing was on the table. The meaning had changed lately though, spoken after the Dane would push his luck with casual touching.
First it had just been a pat on the arm or shoulder after training, or grasping his forearm in greeting. Familiarity had morphed into a hug as greeting, into a squeeze of the arm or shoulder after training, his hands lingering longer than most men. All of this Leofric hadn't really noticed, still familiar enough for the knight. It wasn't until the warrior started leaning against him that he took notice.
In the evenings around the campfire Uhtred had started taking a seat next to him, bumping their shoulders together until one of them would shove hard enough to make the other laugh. Then he would pull a leg up onto the bench next to him, shift his weight to lean against the knight, and clean his dagger. Though not something knights regularly did, it wasn't strange by any means, just caught his attention.
It didn't start getting weird until the warrior caught up with him in the line for food, swinging an arm around his neck as he greeted him. Instead of pulling away afterwards though, he left his arm where it lay and continued to chat. It couldn't be comfortable, the arseling had to reach up to do it, but still he remained like that. The prolonged touch was a little weird, and he shrugged his arm off.
"Another Saxon afraid of touch?" Uhtred's taunt came like usual, but this time the playful tone had been replaced by something more serious. The smirk on his lips betrayed the challenge though, and Leofric scoffed at the idea. It was childish, probably some game the Dane concocted to keep himself entertained between battles.
But he still threw his own arm around the warrior's shoulder, leaning down to him to return the taunt. "Keep talkin' like that and you'll be needing your sword." Uhtred just chuckled, and that was that.
After the challenge was presented though, Leofric seemed unable to resist going along with it. If he didn't meet the challenge it would be admitting defeat to the arseling, who needed to be humbled and kept in line. The more he followed through though, the less familiar he was with it. According to Uhtred it was just normal for the Danes, but he wasn't sure how well that argument held up after Uhtred used that same excuse to eat a rabbit in front of the priest.
The campfire burned low as Leofric nursed his last cup of ale, shivering against the night's chill. Whoever decided they should sleep on the hill's clearing was quickly making their way onto his shit list. He figured he should just turn in early and find refuge in the warmth of his bedroll, but as he moved to get up a heavy weight settled over his back.
"Leaving before I can join?"
He grunted in response, and the warrior leaned further over his shoulder until he was shoved back. Uhtred settled heavily onto the bench, two cups of fresh ale in his hands which he offered up. "Or going to bed like a used wife?"
"It's too cold for this, arseling," Leofric grunted out in response under the laughter of their companions, taking the fresh cup despite his words. The liquid offered a brief warmth inside him, and he would take any little help it gave.
"If you wore furs, you wouldn't be cold."
"If we wore furs we'd look like Danes."
Uhtred slid closer to him until their legs touched, unwrapping the thick furs from around his shoulders to throw over his companion's shoulder. It was just long enough to fit over both of them, already warm from wear. Leofric looked down at him, but Uhtred was already making himself comfortable. "Better?"
The knight grunted in response, sipping his ale as he stared into the flames. The fur was warm around him, and though it was not wrapped around him fully like the Dane might wear it kept the chill of the wind off them enough for the fire to start warming him again.
They sat in relative silence as the night grew long, listening to the soldiers talk and disperse. As Uhtred inspected his sword by the firelight, they were the only two left in that circle of light. Still, he spoke quietly. "Your trust is wavering."
"In a lot of things, sure-"
"In these men. In Wessex." Uhtred rested his sword against the bench, pulling a knee up to his chest as he leaned against the knight. He was able to pull the furs closed as he waited for a rebuttal. "You don't trust the lords."
Leofric grimaced, keeping his gaze level with the fire. He thought he had done a good job of keeping a straight face even with the orders they have been given lately, no one else had commented on it. "And you've never trusted them. Can't even tell them if you're a Dane or Saxon."
"I am neither." Uhtred's response came quickly, as if it had been weighing on his mind. The answer surprised them both though, and Leofric goaded him to continue. "Born a Saxon, raised a Dane, and constantly told to pick one. I would have been murdered by Saxons if they bought me, and now Danes try to kill me as a man."
Silence settled around them uneasily; the truth of their reality was one that was better left unspoken. Leofric squeezed his shoulder to let him know he understood, not trusting his words to be as kind. "You know what they're really asking though."
Uhtred laughed, "Where my allegiance lies, yes."
"And?"
"You know my answer by now, félagi ." Uhtred shook his head, resting it against the knight's shoulder. Leofric was still by his side, and he swished the last of his ale in his cup. "I trust Alfrid no more than I would trust Ubba."
"Just a means to an end, yeah?"
"Just like every other Saxon man."
They both laughed at that, and the sour mood was broken a little. "You are lucky, you know. Even if you question your allegiance at least you belong somewhere. I have no home left in Northumbria, no safe place with the Danes, no land to call mine."
"And yet I hear you talk longingly about home."
Uhtred smiled, gazing into the fire. He did dream of home, both in his sleep and waking thoughts it was there. "Home is people to me. I have a home in my brother, Ragnar. All that is left of Northumbria is my home in Brida."
"A Dane at heart then," Leofric teased, nudging him. "Not a single Saxon home? Guess not without a wife."
The Dane nudged him back for that, shaking his head as he thought. "As much as a wife might yield to me, that would not make her my home." He paused for a moment, looking up at the knight. "If I found a home in any Saxon… it would be you, Leofric."
The silence grew between them as he thought of what to say. He had known before he spoke what the answer would be, he had a feeling he had known for awhile- because somewhere in their travels it had become the same for him. The Dane didn't give him that opportunity though, shifting to face him though he couldn't meet his eyes.
The hand on his face wasn't forceful, nor the hand on his arm keeping him chained there, but he found himself leaning in as the Dane wanted without objection. Uhtred rested their foreheads together, closing his eyes as he did so. His breathing was steady as the hand below his jaw kept him close. " Minn félagi, minn elska..."
Leofric closed his eyes, relaxing as the Dane whispered to him. He had done this only once before, after a difficult battle where he had been injured fairly badly. That time they had the privacy of a tent, and he had sat that close for minutes just whispering to him in Norse, but they didn't have that luxury here. All too soon Uhtred was pulling back and facing the fire again, though his hand found itself staying on his arm.
"You ever going to tell me what that means?" Leofric mumbled to him.
"I think you know well enough," Uhtred teased in return. The hand that squeezed his knee agreed.