#northmen roofing | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

kriz-fics · 2 years

Text

The Sword’s Legacy

Series Summary: As the heir of your father's lands, you have grown up knowing that one day you must wed to your House's advantage, and there's no better catch than the younger son of the Magister himself. Meanwhile tensions within the king's court are set to come to a head at any moment - it just needs that spark to send everything ablaze. Now in a court more dangerous than the one you entered, you find distraction and joy in the company of the beautiful boy with the beautiful eyes. You can only hope to weather the storm you can sense brewing in the horizon.

Masterlist

Chapter Seven: Recklessness and Regret

Pairing: Eren Jaeger x Female Reader

Genre: Royalty AU, Historical Fantasy AU, Romance, Politics, Warfare, Eventual Smut (future chapters)

Length: 9K

CW: Graphic description of violence and corpses, use of the word 'cripple' to describe the disabled (putting this in just in case)

Feyhill, the village is called, according to Hange and her assortment of maps. It looks much the same as any village in the realm, Levi supposes. Like any village in the realm, it has its thatch-roofed cottages (those it has in abundance) along with a wooden barn and a small, homely inn entertaining its modest custom of wary travelers eager to distance themselves from the regiment camping on the bank of the river right across the settlement.

It is, by and large, an unremarkable little community but for the hill that gives the place its name. Kostrokan belongs largely to the old gods, and the Feyhill serves as a sanctum to the local folk, making it sacred and hallowed ground.

In the olden days, numen, or divinity as the laymen call it, still graced humanity with the ability to harness magic. During those times, the hill had been a favored haunt of the resident mages. A convergence, Hange calls it, a place where the very lifeblood of magic has gathered in such strength that any spell cast within its borders had been a hundred times more powerful than it would have been elsewhere. The hill is but one of many such sites in the world, the Prior had claimed.

No mage now lives to reap the benefits of such power. Their kind has been four hundred years gone, with none as yet forthcoming. In their absence, magic has turned to the wild in a bid to continue manifesting itself within this world, bringing wonder and danger both wherever it goes.

Levi moves closer to the river’s edge, squinting up towards the peak of the hill that breaks through the dense canopy of evergreen trees crowding its foundation. The delegation has vanished; the small spots of color their figures made against the bare gray trees and godstones crowning the summit are no longer in evidence. Anticipation and a good healthy dash of apprehension flood Levi’s gut at the sight. He can only wish that things have gone as smoothly as they have hoped.

Scarcely a day has passed since their arrival, and already the locals had insisted on whisking the Lord Commander off to start negotiations. It is one of the things Levi admires about the commons; they at least know never to waste time.

Erwin had brought with him their Prior and two brothers, northmen both. No doubt, the king had intended for them to be used for this very purpose. Sir Symon is a Skaryn born, kin to the current lord of the Province of Zheletov, under whose jurisdiction Feyhill falls; Sir Julian is of the Halkins, who rule the whole State of Kostrokan. Their kinship with those northern Houses may ease the negotiations somewhat.

And yet, Levi has to wonder what those brothers of his feel about the whole matter. They may be sworn first and foremost to the king yet sometimes old loyalties die hard, especially where blood is concerned. While they must show a united front, history has oft proven that even the staunch Brotherhood of the Twelve Swords can be broken asunder by conflicting interests.

In any case, Levi had wanted a part in the negotiations himself, yet the Lord Commander had insisted he remained behind to hold the fort, so to speak. The price for his obedience was a brief audience with the local delegation, which Erwin had readily paid. The man who leads them is a priest, a rarity in the North, strong as the Old Faith is within its borders, and the Old Faith keeps no priests. He is a lawyer by the name of Robert, who serves in a temple of the Father in the capital of Zheletov; he had been born in Feyhill and was called back to speak on behalf of the villagers.

Levi had taken the measure of the man. He is old, sixty if he is a day, with white tufts of hair fringing the broad bald dome of his head. The hazel eyes looking squarely back at Levi were still clear, though, and stern, and he stood straight and tall as a man thirty years younger. Yet underneath that quiet fierceness lay something kindly. Somehow, he reminded Levi of someone’s favorite uncle. Not that he’d know what one is truly like, but the thought still stands.

The priest had seemed trustworthy enough, though Levi is not so foolish as to put all his faith in him. It will be more prudent to keep his guard up, holy man or not; holy men are made much the same as godless ones, and both are capable of treachery.

The eerie nature of the looming knoll strikes Levi then as he continues to gaze up at it. Years of duty and service in the field have shown him all manners of mystical wonders in the realm, and oftentimes he likes to think he has become less affected by them, but the sight of those bare gray trees reaching up towards the leaden sky with branches like twisted skeletal fingers sends a shiver down his spine. And there is something in the air that bears down upon them all, something that prickles against his skin like a soft downy blanket, something more than cold.

They do not often come upon convergences in the realm, but the feeling is a familiar if not entirely welcome one.

“There’s a cold smell in the air,” Mike Zacharius announces, walking up to him and stopping to gaze out at the opposite bank and all its rural charms. The taller man lifts his face, taking a good long whiff, before remarking, “No, I do believe that’s something else. It’s cold, but with a distinct note. A different sort of coldness, not like normal cold. It smells… magical.” He eyes the peak of the hill thoughtfully.

A pearly-white spectre of a turtle emerges from the dark icy waters of the river before them, then vanishes as quickly as it appeared. “That would’ve made a good ghostly stew,” Mike comments, staring at the spot where the spirit had submerged itself.

A convergence, huh… Levi will have to check with Hange later, make more than passing sure that all protective measures against the arcane are in place.

“Boat!” his squire exclaims, bringing attention to the craft Levi has already spotted moments before the boy made his call.

Levi takes note of the priest sitting beside the Lord Commander by the stern as well as the two men he recognizes as being part of the villagers’ faction, representatives of the nearby village of Littlewallow. Things seem to have gone smoothly enough. Yet he knows this is far from over.

The ferryman has climbed off the wide-bottomed boat to haul it over to one of two wooden sheds that serve as stations for the crossing while his passengers proceed to disembark. Levi and Mike stride toward them as Erwin offers a steadying arm to the priest, who does not seem to need it; he scarcely touches the proffered limb, showing more dexterity than any man his age ought to have.

“Levi! Mike!” Hange calls out, waving at them enthusiastically. Levi winces at the volume of her voice, which is somehow amplified by their surroundings, making it echo off the chilly water.

He has to admire her sheer grit and audacity. She is not meant to be part of the delegation, in truth, having strongarmed Erwin into replacing the Herald they were meant to bring along with (in her own words) her more learned person. Erwin had conceded, more to pacify her than anything else, Levi thinks. A Prior should be equal to the task of diplomacy as much as any Herald, though that is the latter’s domain, Erwin had reasoned. After all, Priors are indeed learned in a great host of matters, and they have never failed to provide wisdom and counsel whenever these are needed; and they will need all the wisdom and counsel they can get in this venture.

“Mike, Levi.” The Lord Commander is more sedate, giving them a salute, which they return. They greet their two northern brothers likewise and Levi nods at the common men, who return the gesture after a brief pause, wary looks on both their faces.

“How are things here? Is anything amiss?” Erwin inquires, after all the necessary politesse has been observed.

“No. It’s been deadly dull so far, and I’d like to keep it that way.” Levi eyes the priest beside Erwin with a carefully blank expression. Clad as he is in fox fur and the maroon and red robes of his order, Robert the Lawyer stands out like a beacon against his monochrome surroundings. The Prior’s periwinkle and the Royal Guards’ pale purple seem bleached of all color beside all of that red. Like blood. An ominous color. Levi shakes away the thought, troubled. It is not like him to entertain such thoughts; they are too close to superstition for his taste. This place seems to have more of an effect on him than first he’d thought. The sooner we can put an end to all this the better. We need to be well shot of this place.

“Father Robert was kind enough to escort us back,” Erwin says mildly, noting the object of Levi’s attention. “There was much said between us and much still to do but I believe it is possible to bring the local folk around to our cause.”

“It is very much possible, Sir. We have no quarrels with the king, only with those who would give him bad counsel,” Father Robert states firmly in his thick northern brogue. “The villagers will continue to hide and protect the outlaws unless their lands are restored to them and their rightful lord. The people are afraid, you see, afraid that it will be their lands taken next, that they will be the next evicted, the next to lose all that brought them life. You will find that outlaw sympathy is at its peak nowadays, good sirs. But there are those of us who wish to see this turmoil end, and we are willing to assist you with the local folk and get you in their good graces. Provided we agree to certain terms.”

“As you will.” Erwin sweeps his gaze around the campsite, taking in the general air of relaxed quietude bordering on boredom that has befallen his troop. Atop his pavilion, which has been erected close to the ferry station, a peace banner flutters lightly against the cool breeze coming off the river. “Hange, make sure that we compensate the good folk of Littlewallow for everything we’ve been taking off their lands. Gods know they don’t need the likes of us encroaching on their territory and living off their bounty such as it is. There has been too much loss in these parts already."

“Of course,” the Prior answers, in a rare show of solemnity. West of their campsite lies the village of Littlewallow; it borders the desolation that is Mossreach, which is being restored as of late.

A village of snow and crows, Levi had thought as they passed burnt hovels and butchered livestock well-attended by murders of carrion feeders that rose into the air, cawing furiously as the convoy passed through.

Weeks’ worth of snow covered the worst of the carnage, only to be stirred up by their passage. A head, preserved by the cold, had come rolling along the ground beside the hooves of Levi’s courser as it clipped through the snowbank. He can still recall that face; the dull brown hair, heavily crusted with ice, spilling across the road; the way the man's skin stretched taut against his skull, waxy and dark with death and frost; the ragged, frozen flesh beneath the stump of his neck; his eyes. His eyes most of all. They had looked up at Levi, pale and unseeing, yet somehow, there was something accusing in them all the same. It was not I who killed you, he had told the dead man, yet he did not seem to care. Levi had felt those eyes burning into his back long after they had passed through.

As it is, their delegation had been tasked to escort what was left of the villagers of Mossreach back home, and Erwin had left twenty men to assist them in their attempts to start rebuilding what they had lost as well as for their own protection. They can never guarantee that the outlaws won’t come back to finish what they started.

Erwin turns to speak with the lawyer. “Will you be staying in Littlewallow for the night, Father?” he inquires politely.

“If they will have me,” answers the priest, looking and sounding a good deal more genial than he had earlier.

“I can spare a few men to escort you and your companions to the village,” Erwin offers. “The woods and roads are not as safe as they once were, and there might be those nearby who will gladly see you dead for one reason or another.”

Father Robert considers him a moment before acquiescing, wrapping his worn fox fur mantle tighter around himself. “That would be most welcome, Sir, I thank you-”

“Wait!”

The sudden snap of Mike’s voice startles them all to attention. His hand has flown to his sword hilt as he sniffs at the icy draft, which has changed direction; it is now blowing towards them from the nearby woods, gusting toward the opposite bank from which it had earlier come from.

The arrow hisses as it flies within their midst.

A grunt follows it moments later and one of the men-at-arms, Oliver, drops to the ground, the shaft sprouting through his unprotected temple.

The campsite explodes into chaos and action as every man of them ducks and scrambles for their weapons, shields, and helms. All the while arrows rain around them in a deadly deluge, and the horses scream and rear and kick in terror once the first few shafts find their marks, spilling blood and scenting the air with a sharp, coppery tang.

“Protect the civilians!” Erwin barks at Julian, who immediately starts herding the lawyer, his two companions, and Hange toward the ferryman’s sheds; the man himself had vanished behind the protective walls of his station the moment the arrows started flying.

“Sir!”

Levi looks up from his half-crouch on the ground, relieved to see Eren darting low towards him with his shield and helm in hand; behind his squire, Levi can just make out Jean doing the same for the Lord Commander. Mike quickly dashes toward Reiner, who is trying manfully to calm his master’s mount in a bid to grab his kit.

“Oh, gods save us!” yelps the priest the very moment Hange lets out a cry of horror, and Levi turns in the middle of jamming his helm onto his head to see one of the Littlewallow men lying sprawled on the rocky ground, a shaft protruding between his shoulder blades.

Those who have successfully armed themselves are advancing toward the treeline, shields held up defensively against the continuous steel-tipped barrage. Levi and Erwin rush to join them as the bushes rustle. Then the northmen come rushing in, screaming at the top of their lungs, and the world dissolves into blood and madness.

The first man to charge Levi falls at his feet, howling, his arm short an elbow. Thereafter, he lays about left and right in earnest, and nothing else exists but him and those foolish enough to get within reach of his blade.

Something slashes suddenly across his back, breaking through his battle fever, but his mail fends off the worst of the cut. Levi spins, sword slicing through the air and the neck of his assailant, and the man drops to the ground like a felled tree. His head splashes into the river moments later and is promptly borne away by the current, the trail of blood leaking from the stump of his neck creating swirls of crimson against the black waters.

Somehow, Levi finds time to note the leaves that wrap the headless corpse and the colors of his garb. Grays, both light and dark, and white. Colors of the land. An arrow slams against his shield as he turns, shoving the point of his sword through the bowels of another man and getting a faceful of leaves and twigs as the northerner sags against him. He gives his blade a hard twist, making the man shudder as he dies. The woods have come alive. Levi wrenches his sword free from the body and it flops to the stony soil; blood runs through the cracks between each rock, a red that is almost black. They blended in with the land, knowing it better than we ever could, how else could they have slipped past the defenses… Shows what they think of peace banners…

“Eren!”

Levi looks up reflexively at the sound of Jean’s call. The outlaws seem to be on the retreat. They are melting back into the trees as quickly as they can, the occasional few arrows whizzing through the campsite a last threatening caveat not to proceed nor chase them further.

The warning is lost on the squire.

“Eren!” Levi shouts, but before he can so much as take a step forward, the Lord Commander is rushing into the woods, having been much closer to the boy and therefore better placed to give chase.

Swearing explosively, Levi runs to the treeline. That damn reckless brat. “You, to me!” he bellows at Eld Jinn and the nearest group of men-at-arms, who instantly heft their weapons and come charging after him. “Drive off any outlaw you come across but tread carefully and keep a sharp eye out. They’re dressed to blend in with the land, be careful not to blunder into any ambushes. The rest of you,” this he addresses to the remaining troop, “hold the fort until we return.”

Spruces, pines, and firs close in around them, and all at once they are in another world, dark and close and oppressive. Fortunately, they do not need to wander far. The sound of skirmish becomes steadily more apparent, and the trees thin enough to reveal the Lord Commander and the wayward squire engaging the last few dregs of the outlaw band.

Even as they rush to relieve the besieged pair, Levi sees Erwin raise his sword up high and swing it back down once more, seeming to put all his weight into that one blow. It will have opened the northman he is accosting from neck to groin had he not spun away just in time. Erwin’s blade crashes through the trunk of the tree behind the outlaw, sinking in halfway to the hilt, and it lodges when he tries to pull it free. The northman brandishes his dagger in a ploy that reeks of desperation and stabs down at the Lord Commander, who whips around and catches the falling blade in one gloved fist.

The outlaw freezes in what seems to be shock, and it is enough. Erwin wrenches the dagger from his slackened grip the very moment Eren’s blade erupts from his belly, spattering the Lord Commander with blood. The northman jerks before dropping face-first to the icy ground, and Levi and his troop descend upon them, putting the rest of the outlaws to flight.

Erwin and Eren tense, going on the defensive, but subside somewhat once they see who it is that has occupied their part of the woods.

“Levi-” Erwin starts, before abruptly pushing Eren aside. The boy lands hard on his rear with a surprised cry as a shaft buries itself in the Lord Commander’s right upper arm, making him grunt and putting the rest of the troop on higher alert.

Eyes darting around attentively, Levi scans the surrounding foliage, sword and shield raised. Erwin’s own shield is nowhere in evidence, he realizes with consternation. “You five, stay with me and defend the Lord Commander. The rest of you spread out, make sure no outlaw scum is within five leagues of the campsite. Kill if you must. I believe I don’t need to remind you to keep a sharp eye out, do I?” Levi catches Eld Jinn’s eye and gives him a parting nod, which the man returns before setting off with his handful of men.

Levi turns immediately to the Lord Commander, who is carefully favoring his right arm, and proceeds to prod him back to camp. He dare not snap the shaft off, not now, not here. They cannot risk Erwin bleeding his life away without their Healer close to hand; they are too exposed, besides, and vulnerable to further attacks.

The five Levi has chosen surround them, shields and swords held at the ready, eyes sharp and alert from underneath their helms. No further volleys assail them.

“We need to have that taken care of at once. And, you-” Levi shoots his squire a look that makes the air seem a warm summer breeze, “-I will have words with you, boy.”

The boy’s eyes widen and he looks down, hunching in on himself.

The sparring grounds are alive with noise and activity. For the most part.

Sweat trickles down Mikasa’s face and neck as she presses the attack, slashing left and right and left again. Connie stumbles back against the onslaught, raising his shield as though it weighs five stone, before trying a countercut. Fast as he is, he has a tendency to overreach and underestimate his own speed. Mikasa takes advantage of this now, quickly ducking around his blow and sending the boy spinning to the ground with a yelp. She presses the tip of her blunted sparring sword to the back of his neck before he can rise. “Dead.”

Connie groans, slumping down onto the white stone flooring of the training yard. “I’ll get you one of these days,” he mutters sullenly, voice muffled against the ground.

“Not today, it seems.” She offers a hand and he takes it, pulling himself up heavily to his feet. “Another round?”

“No, thank you. You’ve handed me my ass enough times for the day.” Connie glances around the almost empty yard with a slightly forlorn look as he dusts himself off. “It’s times like this that make me realize long campaigns are only good if you’re in it. I miss being with the lads. It’s just too bad Sir Gunther had to sit this one out.” He glances at Mikasa and quickly adds, “But you’re good to be around with, too! Half of them don’t even pose a challenge, not like you do. You’re something to work towards, at least.”

She smiles a little at that. “It’s nice of you to think so.” She wishes the other boys will see it that way. Connie may miss the bluster and braying of his circle but Mikasa finds herself savoring the relative quiet in the grounds the past month has afforded her.

It is nice not to be constantly stared at for one reason or another, and one reason is always worse than the other. Some of them look on in curiosity and some small amount of marvel, as a group of peasant children may look at a two-headed calf. Those stares she does not mind half so much as the other kind. Most of those who present her with such don’t even bother hiding the contempt in their gazes. Who is this girl, to think she can contend with the likes of us? their gazes seem to say. Doesn’t she have a household to run, a State to rule? Leave the battlefield to the men.

Yet those stares do not hurt half so much as the looks she used to get from him. Her mood dips at the thought. He has not looked at her that way for years, to be sure, but the memory still stings. In fact, he does not look at her in any particular way now, barring the occasional polite smile and nod. Some days, she wonders if his irritated stares are better than his indifference and feels the worst for it; but at least he had looked at her with some feeling then, and that is almost better than nothing.

She has loved Eren ever since the day he vouched for her in these very grounds almost six years past. He had been the first boy to ever truly accept her in the sparring yard, both at home or at court. At home, her rank and status as the Lord’s daughter and, later, heir stopped the worst of the stares and comments.

Court was a whole different matter entirely. Her master-at-arms, Sir Roald, had warned her of what she might expect from those in the royal sparring grounds. Hearing about it is one thing; experiencing it is another. Most had made mock, telling her to go back to her dolls and sewing.

Most but for Eren.

She can still recall with absolute clarity the little boy of ten, his green eyes and face vehement as he declared, “So what if she’s a girl? She has the right to learn how to fight, she’s free to do anything she likes. Boy or girl, it shouldn’t matter if that’s what their hearts are set on.”

She had been enchanted, and her heart had soared to the skies and beyond when he had offered to be her sparring partner. She will never forget the look of awe and wonder he gave her when she had beaten him. Afterward, he attempted to make conversation. She had found herself tongue-tied and flustered, only able to answer in short or one-word sentences until he eventually quieted and moved off in search of another partner.

Their subsequent sparring sessions never again captured the magic of their first, much to her great dismay. The more she outdid him, the more he seemed to take offense. He was never less than courteous when speaking to her but his voice had grown cool, his words short and clipped, and his face and eyes showed his increasing shame and irritation at often being bested by her. In an effort to improve her lot with him, Mikasa had found herself giving him more ground to win. That had lessened his umbrage, for which she was glad; losing to him meant that she would never have to have those looks on his face directed at her ever again.

They do not spar as often these days, if they ever do at all. The increase in his duties as squire over the years cut into those sessions, and he seems to prefer sparring with others now, to her sorrow. It is harder to catch him outside the yard but that doesn’t seem to matter; outside or in, she can never seem to untie her tongue enough to converse with him properly, and he has others who can offer him better conversation.

Besides… A familiar well of bitterness opens up inside her. He’s promised to another. She had wept bitter tears when that news reached her. It is harder to look upon him now without feeling the heavy weight of envy she has for his betrothed.

“I’m heading to the baths, I feel absolutely filthy right now. What about you?” Connie asks as he walks toward the racks that hold the practice equipment.

“I’ll head in as well.” With Connie gone, there is no point staying; the few who are with them in the yard will not be as accommodating as he is. The only ones she truly feels comfortable sparring with presently are Connie, who is her childhood playmate, first sparring partner, and vassal; and Jean Kirschtein, who is the most accommodating squire of all and happens to be far away on campaign.

Thinking of Jean brings the campaign further to mind. It has been more than a month since the royal delegation had set out for the North and the court has been growing restive waiting for news. Mikasa finds herself caring little and less for all of that. She only hopes that they - Eren - will come back safe and whole.

She glances up at the likeness of Sir Tardon, the god most beloved by warriors, knights, and little boys wishing to be knights, as he gazes sternly out across the yard in his place beside the main keep’s doors to the sparring grounds. Warrior defend them all.

Connie places their gear back into their rightful places amongst the racks, and both are soon ambling through the palace corridors in their sweat-soaked training garb. Mikasa plucks at the ends of her dark braid, inwardly grimacing at the greasiness of the strands. She feels equally as filthy as Connie, and the groups of passing servants make her even more aware of her present condition. She hastens her stride, the better to reach her chambers sooner.

“-the delegation’s back-”

“-Lord Commander lost-”

Mikasa whips her head around, stopping in the middle of the corridor so abruptly that Connie bumps into her. “Hey, what’s-”

“Did you hear that? The delegation’s returned.”

Connie’s eyes widen. “Let’s go see!”

Thoughts of baths forgotten, the pair hastens to the east wing of the palace where the stables and barracks are kept, joining the human tide heading that way.

The last few soldiers are making their way under the portcullis when Mikasa and Connie reach the ward. Mikasa scans the bustling men, hoping to get a glimpse of Eren, make sure he is all right, when Connie lets out a stunned gasp. She turns to him at once. “What is it?”

“Sir Erwin,” are the only words Connie manages to force out in his shock, and she turns to look for the Lord Commander, finding him beside his destrier speaking with Sir Levi Ackerman, the far-famed cousin of hers from a branch farther down the Ackerman tree.

Her mouth drops open in disbelief.

Sir Erwin Smith’s right arm has vanished, severed at a point just above his elbow. Linen bandages bind up the stump of the once proud limb.

Aside from that ghastly lack of appendage, though, he does not seem to be any worse for wear than he initially seems. He seems to be in good spirits, at least, from the way he speaks to Sir Levi and the stableboy who has come to relieve him of his mount.

It is only then that Mikasa realizes the deeper nuance to the expressions of weary resignation on the troop’s faces, something she will normally put down to a relatively unsatisfying campaign. The Lord Commander has been crippled, and he will never be able to take an active part in the field again.

As Sir Levi turns to follow Sir Erwin to the castle proper, Mikasa finally catches a glimpse of the boy she has been looking for. Eren is standing beside his bay rounsey, unburdening it of its load slow as molasses, as though he is trying to drag out the deed as much as possible. He looks devastated and utterly defeated, even more so than the men around him, though he seems to be entirely unhurt.

Worried, Mikasa finds herself catching Jean’s eye, who is nearby giving custody of his horse to another stableboy. His face is grim and set, and a sense of foreboding comes upon her.

“The Lord Commander’s a cripple.” Mikasa looks down at Connie, who is staring at the retreating backs of her cousin and Sir Erwin, his face still full of disbelieving wonder and horror. “He’s a cripple, and he’ll never be able to fight again.” He looks at her, his voice a mirror to his expression. “It was just supposed to be a negotiation. What in all the levels of hell happened?”

You put down your quill and raise your arms above your head, groaning in satisfaction as the knots in your muscles stretch out. You shake out your shoulders, twist your neck, left, right, and pick up another letter. “Oh, this one’s from Prior Ilya.”

“Ah, home matters this time. Anything big?” Armin asks from his perch on the window seat of your father’s solar, watching as you read through the contents of this missive.

“The planting is going well… They’ve finally managed to tell off that farmer who left his plot to waste, good, good, we can expect a fine crop of olives, dates, and figs from the man… and he wants confirmation of the new customs officer they’ve appointed for our port, a Mister Abel Arcos, to replace Mister Emil Stan, who died of consumption last month, may the gods rest his soul. Aside from that, the household is running as it should, as it always does, he assures me.” You pick up your quill once more, dip it into your father’s inkpot, and start scrawling a reply. “I think I can be confident in their appointment of this Mister Arcos. Stan did excellent work during his tenure and our Castellan Grisha was the one who gave him the office. The man does his job well, him, Steward Paul, and Prior Ilya. They haven’t steered us wrong yet and I don’t see them doing that any time soon.”

Armin hums in acknowledgment. “Great to know things are still going along swimmingly in your neck of the woods. Makes me hope my next correspondence is as good as yours.”

“Oh, I’m sure Krolva’s doing well under your lords’ capable hands.” Putting down your quill once more, you read through your response and nod to yourself, satisfied. You reach for the stick of crimson sealing wax, heating it over the candle standing at the ready beside the inkpot, and drip some down onto the folded parchment.

Pressing your father’s sealing ring onto the waxy puddle is one of your favorite things about this task. That and the sense of responsibility that this whole assignment gives you. Over the past few years, ever since you’ve entered court, Lord Alexander has been slowly but steadily increasing your duties as Lady Rhyzkova.

Not that your duties have ever started at court. You have been learning to take over from your father since you were six, often serving as cupbearer in his meetings with his vassals every time he was home in Arsechkala, and having Sir Grisha and Prior Ilya take you into their councils whenever he left the running of your State to them.

The past few years at court have seen you learn and maneuver around its ways, meet the rest of your House’s vassals as well as your would-be peers, and make a few minor household appointments, this amidst your own admittedly lighter duties as maid-in-waiting to the Princess Historia. Brushing the princess’s hair and lacing her up into her gown for the day is certainly much easier than having charge of this year’s Month of Planting, not just for your home city of Arsechkala but for your whole State of Vascalin.

So far, you have taken to the task as easily as a goshawk takes to the air and are enjoying the whole novel experience of it. Yet underneath that satisfaction is the inevitable sense of anxiety that comes with a commission this important. If the harvest comes up short or lacking in any manner, it will be your decisions and judgement that will be called into question. As your father said, in the eyes of the public, it will always, always be the fault of the one in charge if anything goes wrong. The proof is in the autumn pudding, then. You briefly consider lighting a candle to the Paradisians’ Gardener for a good harvest but think better of it. The old gods are more than enough for you in this venture.

You flick through the thick sheaf of parchment letters in your hands, making sure everything is in order before you hand them over to one of the royal Heralds for sending. “Well, I’m done for the day. I’m handing these off to a Herald, do you want to come with?”

Armin voices his assent, and the two of you leave the Praetor’s solar. “Want to have tea after you’re done sending those? It’s about that time of the day anyway, and you could use a respite from all that Lady-ing.”

You smile at the coined term. “Lady-ing isn’t so bad, but a nice cup of goldenglow sounds good right about now.”

During the past month and a half, you have found yourself spending a lot of time with your betrothed’s closest friend. Perhaps it is your way of trying to fill the void Eren left when the delegation set off.

While not as rambunctious nor as irrepressible as Eren often can be, Armin has a similar sense of wide-eyed wonder and adventure, something that you gravitate to enthusiastically. It is almost like having Eren with you again… if he is calmer, more bookish, and fair-haired, that is.

In any case, you have been enjoying the tales Armin regales you with, most of which you know you will never get out of Eren even if you take a knife to him.

“Of course you’ll never get this out of him,” Armin will often say, after his more amusing tales that will usually involve Eren and something absolutely foolhardy. “He wants to save face as much as possible, and I think he’d want to even more with his betrothed.”

This is certainly so much better than dwelling on the darker thoughts that lay in the back of your mind, thoughts that usually involve Eren grievously injured or dead in a ditch somewhere in the cold North.

You soon drop off your letters with Herald Rodrick, who had been bulled off the northern delegation by the inexorable Prior Hange, much to his displeasure. You and Armin are just on your way to the kitchens, somehow discussing the fact that ‘Grisha’ is on Old Lovayan name, when news of the returning delegation reaches you.

You stare at each other with wide eyes before hurrying to the east wing, only to find that most of the troop have already settled and have left the ward, much to your disappointment.

“Do you want to nip over to Eren’s? See how he’s doing?” Armin asks, a trace of worry in his voice. You nod, feeling equally as apprehensive, and together you make your way to the Jaeger apartments and subsequently Eren’s chambers.

Your sense of disquiet increases when it becomes steadily more apparent that no answer is forthcoming from within his rooms no matter how persistently Armin knocks and calls through the door.

“Maybe he’s in the Hall of the Sentinel?” you put in, after a few more seconds of nothing from Eren.

Armin perks up a little. “Yes, maybe-”

“Oh, he’s in there, all right.” Zeke walks over to you, seemingly drawn by the sound of Armin’s knocks. “Most like he’s napping the weariness away. He’s unhurt,” he adds, seeing the anxious looks on both your faces. “You’ll probably see him at dinner later tonight, I’ll tell him we’re to dine in public so you can see him in the Hall.”

He does not come down to dinner.

But there are more pressing things to concern yourself about. The news that the Lord Commander has lost an arm - his sword arm, for that matter - spreads like wildfire in the court; it is all that comes out of everyone’s mouths everywhere you turn. It seems to be a proven fact, at any rate, even though Sir Erwin has yet to show himself to the public. The king is dining with the Conclave in private, no doubt to discuss the Northern Matter, as the court now dubs it. But these things have a way of leaking out, and the scores of squires who are there now find themselves the objects of much more than just the sheep’s eyes of the maids.

You have hoped to get the account from Eren but it seems as if you’ll have to make do. You entertain the thought of visiting him tonight but decide against it; he has spent over a month away from the warm comforts of the palace, he deserves his rest.

It is then that you remember his sixteenth yearday had come and gone almost a month ago while he was on campaign. Perhaps you and Armin can arrange a little private celebration for him in the Jaeger sitting room, with Lord Grisha’s permission, of course. Or, even better, perhaps you can take him out into the city for a little picnic by the Iris Lake; the beautiful flowers should be in bloom right now, and a picnic shouldn’t be too taxing for him, abundant stamina or not.

It is much later in the night, as you are preparing for bed, that you realize you and Eren have been betrothed for a year now. And that you are to wed the following year.

***

You tap on the door, the little knock that you and Eren have taken to using for your late-night meetings, and call, “Eren? Are you awake?” If he isn’t here…

You and Armin had spent the earlier hours of the morning searching the castle high and low for your absent friend, starting with the sparring grounds, where he can usually be found of a day. None of his circle there had seen him since yesterday, they told the two of you, perhaps he was in the ward cleaning Sir Levi’s mail or in the Hall of the Sentinel. Heading there proved to be similarly fruitless endeavors, and so you headed to the Jaeger apartments after the Great Hall failed to yield the Jaeger boy.

This is most unlike him, you think. It is almost midday, he never stays in his chambers this late. Is he really this tired? You are about to turn to Armin and tell him perhaps you should come back later instead when the door finally opens.

Whatever things you want to say are leeched out of you as you catch a glimpse of his face. He looks dull, colorless, and terribly lifeless, and the eyes that stare back at you reflect all of that tenfold; they have turned a dim mud green, no longer the vivid emeralds that they once were. He looks at you to Armin and back again, and something seems to stir within those murky depths.

“Eren?” you find yourself whispering.

Armin, who has stood there gaping at his friend for several moments, shakes himself off of his stupor. “W-we were just wondering if you would like to have a picnic with us,” he gestures at the blanket draped over his arm and the baskets both he and you are holding, “but-”

“If you’re still tired, we can just go out some other time,” you cut in, feeling your worry rise up your throat like bile. “Eren, are you all right? We can just stay here in the palace and talk-”

“No. I want to go out,” Eren says in a low, dull voice. He looks over at Armin.

Perhaps it is a trick of the light or your imagination because something chilling seems to gleam in Eren’s eyes as he stares at the other boy. It brings back some light to his gaze, but not for the better; it is like staring down at a frozen pond in the deep of winter. You feel Armin quail next to you at that and know then that that glimmer is most assuredly not a trick of the light. You frown. What is going on with him?

“I’ll just fix myself up and we can go,” Eren continues, still looking strangely, antagonistically, at Armin before closing his door with a soft snap.

You and Armin stare at each other. That display does nothing to ease your worries, and it continues to weigh heavily in your mind as Eren tugs you along down Belris’s bustling streets, one hand gripping your basket, the other wrapped around your own smaller one.

The novelty of having him truly hold your hand and not just your wrist would have impacted you harder on another occasion. But as it stands, the sight of Armin struggling to keep up with you two dulls everything else.

“Eren, shouldn’t we wait for Armin?” you say, watching the crowds behind you almost swallow the other boy in their midst.

“He knows where the lake is, it’s not like he’ll get lost,” comes the brusque reply. His grip on your hand tightens, and he lengthens his stride even more, if that is even possible.

A spark of annoyance flares inside you and you return his grip with a hard one of your own, ready to dig your heels in and force him to slow down, when the entrance to the lake comes into view before you.

You abruptly dig your heels in when he shows no signs of stopping, obliging him to do so most reluctantly. He gives you a glare, which you return gladly, opening your mouth to chastise him when Armin catches up to you at last. He doubles over, panting. “S-sorry, the crowds really got in my way, I didn’t account for the lunch rush…”

“It’s fine,” you assure him, flashing Eren a look of censure, which he curls his lip at. “Here, let me take that basket off you.”

“I’ll take that,” Eren bulls over you, then proceeds to try and take the basket with the hand holding yours without actually letting go.

You tut impatiently and grab the hamper in your free hand. “I’ll take it. Or at least let go and free your other hand so I can give it to you if you’re so hellbent on carrying everything.”

He narrows his eyes at you and grumbles something under his breath, but does not let go. “I suppose we can go inside now, yes?” you ask, tugging Eren forward and rolling your eyes at Armin behind his back. Distress and black moods do not give Eren the right to be so terse with either of you; you are not the ones who gave him those in the first place. The blond lad clutches the blanket to his chest, smiling awkwardly.

To say that things between the three of you have become delicate will be severely underplaying matters.

And it’s such a good day, too, you think ruefully, gazing out at the riot of color that is the lake’s crop of irises and the blue-green expanse of the shimmering waters before you, a hue that is almost the exact same shade as your betrothed’s eyes. When they are alive, at least.

Others have come to the lake to enjoy the fine weather as well. Groups of children run around, shrieking and laughing, while their parents lounge around on blankets speaking to each other and keeping an eye on their charges. Some of the nobility have come, too; one lot has brought their own bard, and the music from his lute adds to the pleasantness of the day.

Determined not to let the dark-haired boy’s dark mood ruin the day, you make a good start on the gemberries you have packed, coaxing Armin into a discussion about light and aimless topics, and softly greeting Eren a happy yearday. This seems to bring him out of the worst of his mood, though he remains unusually quiet and taciturn, only occasionally chiming in with a comment or two before withdrawing into silence once more.

The three of you are halfway through your slices of chicken and leek pie when the topic crosses over to the Lord Commander’s missing arm.

“I had the story from Jean,” you say after a bite of pie. “It just goes to show that not even the best of warriors are safe from festered wounds…”

“It was just his luck that their Healer was killed in the ambush and the nearest temple of the Gardener was twenty leagues away,” Armin pipes in, shaking his head. “Not to put down herbfolk or anything but it’s usually a shot in the dark with them. You either get one that is as good as any Healer or not.”

“The North has made do without Healers for thousands of years and they haven’t died out yet,” you say a little defensively, taking his statement for criticism of the Old Way. “Healers are as prone to festering wounds as any herbfolk. He was just supremely unlucky.” You subside as Armin raises both hands to yield to your remark. “It’s just too bad we don’t have the benefit of healing spells anymore… I’ve heard the most powerful ones can regrow a missing limb like it had never vanished at all.”

“Did Jean tell you anything else?” Eren asks suddenly.

You and Armin exchange glances; you seem to be exchanging a lot of those lately.

“He told me that Sir Erwin cut his hand open with an outlaw knife and took an arrow to the same arm. Both wounds festered so they had to cut it off,” you say.

“Shouldn’t his mail have fended off the worst of the arrow strike, though?” Armin asks, looking at Eren for confirmation. “He would have been padded underneath, too…”

“Jean said the outlaws tipped their shafts with bodkins, and those have been known to punch through even plate armor like it was silk,” you inform Armin, making him hum in understanding.

“It was my fault.”

The crack in Eren’s voice silences the both of you. You turn to look at your betrothed and are alarmed to see tears glimmering in the pools of his eyes to drip silently down his face.

“If I hadn’t been so stupid and reckless, he still-” There is no more getting words out of him after that, and somehow, he is in the circle of your arms as you hold him against yourself, one hand placed gently at the back of his head, the other wrapped around his ever broadening shoulders.

You feel him freeze for a moment against you, then he is melting, gingerly wrapping his arms around your waist as he weeps into your shoulder. You had not quite believed Armin when he had told you that Eren is someone who is easily led into tears. He seems above it, somehow, though he is free with his feelings most every time. But then, you suppose, there was never occasion enough to prove the truth of that during the time that you had come to know him. Until now.

You press your face to the top of his head, and the warm, clean scent of him engulfs your senses. He smells of soap, and something woodsy, and something else, something more, something that is distinctly Eren. You find yourself breathing in slowly, deeply, and his scent mellows out your faculties like a glass of dark, rich wine.

Your eyes move over to Armin over Eren’s dark head after several moments, finding him looking at the both of you with a mixture of amusement, pity, and affection on his face as he gazes at his friend’s weeping form.

Eren’s tears eventually abate, and you gently lift his head from your shoulder once his body stops trembling against yours. His essence leaves your being, and all is clear again. You smile softly at the puffiness of his eyes. “Here.” You retrieve a kerchief from within your sleeve and lightly dab at his wet face, then hand the cloth over once you are done. “I don’t have anything else to blow your nose into but that should serve.”

“I seem to keep ruining your kerchiefs,” he says thickly, sniffling in the most endearing of ways, but takes the piece of white linen all the same. He rummages around his pocket and hands you a yard of green silk, which you recognize as the favor you gave him all those weeks ago. It looks worn, faded, and much the worse for wear, yet you hold it as though it is the most priceless of silks. “Now I’ve given it back to you, my lady.”

“I thank you kindly, sir,” you smile, and receive a watery one in return.

It is some time later when he has calmed down enough to give you and Armin the tale. “If I hadn’t stupidly run after those outlaws, Sir Erwin wouldn’t have gotten hurt. He would still have his arm, he would still be able to take to the field,” Eren says morosely, picking idly at the spiked pale skin of the gemberry in his hands. “I would rather take a hundred beatings than live with the fact that I was the one who put him out for good.” He looks up at you two, fear stark in his eyes. “What if I can’t be a knight anymore after this?”

You and Armin look at each other in concern. “I’m sure Sir Levi’s still willing to keep you on as squire,” Armin says carefully. “Sir Erwin’s hardly the first Lord Commander who was crippled in the line of duty. They all end up leading from the rear, anyway, and some of the best commanders in history never took active duty in the field.”

“That’s right, you didn’t end the Lord Commander’s duties, Eren,” you assure him quietly. “The Royal Guard only leave their posts in death, and he’s still here, isn’t he? You can still earn your knighthood, I’m sure of it.”

“But I don’t want my father’s name being the only thing that’s keeping Sir Levi from tossing me out of the running,” Eren exclaims, hands balling into fists. “At this rate, I’m not even sure I’ll ever feel worthy of that title…”

“Well, then, atone for it,” you say in a voice harder than you have meant for it to be, making him stare at you with wide eyes. “Work harder, make sure that you’re the best bloody squire Sir Levi Ackerman has ever had and will ever have in his life. Make sure that he will never see the likes of you ever again because you’re just that bloody good.” You fix him a look, full of challenge. “And never forget this lesson. Gods know you paid the price, make it worth the blood you paid.”

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

***

A/N:

Another record broken for longest chap so far, lol

*sigh* Anyway, a massive, massive thank you to you, my dear readers!

But then, a lot of things did happen... So, Eren now has to live with the guilt of being the indirect cause of Erwin's retirement from the field. But at least you finally hold hands and hug!

#eren jaeger x reader #eren yeager x reader #eren x reader #aot x reader #snk x reader #eren jeager x reader #Eren Jaeger #eren yeager #attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin

49 notes · View notes

beerselfie · 1 year

Photo

#Repost @novabrewjacket Merry Christmas from Copper Trail Brewing! 🎄🎅🍻 It's been a crazy, hectic Christmas this year. I haven't had a chance to do any holiday posts at our house, but we did get a chance to stop in at Copper Trail Brewing on our whirlwind trip up to the fridgid north for some Christmas Cheer! 🎄🎅🍻 We're blessed to be building our dream house on the lake in Alexandria Minnesota, and I'm so happy too that Alexandria has two excellent breweries, 22 Northmen, and Copper Trail Brewing! A couple of years back, Copper Trail moved into a beautiful new space right near the center of town. The place is warm and cozy with lots of long wooden tables, a great bar, a just-opened grill, and the coolest flight boards that you'll find anywhere! 🤩 I had a delicious flight, with their DIPA, the barrel aged porter, and my favorite, a very tasty wee heavy! 😋 The building crew got the house all framed up and roofed before the MN snows, and are in the process of putting in the sheet rock. Cabinets and flooring will start around February. Should be ready to furnish in the Spring. Of course I'll need a good beer fridge to fill with local Minnesota craft beer! Merry Christmas, my Beerstagramming Friends! Drink Well! 🎄🎅🍻 https://www.instagram.com/p/Cmo7aZ_JZZp/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

#repost

10 notes · View notes

axl-ul · 10 months

Text

Master Kogar

“As tall as a tree and of a skin as pale as the first snow, the man was of a firm and muscular built, yet always thin and limber as a needle and agile as fish in the water. For his dark and deep eyes he was called a 'Man with No Eyes'. During his apprenticeship, though still young of age, Master Kogar was already scarred by his his encounters with otherworldly beings and creatures inhabiting the recently deceased for he was taught under the guidance of his Master Embalmer Levoslav about whom not much not is known. After gaining his title of Master Embalmer he ventured forth to seek those in need of exorcism and proper burial. For this was a task dangerous to any living, didn't matter whether a human or a demon, he had not dared to take upon any disciple himself. It wasn't until he came down from the wild mountains and settled down by the northern side of the river Vag that he abandoned the life of a hermit as he took in a young child no more than five years of age. The little child was soon accompanied by other two girls of a similarly unknown origin. Although they were named by the locals with names with Northern roots, for they mostly came from the side inhabited by the Northmen, they seemed to be mostly related to Wends by their common appereance. However, soon it was revealed those three girls, adopted by Master Kogar, were, in fact, of demonic heritage just as the Embalmer himself. Later, Master Kogar decided to make the oldest child, the first one he took under his roof, his one and only successor.“

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Taglist (let me know if you'd like otbe added): @vanessaroades-author @rubywrite @aohendo @rbbess110 @jgmartin @outpost51

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

#writeblr #writing community #writeblr community #master kogar #legends of noman's land lore #character description #oc character #original character #original lore #my writing #writers of tumblr #writers on tumblr #writing

5 notes · View notes

warsofasoiaf · 2 years

Note

Do you think the Dornish would view guest-right as strongly as the North does? On the one hand, they seem the least likely to share cultural attitudes given the geographical difference and other cultural influences, but on the other, they also live in a hostile environment where shelter can mean life or death and seem to have their own predilections for personal violence that they'd want customs in place to temper. Also, what about the Ironborn on guest right?

One notable custom that the Northmen hold dearer than any other is guest right, the tradition of hospitality by which a man may offer no harm to a guest beneath his roof, nor a guest to his host. The Andals held to something like it as well, but it looms less large in southron minds.

The worldbook explicitly says that no other region of Westeros holds so dearly to guest right as the North does. There's further proof too - given that House Uller takes its banner for the burning of men under guest right, I do not think they would hold the custom as strongly as the North - no Northern family would take pride in that sort of action so as to carry it as their sigil.

Thanks for the question, Anon.

SomethingLikeALawyer, Hand of the King

#dorne #the north #laws and customs #guest right

24 notes · View notes

ofprevioustimes · 2 years

Text

@foretoldchaos ; a plotted starter

The battle had lasted all day long.

Sunset was just beginning to darken the sky in the horizon, replacing the hot afternoon air with a cool and chilly wind when the head of the counsel of elders returned to the palace to inform her that the trade of hostages had been concluded. Hermione acknowledged the information with a silent nod. In the absence of her father, it was up to her to play the part of the host: the northmen would not come as prisoners, so as long as their peers did not invade their lands again, the laws of hospitality would keep them protected under her roof.

Verily, the Spartans were hardly known for their diplomacy. A city without walls must have certainly appeared enticing to an army of foreign invaders, but what might have seemed at first a neglicence in safety from their rulers only concealed a fundamental truth about the people who inhabited the place: that the walls of Sparta were, in fact, the strength in the arms of its soldiers. Their unbreakable army and the strategically located foothills embracing the realm ensured that they never succumbed to invasion.

Nor was she willing to let it begin when the city was under her command for the first time in her life.

Thus, as custom dictated, Hermione ordered the servants to give the hostage a bath and clothing, instructing the kitchens to prepare a supper for them.

A waning moon had risen in the sky when their presence was announced. The meal was not served in the main hall, but rather in a more private chamber, with the company of her handmaidens and only a handful of guards.

“Seat”, the princess spoke, just as soon as he was led inside, then gestured towards the food in an invitational sign. “I ought to be thanking your people”, said Hermione, reaching for a bronze goblet which she took to her lips, tasting the wine. “Our soldiers have been itching for a battle long enough.” A small smile grew on her lips, visibly proud of the warlike spirits of her motherland. “What is your name?”

#hermione: foretoldchaos [hvitserk]#foretoldchaos #hermione: threads.#[please don't ask me a million questions about my mother!]: hermione of sparta

1 note · View note

astradrifting · 3 years

Text

Related to my post about Dany possibly killing Aegon at a peace summit, violating guest right:

Tywin Lannister, the man who orchestrated the Red Wedding, himself died in a taboo way, slain by his son Tyrion.

Several of the Freys involved in the Red Wedding have disappeared in the North after a visit to White Harbor, possibly into gigantic meat pies served by Lord Wyman Manderly to the Boltons. One of them, Rhaegar Frey, was betrothed to his granddaughter Wynafryd, which doesn’t precisely make them kin but they would have been had Lord Manderly any intention of following through on it.

It’s unclear yet how Roose Bolton will meet his end in the books but in the show he’s killed by his son Ramsay, whom Roose himself believes to already be a kinslayer who murdered his trueborn half-brother Domeric.

There could be a pattern being formed - breaking guest right opens you up to death through another taboo, likely kinslaying. According to the North section in TWOIAF, kinslaying is considered the only crime equivalent to breaking guest right:

“One notable custom that the Northmen hold dearer than any other is guest right, the tradition of hospitality by which a man may offer no harm to a guest beneath his roof, nor a guest to his host. […] Maester Egbert notes that crimes in the North in which guest right was violated were rare but were invariably treated as harshly as the direst of treasons. Only kinslaying is deemed as sinful as the violations of these laws of hospitality.”

Of course, in GoT Dany was killed by her nephew, Jon Snow. This isn’t exactly proof of anything but it is interesting that a pattern could be formed, of violations of guest right being narratively punished with kinslaying, its moral equivalent.

#astra rambles #speculation #incidentally this doesn’t bode well for Lord Manderly either but oh well #anti daenerys targaryen

33 notes · View notes

lafiametta · 3 years

Note

Comfort for the helnik prompt please!

Wandering Isle AU (a.k.a. they’re never caught by Fedyor and manage to get out of Arkesk together)

The ship deposited its passengers unceremoniously on the Leflin docks, leaving them to fend for themselves as they navigated the labyrinthine byways of the waterfront, all their belongings carried on shoulders or bundled in their arms. The voyage had been a lengthy one and no doubt most were looking forward to a warm meal and to sleep in a bed that rested firmly on the ground.

Nina led the two of them through the narrow streets, away from the crowded commercial district and into a quieter part of the city, while for his part Matthias tried—and mostly failed—at looking less tall and Fjerdan.

She found an inn she liked the look of—modest, well-kept, with an exit that led directly to the street—and managed to persuade the proprietor to rent them a room on credit. They had only modest funds at the moment, she explained as she smiled and pressed her fingers together, but by the end of the week they would be able to pay off the full balance. And perhaps he might be willing to include a few amenities as well?

The red-headed serving girl they crossed paths with on the stairs was carrying a pair of empty copper pails, a promising indication that the proprietor would be as good as his word.

The room itself was small but clean, with a sturdy-looking bed positioned under the gable roof and a narrow dressing table with a chipped basin and ewer. In the corner, though, was the one thing Nina had been dreaming about ever since they set sail at Arkesk: a bathtub, filled with steaming hot water.

It was enough to make her cry tears of joy.

But as much as she wanted to nothing more than to dive straight in, one glance at Matthias—her very large, very unwashed Fjerdan—told her that there might be more pressing needs, at least at the moment.

“Take off your clothes,” she told him, watching as his eyes grew wider and the tips of his ears started to turn pink.

It was true that they hadn’t really been alone since Arkesk—their money had only been enough for two third-class tickets, which meant a bunk in either the men’s or women’s sleeping quarters. They had spent much of the voyage together up on deck, but even then it was under the watchful eye of other passengers, including two older Os Altan ladies who took one look at Matthias and from then on seemed personally devoted to safeguarding Nina’s virtue. And now it was just the two of them, a realization that was clearly beginning to dawn on Matthias.

Nina, however, had more immediate priorities.

“Get in before it goes cold.” She nodded towards the tub, her lips curling into a smirk. “You stink,” she added in Fjerdan, just for good measure.

To his credit, he didn’t argue, and as a reward she turned away as he undressed, just as she had in the whaler’s hut when he had traded his sodden clothes for that thick reindeer pelt. There was something rather charming about his modesty, she decided—although she was going to enjoy freeing him of it at some point in the future.

She heard a small splash and then what could only be described as a pathetically low groan of pleasure as he fully immersed himself in the water.

Not fully trusting him to manage the rest—who knew what standards of cleanliness these northmen actually adhered to?—Nina began to roll up her sleeves and then found the small stool that had been placed next to the tub. Atop it was a wooden bowl and a thick bar of lye soap.

“What are you doing?” Matthias asked, looking only slightly alarmed.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” she replied, as she sat behind him and scooped up a bowl of water to pour over his head.

He sputtered, furiously blinking water out of his eyes.

“It feels like you’re trying to drown me...”

She laughed. “If I were trying to drown you, drüskelle, you would know.” Nina set the bowl down and reached for the soap. “Now be quiet, or I’ll have to contemplate stuffing this in your mouth.”

With a practiced hand, she formed a rich lather in between her palms and then began to comb her fingers through his hair. Perhaps it shouldn’t have surprised her to watch as Matthias immediately gave himself over to her ministrations, clearly relaxing as he slipped further down into the tub. She tried to be careful as she worked, doing her best to keep the suds from dripping into his eyes—and methodical as well, massaging thoroughly at his temples, his crown, against the back of his neck. It felt good to give him this small amount of comfort, to take care of him this way, even as she knew she wanted to give him so much more.

Eventually, he seemed clean enough, and she carefully rinsed the soap from his head until the water ran clear.

“There,” she said, reaching out to hand him the soap. “I expect you can take care of everything else.”

“But what about you?”

“What about me?”

An uncharacteristically mischievous expression began to form on his face. “I think you should get in before it goes cold,” he said, a playful echo of her earlier words.

Nina pressed her lips together, trying her best not to grin. “That would be a waste, wouldn’t it?” she murmured, keeping her gaze fully trained on him, mostly because she couldn’t bear to look away.

Matthias nodded slowly, and she could feel the heat rushing to her cheeks. And with her mind emptying itself of any remaining considerations, she let her hands migrate up to the collar of her blouse, her deft fingers working to free each tiny button from its grasp.

[send me a one-word Helnik prompt]

#helnik #nina zenik #matthias helvar #shadow and bone #six of crows #fanfiction #helnik fic #anon asks

15 notes · View notes

wqrfwasf · 3 years

Text

A Family consists of your relatives

“I have sworn a vow,” he told Hildy wearily.. I continue to see expanding opportunities for Nike to reach new heights of product and performance innovation. This medicine should not be used during pregnancy unless considered essential by your doctor. A Family consists of your relatives, of course. His father sold him to Lord Varys for a jug of Arbor gold. No vehicles are to be using First Street through Fourth Street during the formation and parade time unless they are units of the parade. Richard Dillingham was the son of a respectable Quaker family in Morrow County, Ohio. She said: "I did a scene in the forest but it was in the sunshine so it is so cool to be here and see it how it is supposed to be dark and mysterious.". D. For what? I replied. How much remains? The one I slew was intent on killing Lord Commander Mormont. Northmen, free folk, queen’s men … “Form a line,” Jon Snow commanded them. In 1850 was passed the cruel fugitive slave

lugosis carhartt

law. That was until, after a fight with his dad, he was "tossed" out on the street. Putting the Node 605 together resulted in adidas fg a couple of hiccups but nothing serious. Older children shuffled along behind their mothers and looked up at Jon with eyes as dark and hard as the stones they clutched. And that's really important because it's the pre hospital bit of this that we're trying to figure out whether that makes a difference.. Must do this, and must do that are really pendientes bulgari precio excuses of the highest order. The latter requires no cables, dramatically cuts the power requirements of wireless mobile devices, and can make a cellphone battery last 10 times longer between charges.. Seabrook and Michal Rozsival then beat Miller 1:45 apart in the third period to give the Blackhawks the 3 2 lead, but Chicago was later done in by Seabrook game misconduct with 4:51 left in regulation.. The big white direwolf was gone more oft than not of late, ranging farther and farther in search of prey. "They bring everyone together, and, in the end, they're just a little sexier. She looked at me triumphantly. The latest hi tech football boots weigh just 200g about the same as sprinters' running spikes. The captain of the Meadowlark led his crew in a prayer for the souls of their slain shipmates. Experts project cizme din denimthat as many as half the families that qualified for government help paying their premiums will have to pay some of that subsidy back."You have to tell them what you think your income is going to be, and I took a broad guess," McIntyre said.McIntyre guessed her income would be about $13,000 a year. Mercedes claims 44mpg combined and CO2 emissions of 147g/km.For now, the flagship variant is the E400 4MATIC. (Photos by Charles Ommanney/The Washington Post). I was moping around, not feeling like I had much going on, and frustrated because if I tried

diadora focicipő

to get involved with Toms from there, I didn't feel I had the connection to the staff.". Grapes in the vineyard are covered with naturally occurring, yeasts; a grab bag of ambient strains that float in the air. The team is twin set cardigan outletalso filming an episode under a huge tent in California soon. For the office, pair them with black tights to camouflage the detail. A short time after the store's sinking, Ryan hadAtlas, with some of his followers, rounded upand sent to the prisonto stop the disruptions and mayhem they were creating. They are doing it all wrong. By and large, the Lumia line has looked fairly uniform to date, relying on polycarbonate frames, bold colors and stand out camera features to differentiate itself. Among other things I told her all about Nellie, about Masloboev, and Mme. As soon as the plane stopped, my first instinct was to grab for the handle and open up the door. Their women were clad in sealskins, some with infants at their

calça kickboxing

breasts. A little farther. Information from the manufacturer, Booth said the noise produced by the generators is expected to be 70 decibels at 200 meters away, which is equivalent to a vacuum cleaner.. It only cost one rouble twenty kopecks. Half the morning passed before Lord Janos reported as commanded. There are rubber bumpers that I had to attach to the fan which will help squeeze it in place. No freedman may dwell within the Black Wall, so she was compelled to sell Vogarro’s manse. The location complemented his business philosophy: should live, work and play within walking distance. If they determine its going to get bad Wed overnight and Thurs morning, they sometimes cancel the inbound flts after 9 pm which are scheduled to remain overnight. Nor is the master indictable under the second clause of that section; the process being against the slave, not against the master.—Ib.. A long hard winter will leave the Watch so deep in debt that we will never climb out, Jon reminded himself, but when the choice is debt or death, best borrow.. For women s foot surgeries. Paul says to the Ephesians, speaking of this former division, “He is our zapatillas guess mujer corte ingles peace, who hath made both one, and hath broken down the middle wall of partition between us.”. “My rear guard,” Tormund said, with a gap-toothed smile. "Tierra Eterna" is a direct reflection of DeZorah and all the adventures the band has had as a band leading up to the recording of these songs. And because mini melissa picole vidro that unlikely monarch had himself followed his heart when he chose his queen, he allowed his sons to have their way, making bitter enemies where he might have had fast friends. Journalist Cathryn McLauchlan will be participating in the Northern Star/APN getting fit promotion along with the rest of the newsroom. The design of the roof will depend upon the climate of the area you live in. Whatever Satin may have done in Oldtown, he is our brother now, and he will be my squire.”. "It's not like we're going to be active or overly active in the trade market." The Lakers owe $29.85 million toward the luxury tax and Kupchak probably would want to bring back less money if he twin set cardigan outlet does make a trade.. (More on telescopes later.) With nothing but your bare eyes, you can see stars, constellations, planets, clusters, meteors, the Milky Way, nebulae, our moon, and yes even a galaxy!. "You bet it is. THAT AND OTHERS. Natasha met us, facing the door. Air Canada and Air Canada Rouge launched 10 new international routes and 11 new transborder routes in the quarter, marking the most intensive period of expansion in Air Canada's history.. Olympic gold medal skier Bode Miller recently bought an interest in the horse. Information for all who dare to attend the so called haunted house in Michalego. Their dad, information technology developer Norm Roulet, herded the boys into the car for an outing; 2 year old Clara was napping.. Nike de escalada al aire libre lanzado, air max 90 blancas baratas y pronto se convirti en populares populares productos al aire libre, sino tambin debido a la apariencia de vanguardia tanto funcional y cmodo.. Only a little strength remains in his flesh. Then he was just trying out the line. Chuck couldn't have known she was in Argentina unless he had a really high security clearance. I really liked [Horn] doing that..

2 notes · View notes

n3rdybird · 4 years

Text

The Serpent Ch 1

Written for @tilltheendwilliwrite‘s 7.7k Celebration/Covid Sucks Challenge. My prompt was this image.

Not gonna lie, this got away from me a bit, and looks like it might flesh out into several chapters. Hope you enjoy!

Vikings

OFCxIvar

Rating:Teen

Warnings: Blood/Battle/Curse words

The singing of swords echoed through the trees. Ivar and his men mowed down English soldiers with relish, screaming their victory. Ivar, atop his chariot, pounded his axe against the woodside, eager for more. The wood bridge was no-man’s land as both sides rushed each other, dying over the water. Ivar urged his horse forward, his blood pounding with every Englishman slain. Out of nowhere, a sword caught his arm, causing his grip on his horse's reins to falter. The horse panicked, causing the cart to careen sideways on the rickety bridge. The chariot slammed into the side of the bridge, sending Ivar over the edge. He had but a moment to see the clouded sky overhead, before falling into the churning river.

-------------------------------

The calm quiet of the glade was an illusion. The plush green moss underfoot, the soft rushing of the river, the clear blue sky. By all accounts, it was a peaceful day. But the muddied red river and corpses along the banks betrayed that notion.

A lone figure picked through the woods, a piebald horse trailing after her a few paces behind. She laughed as the horse would pause to chomp at the occasional green leaf. The horse would toss his head, annoyed, when she would urge him forward with a click of her tongue. He would take his revenge by nibbling at her chestnut brown hair in defiance. Legs encased in sturdy leather leggings, her torso covered by a thick band topped with animal fur. Her boots were soft and pliant; she didn't make a sound as she scanned the grounds for various plants.

She paused when coming upon the bloody scene. She hitched her herb basket higher up on her back before squatting to inspect the closest body. The chain mail and metalwork of his armor pointed to a soldier of Lord Aldrich. She curled her lip in distaste; she had run-ins with his men before. Her family was not welcome to the ‘civilized’ English. She scavenged his corpse, searching for anything of use. When she found nothing, she moved on to the next. The leather armor was similar to what her people wore but thicker and heavy with metal studs. These men were not her kin, nor Alrich’s. They were someone new.

While towns did not appeal to her, they were a great source of news. She heard the whispers of the elders, as they discussed the possible allies or enemies. Northmen, they were called. The heathen monsters from across the sea; known for pillaging, killing, wearing their enemies blood like warpaint. Something most parents would tell children to frighten them to stay close to home. Much like the tales that surrounded her kin. But this scene proved they were human and bled, like all men.

She made her way to each of the bodies, picking over each one. She found very little, refusing to take any of the adornments of the unknown warriors. If they were fighting with her clan’s enemies, they deserved the courtesy of not being picked over like carrion. She found a dagger tucked into a waterlogged belt. It was well made and would be easy for her to wield. She stood and brushed off her knees, not wanting to linger when a groan caught her attention. Brandishing the purloined knife, her eyes darted around to find the source.

As the groan reverberated again, she pinpointed its source to a fallen log. The enormous oak was half-submerged under the river. The tree's limbs acted like a sieve to catch anything in the river’s current. Wedged in the branches was a body. Curiosity winning out against sense, the woman wadded into the water, following the sound. She tossed the debris aside, revealing a young man, pale but breathing. He had blood clotting at his temple and a nasty gash on his shoulder. He wasn’t one of Aldrich’s men that was certain. His braided hair was decorated with beadwork and his armor matching that of the Northmen. She kneeled, the cold water lapping at her thighs, and reached out to trace his brow. He was young, no wrinkles but a few silvery white scars spaced apart on his skin, most likely from battle. He was a handsome sort, and no doubt a person of importance, if his stylized armor was to go by. She was so focused on her appraisal that she didn’t see him move until it was too late.

Pain shot up her arm, her wrist held in a bruising grip.

“Hvem er du?” his voice growled out.

Although his language was unfamiliar, his gravel-toned voice made her shudder. His forceful tone and his grip were intimidating, but the bright blue eyes staring drew her in. Steeling herself, she wrenched her wrist away and reached for the dagger at her waist. The warrior was quicker and had her dagger against her throat in a flash.

“Hvem er du!” he yelled, the blade demanding against her skin. He trembled and blinked, his eyes unfocusing. He was weak and close to falling unconscious again.

She leaned into the blade, the metal cutting her flesh. He stared at the blood trickling down her next, before bringing his piercing blue eyes back to hers.

“Elda,” she introduced, taking the knife from his weakening grip and putting his hand on her chest.

“Ivar,” he mumbled before his head lolled forward. Elda stood up, tucking the knife back into her waistband. He was strong, that was certain. And if half of his men were as strong as he, perhaps her family’s future would not be so bleak. Decision made, she whistled, and her horse plodded closer, whinnying at his owner.

“Come closer Paega, you coward. I’m not carrying this man back to the hut alone.” He tossed his mane and snorted.

“Fine,” she huffed, hefting Ivar as well as she was able. He was heavier than she expected, his upper body strong under his leathers. She clicked her tongue at her horse, and he kneeled, allowing Elda to drape the man over his back. Paega straightened up, dancing a bit in place to get used to the weight on his back.

“Come on now boy, let’s get back home.”

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The trek back to her camp took Elda longer than anticipated. While Paega had a smooth gait, picking through the woods caused the rouncey to stumble at times. She tried to take it slow so as to not aggravate the Northman’s injuries. She would be disappointed if he died after the trouble of getting him out of the river.

Elda crested a hill and breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of her camp. The wood and thatched roof were modest, but it was hers. The small hut was nestled in a glade surrounded by rocky outcroppings. It had some supplies and a lean-to barn for Paega. The hut itself was sparse, a single room with only one wall. But it was enough for her when she was away from home and needed a safe refuge.

The young woman was able to get Ivar inside with some effort, with Paega all but dumping the Northman onto the wood. After his victorious delivery, the chestnut horse busied himself with a bucket of hay.

The brunette stretched, her back sore from hauling the unconscious man across her threshold. For now, Ivar lay on a bedroll fashioned from furs. Elda collected supplies, herbs, and clean linen dressings and a bowl of water. She arranged them next to the bedroll. The next step would be to undress him. Elda knelt next to his prone form, her fingers attempting to undo all the buckles and straps. She eyed the strange metal skeleton encasing his legs but passed on trying to figure it out. His shoulder was the priority. Each layer she set aside until skin slick with blood revealed itself.

Ivar wasn’t the first man or boy she’d seen shirtless. Her skills as a healer had her seeing many people at stages of undress. Ivar was no boy. His upper body was all sinewy muscles and scattered scars. Elda allowed herself a moment to gaze at the ink adorning his shoulders, wondering what deeds he had completed to earn them or if he had more. Shaking her head, she turned her attention to the gash on his arm. It spanned his bicep to his shoulder, deep, but not fatal. The blood loss combined with the cold water of the river led to his current state. She cleaned the wound, first with water to wash away any dirt, and then again with an herbal rinse. If it was painful, only the slightest twitch from her charge betrayed that. Needle and thread in hand, she closed the angry wound with even, small stitches. It would scar, but what was another in his already impressive collection. Ivar grunted in his delirium and opened his eyes.

He panicked sluggishly, attempting to push Elda away.

“Stop Ivar,” she chided, pushing his arm back down with a firm hand. Even in his state, he was almost strong enough to toss her aside. Elda braced his head and brought an earthenware bowl to his lips, water for his parched mouth. He slurped at the bowl, causing him to cough when he took too much. She pulled the bowl from his mouth, even though he groaned in disappointment.

A poultice was next, fresh cloth steeped in warm water and herbs. Goldenrod to stop the bleeding. Garlic to prevent infection. Feverfew to keep him from falling to fever. With the remedy placed on his arm, and then wrapped tight, Elda turned her trained eyes on the rest of him. The gash on his temple was superficial but she cleaned and treated it nonetheless. Ivar watched her through half-lidded eyes, not trusting Elda. She didn’t see any more wounds aside from a few scrapes and bruises on his top half, so she reached for his legs.

“No!” he half roared/half slurred, sitting up to push her hands away. Elda jerked at his outburst, knocking over her bowl. The bloody water splashed across the wood, soaking into the furs. She cursed and stood up.

“Ungrateful ass!” Elda couldn’t help the irritation coloring her tone. She gathered her supplies as Ivar groaned, clutching his shoulder.

“Lay still, else you will undo all of my hard work. And I refuse to stitch you up again,” she said, pushing the stubborn warrior back down. He grunted but allowed Elda to arrange the bedding.

Within moments, Ivar seemed to either fall asleep or unconscious. To be fair, she normally wouldn’t care, he wasn't one of her people. But the elders had a vested interest in the Northmen. After all, the enemy of their enemy is their friend. Or at least their potential ally. She stood and walked to Paega who had finished his meal and nibbled at her pants looking for more.

She laughed, feeling some of the tension leave her shoulders. Paega was a gift from her father when he realized he couldn't stop her wandering. A sure-footed horse to help her escape should she run into trouble. Over the years, Paega had become her constant companion, seeming to know what she was feeling.

“Is this a foolish idea sweet boy?” she asked the horse, who nickered in response. Elda stroked his nose, the velvety skin of his nose soft against her hands.

Now all she had to do was get her charge to Valkwind without running into Lord Alrich’s men. Or any Northmen who might take offense to her holding one of their own. She could only hope that he would be less combative once the fog of battle waned.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ivar awoke with a start and immediately reached for his weapon, which was not at his side. He was without a shirt and winced when his shoulder pulled. He touched the bandages wrapped around his arm, sniffing the herbal scent wafted from it. The wound was stiff, but not burning with infection. The hovel he was in was little more than a lean-to with a single wall and a raised wooden floor of rough-hewn wood. There were few supplies stashed in boxes or hanging from the roof.

His legs seemed a bit sore, but that was common. However, his leg braces showed damage. He didn’t remember much after catching the blow to his arm, but he remembered falling into the water. The metal was bent in a few places, snapped in others. Ivar cursed under his breath. He wasn't sure if they would hold if he stood, or if they'd crumble under his weight.

A movement to his left drew his attention, and he saw a brown and white horse nosing at some of the hanging herbs.

“Paega!�� a feminine voice scolded the horse. A young woman with a pheasant in one hand and a bow around her chest. The horse seemed immune to the chastisement and took a leaf in defiance. The woman grumbled something in a language Ivar didn’t understand but patted the horse's neck. Ivar followed her every move, watching for any sign of aggression. His hands flexed, wishing he had a weapon in his grasp.

“This north man believes me to be an enemy. Surely he’s noticed I have bandaged his wounds,” she said to the horse, turning her gaze to Ivar. While she was speaking English, her accent betrayed the fact it wasn't her first language.

“Who are you?” he asked. The woman tilted her head at his use of English and smiled.

“I am sure that I answered that yesterday, Ivar,” she said, with mirth in her eyes. He frowned at her flippant attitude. Did she know who she was addressing?

“To remind you, my name is Elda,” she introduced with a little bow. Ivar bristled. Was she mocking him?

“Where are my men? Where am I?”

“The alive ones, I do not know. The dead ones, several leagues to the south. It is where I found you, after all. Half-dead. Gratitude would be appropriate,” Elda said with a nod to his shoulder. She took a seat at the edge of the hut and began plucking the feathers with efficient movements. Instead of thanking her, Ivar huffed and reached for his shirt. He twisted his body to reach it and did not see her eyes widen at the design inked on his back.

“You will take me back to my camp,” he ordered, pulling the shirt over his head with a wince.

“I will not,” she retorted, continuing her plucking. “I do not know where your camp is located, nor do I wish to run into Aldrich’s men.”

At the mention of his enemy, Ivar studied the woman. She didn’t seem like the typical English woman. No long swishing skirts, her hair wasn't coiffed but pulled into a loose braid. He admired the way her leather leggings clung to her hips. Elda reminded him of a shield maiden of his people, but less refined. She wore no gold adornments, her few pieces of jewelry made of polished stones or carved bone.

“Aldrich is lord of these lands, yet you speak his name with contempt,” he said, zeroing in on the knife at her hip. If he could get it away from her, he could make his way back to his men. He did not relish losing his command to his brothers.

“Lord of these lands, pah,” she said with disgust. “My people have been here for generations, long before Lord Aldrich deemed it his.” She pulled the last stubborn feathers out with a vicious yank and set the bird down.

“And who are your people?” he asked with veiled interest.

She looked amused at the question.

“My people? If you were to ask our enemies, we are the uncivilized heathens who spurn their ‘God’, commune with nature spirits, and snatch their children to drink their blood.”

At this Ivar grinned. Such stories were familiar, after all his reputation was similar.

“Is there truth to the stories?”

Elda smiled and pulled her knife out of its sheath. She tapped the knife against the pheasant.

“We don’t drink children’s blood. Why waste the whole child?”

Ivar laughed at her jape.

Elda methodically slid the knife through the bird's flesh, pulling the meat from the bones. Ivar had to admit, her knife skills were impressive. He could only imagine what she could do against her enemies, slicing through skin with deft precision.

She finished butchering the bird and set the knife aside. She stood up and made her way to the small cookfire outside the hut. While Elda focused on skewering the meat to cook, Ivar palmed the knife, tucking it under his sleeve. He couldn’t believe the foolishness of the woman. She had no idea who she was dealing with and her ignorance would be her downfall.

While she tended to the cookfire, Ivar formulated a plan. He would catch her off guard, and demand she take him back to the battlefield under threat of death. From there, he would be able to find his way back to his camp. He’d take her as a thrall. She had skills as a healer, and she was striking to look at. His brothers would be jealous of his captive.

Elda’s voice cut into his thoughts.

“Are you planning to use that knife before or after I finish cooking? I would ask that you wait until after I've eaten.”

Ivar looked up to see Elda watching him with a knowing grin. He bristled, angry at himself for being caught and for the smug look on her face.

“You could have killed me the moment my back was turned, yet you did not move from the bedroll. So you are waiting. For what I wonder?”

She stood up, brushing dirt off her knees.

“For me to come closer? You would not let me check your legs for injuries. Perhaps you are injured.” Elda watched Ivar for any reaction to her questions. His strange leg armor wasn’t anything she’d seen before.

“Well, Northman? Are you going to kill me? Steal my horse? Somehow find your way back to your men? Without running into Aldrich’s?” she asked, before holding a skewer just out of Ivar’s reach.

“Or you can eat, ride with me to my family, and have an ally in these lands?” She approached him and straddled his legs, kneeling on either side of his hips. Her thighs brushed his, as she kept her weight off him. She was so close, that he could drive the knife into her neck with ease. Fearless, he had to give it to her. This woman had more balls than most of his men.

Ivar clamped down on the irritation that was bubbling up at the gall of the woman. While he did not take orders from anyone, she had a point. This land was unknown to him and he was without the support of his men. It riled him to be exposed like this, armed only with the pilfered knife. And that self-satisfied smile. She knew she was his best option. Even if he did kill her, he wasn’t sure if he could even get on her horse, let alone ride it to find his camp. For now, it would be in his best interest to at least follow the strange woman’s lead. He could always kill her later if he so chose.

He spun the knife in his hand before tucking it into her belt. He ran his hand along her waist to her arm. His hand circled her wrist and he could feel her heartbeat through her pale skin. It was quick and that fact excited him. Yet as calm she seemed on the surface, she was still nervous. Ivar brought her hand up to his face and took a bite out of the skewered meat. The meat tore easily and juices ran down his chin.

“How far is it to your family’s land?”

#tpromptsachallenge #vikings fanfiction #ivar x oc #vikings ofc #ivar x ofc #ivar the boneless

51 notes · View notes

dwellordream · 3 years

Text

“It all began in the great feast halls of Norse chieftains. Viking raids started here, springing from the loyalties and friendships inspired by the drinking, eating, and gift giving. And in the halls it also ended with the distribution of the loot as gifts, laying the foundations for a new cycle of violence the next year. The warriors loved their generous chieftain who provided food and drink, entertainment, jewelry, and weapons. They were happy to give their allegiance and military prowess in return.

Although the humiliation of Europe’s powerful kingdoms, the sacking of the rich treasuries of monasteries, and the great battles between Vikings and Europeans may comprise the most spectacular and best-known events of the Viking Age, the real story of the time unfolded in the great halls of the North. They were the focal points of the early medieval geography of power in Scandinavia. Each hall was the centerpiece of its chieftain’s honor, worth, and reputation, the focus of his world, the locus of his power.

...Chieftains built halls all over northern Europe, where archaeologists have discovered the remnants of dozens, teaching us just how many warlords strove for power in early medieval Scandinavia. Each chieftain cherished his hall, built it as large and tall as he was able, had it decorated, if not with gold as on the imagined Heorot, then at least with painted wood carvings, weapons, and other embellishments.

...sturdy timber posts held up the roof, and the walls were six inches thick, made up with planks cut from ancient forests. A great hall should be a tall and impressive building. At Lejre, archaeologists conclude that the roof reached at least 10 meters. It was held up by two rows of interior posts, and also by posts in the walls, which needed to be buttressed by twenty-two raking planks on each side, 1.5 meters apart. In the middle pf the building, two sets of roof posts were omitted, creating a large interior space of some 9.5 square meters with the fire burning in the main hearth on one side.

This open space was fundamental to the political power of the Lejre chieftain. His thronelike chair, or high seat, stood here, richly decorated with wood carvings and probably paint. Scandinavian artisans during the Viking Age were capable of splendid wood carving. ...Around the chieftain, his warriors would sit on what the Beowulf poet called ‘mead-benches’, enjoying their leader’s hospitality, certainly including much mead, but also more distinguished drinks, as well as food and entertainment.

It was here that the Viking raiding bands first came together as communities of warriors under the leadership of the chieftain. Bonds of loyalty, fellowship, friendship, and blood brotherhood were established and oaths of solidarity were sworn. In the mead hall, throngs of Scandinavian warriors came together, drinking and feasting and generally having a good time. The generosity of the chieftain impressed them all deeply. As often happens when men drink together, they came away with a renewed sense of solidarity with one another and loyalty to their leader.

...The wealth that Scandinavians accumulated was put to inventive use in the political economy of the region; chieftains who gained riches gave them away to inspire friendship and loyalty in those who gratefully received the gifts. Similarly, marriage alliances, blood brotherhoods, and godparentage was used to create and strengthen morally obliging ties of allegiance between warriors and their leaders.

Each chieftain strove to build up as good and powerful a private army as possible. They therefore competed over who was the most impressive, generous, eloquent, and well-connected, and over who could give the best gifts. Such competition involved open and violent warfare among rival chieftains, in a constantly shifting kaleidoscope of unstable political constellations.

- Anders Winroth, “The Fury of the Northmen.” in The Age of the Vikings

#the age of the vikings #anders winroth #vikings #history #early middle ages #medieval

2 notes · View notes

neargaztambide · 4 years

Text

Nightmares Better than Memories

Summary: the twins, among their search for anomalies, find a chest in the middle of the forest. A chest, which is more than it appears

Words: 1.187, almost

Text made for the Stan Twins Celebration Month, idea from @thestanbros (week number three: ADVENTURE)

DISCLAIMER: this story contains graphic descriptions of violence and torture. These still have their doubts about its veracity, although they are not completely ruled out. Discretion is advised.

“Hey, Stan: have you seen this!” Ford called Stanley to see something he had found in the brush. The aforementioned went quickly, and visualized what his brother discovered: a large chest, sealed with silver clusters. “What it could be inside?” Ford asked with great curiosity towards him. In response, Stanley raised a crowbar, and said, “We won't know it until we open it.” Stan approached and without hesitation, began to forcing to open the chest. However, it seemed to be difficult to open it. -I-it's stuck. C’mon, gimme a hand.” Ford approached him, and they both pried. Little by little, they made that chest opening.

They didn’t notice it, but a black smoke began to spread between the opening of the crowbar and the lid. “C’mon, c’mon… just a bit” Both men had to use all their strength to open it, with a lot of difficulty. From one second to the next, the chest finally was open. The lid broke, falling heavily to the ground. The smoke, the menacing smoke shot up into the sky like fireworks. The crowbar fell because both brothers covered their ears when hearing such horrible screams. Heartrending screams of a thousand and one voices attacked their ears, horribly and without stopping. The smoke quickly became a small hurricane. The leaves, the trees, and everything in their vicinity began to swirl. They both felt their feet float, rise from the great storm they left...

There was a pouring rain in the middle of the forest, in the middle of the night. One of the twins, Ford, was awakened by the icy drops of water, and by a lightning bolt that was heard listening to many meters. The man, dizzy, got up. He thought he had been knocked unconscious by the smoke, and that hours had passed. “S-Stanley?” Ford called weakly to his brother. He tried to search through the dark to no avail. He was in a shallow pit of earth, and he climbed, removing the mud, straining. Scratching the wet earth and using his nails as he could. He reached the end, just to hear a cry for help: “Ford! Ford, where are ‘ya?!” The screams of his brother ignited the alarms of danger in his mind, causing him to run away and also, stumbling in the mud when he rummaged in his pocket for his Lantern. “Stanley! Don’t worry, resist just a while!”

The fear, the uncertainty, the constant escalation of stress when not finding his brother, but only weeds, but not his brother, get Stanford to the fullest fear, the fullest horror on his recent months of life. “Stan, talk to...!” A scream interrupted him. It came from behind. A man lunged at him, at which Stanford drew his pistol, and seeing that the man was armed, he didn’t hesitate to shoot. That guy was pushed back, the flash put up more light, along with the explosion of the gun. He fell heavily to the ground, and Stanford pointed the flashlight at the man... his soul, his sigh showed his utter horror: a man with blue eyes and recently emptied of life, a white, blond face, and clothes made of pressed wool, skins of different beasts and leather. And where in the world where they when they found the chest, what was the last place they decided to visit? Scotland. There was only one village who dressed like that, who were inhabitants of Scotland and northern Europe, the most vorpal people for their torture and sacrifices: the morbid Vikings.

“Stanley, you have to run away from ‘ere! RUN!” That's when despair finally possessed the older brother, running and searching. He was running and hurting himself with the branches of the trees, not caring about that: the only thing that interested him was protecting him, taking care of him, saving Stanley from whatever those monsters could do to him. After so much persecution, Ford heard, among all that, voices that spoke in an understandable language. “Stanley.” Ford went to that address. His flashlight stopped working in the pouring rain. His only guide was audition. He searched, he tried to see through his ears those strange voices that may be his brother's downfall, and yet, it may also be the means to save him. “Ford? Ford, please help...!” Something stilled his voice. That meant it could be serious. Ford tried to fight through the darkness. He was able to get there, hearing the voices more clearly. From among the trees, he could make out that there were a few bonfires, lights, which made the vision somewhat easier. Hidden among the trees, Ford saw Stan being dragged. He writhed as best he could, dirtying his bare chest and muddy arms. He was gagged by what Stanford thought was a piece of leather. The Vikings looked wild and menacing. Among one of them, one with deer horns appeared on his hood, and his face was hidden by its shadow. Ford saw that bonfires could more or less be protected by makeshift roofs made of leaves and leather. Stanley was raised by one of the Vikings. Lightning struck the ground, producing more light. Right there, something that that ray, maybe in a heavenly way, could show a body for a few seconds.

youtube

It was from a man. Tall and Stanford could see that the decomposition process was already taking effect in the abdomen and hip area, showing holes in putrefying meat. His face was not covered, so his eyes showed that if they were so open, it seemed that they were going to come out of their sockets. The rest of his features showed that he had died from lack of blood, due to his terrible paleness and other symptoms. Ford looked down after checking his hands, which were hanging from strong ropes. Between his back, there were two stretches of skin that spread like wings, attached also with ropes. Right in all the area of the rachis, and among all that, already backlit, there were some lines, which must have been… the ribs. On the shoulders, the victim's lungs hung. The sacrifice to some pagan god -perhaps to Valravn, or to the Vættir, or to something else- was through such a visceral way of dying. The Vikings were going to do the same to him. The same horrible form of torture. Even some whispered a song that in Stanford's ears was almost diabolical because of the deep and broken voice.

[Concept Art from Hellblade: Senua´s Sacrifice]

He didn't think what he did: he acted the way the Vikings acted: like beasts. That's the instinct of a beast: threaten it, and it will rip your throat out. He pulled out his gun and started shooting at those monsters. He couldn't, he didn't want those savages to hurt him. He couldn't allow it. They saw it, just like Stan: the Northmen thought they were being attacked by a strange hermit who cast magic by his fingers. Ford quickly went to Stan, lifting him off the ground and protecting him at all costs.

Stan finally spat out the leather and warned his twin about the Vikings coming after them. One took the other to flee: they could not finish everyone without ending up seriously injured. They ran to flee. They were looking for a way out of that nightmare. The Northmen were chasing them, looking for them and shouting unintelligible things. It was all just confusing. “Ford, run, run!” “Don't leave me, do you understand?!” Ford continually hit his headlight to turn it on. He had an idea to run away: if the chest got them into that, the chest would also get them out.

The two of them hid behind some trees, causing the Vikings to finally lose sight of them. They crouched down to try to go unnoticed. “I'm fine. You?” Stan is completely unaware, since he lost his glasses and couldn’t see anything; just a blurred darkness. “I think we should go for the chest... it's the only thing that came to my...” Something came from the darkness... Stanley couldn't see it, but Ford did: it was a horse that walked calmly despite the pouring rain. “Ford, there’s somethin’? What’s that noise?” On top of the horse, there was a fatal figure by its black cape and its long cane. Ford didn't know who that guy was, until he turned his face toward them, making a star-like glow appear where the right eye has to appear. He, still looking at them, used his stick to point something towards his back. The two brothers stared at the mysterious apparition, who then looked ahead again, and his horse walked slowly. Stan felt something strange about that creature: it seemed to have more than four legs. Ford followed the figure until it disappeared into the darkness. “I think I know where we’ve to go...” whispered Stanford, helping to lift Stan up (he didn't need help, but he didn't want to part with him). They both headed in the direction the shadow pointed them. Behind them, something sounded: a wake-up call from one of the Northmen. “Oh, fuck!” Ford shouts and hurried to Stan. The Vikings trooped after them, yelling and almost beating them.

They crossed even more branches, almost stumbled through the mud; the relentless rain tormented them with its cold that froze them to the bone. In a few minutes, and both falling near a strange stone, they looked back: they could make out the menacing shadows that were already reaching them. Stan felt the stone, and saw that it was indeed the chest. “Sixer, it’s here!” Both were being seized with fear, they were going to get closer! Stan shook the chest, vainly trying to get the chest to transport them again. “C’mon, just do it!” Stan gave the chest a good blow, and it, without either of them touching it, began to exude the same smoke. They both felt it as a hot, a burning sensation.

The two of them came out driven by that smoke. They seemed to be turning hands, gripping them tightly. The men from the north couldn't see it, but the cufflinks were stretched like a garter that swirled into the chest.

Ford felt he was flying, thrown into the unknown... until he fell into something hard called ground. Stan also fell next to him. They were both breathing hard, and looked up. The lid was decoupled from the hinges, but black smoke gripped the lid and snapped it back into place, sealing the chest tightly.

“Are you okay?” Ford asked his twin. “I'm just gonna say one thing” Stan stared at the sky, tired, but not exhausted of humor: “: I don't wanna to know ‘bout treasures or chests... got it?” “... got it...” Stanford smiled, about to laugh at outbursts of nerves and relief: they had narrowly escaped. Stan followed him. “Wanna go to Stan ‘O War” “Sure…”

#thestansbros #STAN TWINS #stan twins event #northmen #eagle of blood #Stanley Pines #stanford pines #week 3: adventure #vikings #torture #reblog #My writing

29 notes · View notes

the-fox-knows · 4 years

Text

‘I’ll Tell You a Story’

Mustn’t Linger at Crossroads (1)

What were the words of an old wives tale? Simmering magic behind an ancient veil. A land so steeped in legend and myth, it is little wonder when things go amiss.

The low sky, laden with swollen clouds, had effectively obscured the sun and any chance of continuing with a picnic four young women were desperately clinging to; four Americans on holiday in Scotland, underestimating the dreach weather, and in various stages of bowing down to the superior forces of Mother Nature. The last to submit had her face turned to the sky, squinting up at the looming clouds, an expectant quirk to her lips as she waited for that first drop to splash somewhere on her skin.

“Molly! Stop daydreaming and help pack this up. I don’t want the whicker to get wet!”

Snapping her eyes back to her friends, she lurched to her feet and wordlessly began folding the blanket her bum had been holding hostage. A smile lingered hiding behind her curtain of hair, giving away her amusement at their frantic behavior. This was the quartets fifth day in the country and the first afternoon that had promised improved weather for their little outing. Molly couldn’t say she was surprised by the speedy return of rainclouds, though, was the only one willing to meet them. Outnumbered in less than a second, she gave into their squawking, though, had her thoughts elsewhere as they packed the car up just as the first drizzle was unleashed.

“You go on ahead,” Molly told her friends, pulling out her umbrella and opening it with a flourish. Their plans consisted of heading back to the B&B they were staying at, but Molly was just a bit sick with cabin fever and had one or two things she wanted to poke around before returning.

“What? It’s raining. Where are you going?” Ellie demanded, closing the trunk and hurrying to the passenger side.

“I’m not ready to come back yet. Need to stretch my legs,” Molly explained, keeping it brief.

“But it’s raining,” Cathy insisted from behind the wheel, reiterating Ellie’s point.

“I have my umbrella, besides it’s a ten minute walk to the B&B. I won’t be long,” she assured with a smile and a nod.

“Oh, let’s just leave her. You know we won’t talk her out of it,” Gracie hollered from the back, eager to be off the roads. Out of the four, she was the biggest worrywart and would likely as not be the one biting her nails until Molly walked through the doors to their rooms. As it was, she could only concern herself with one thing at a time, and presently the rain was getting heavier, plunking off the roof of the car.

Cathy and Ellie gave Molly a final, appraising look, before having to agree with Gracie.

“Just don’t go off the paths and – oh, is your phone charged? Do you have a signal?”

“Yes and yes,” Molly answered without checking. “I will stay on the paths, look both ways before crossing, and I’ll make sure not to talk to any strangers. Happy?”

Ellie grumbled. “Fine, but if you’re not back within the hour Scotland’s going to have three stereotypical Americans on their hands who won’t shut up until they find their friend. So for the sake of our motherland’s reputation – don’t daydream!”

Laughing, Molly shooed away their concerns, waving fondly until their little rented car dipped into a valley, vanishing from sight.

Free to explore, Molly thought giddily.

At a much slower pace than the automobile she sloshed her way down the road making sure to hit every puddle until the denim of her jeans were beyond damp and murky water could be felt sliding down the inside of her wellies. She twirled her umbrella over her shoulder, humming ‘Singin’ in the Rain’ to herself as the flat land around her held the tempting invitation to drop her umbrella and just run until she couldn’t – to throw caution to the wind and indulge even further into her reckless nature.

She wanted to see everything that could possibly be seen on this trip, to soak up as much as the culture and folk lore as possible. In a week’s time they’d be journeying even further north to the Highlands, something she was particularly excited about. Snapshots she’d seen of the rugged land spoke directly to her romantic imagination and the raw mountains with hints of mossy green, she felt sure, would easily fulfill her desire for adventure. She gave a rueful chuckle at her friends’ expense as she thought of the near future and how many times she planned on giving them the slip. Her endurance for new experiences far outpaced theirs.

For now, they were staying in a seaside chalet in Dunbar, overlooking a glorious stretch of beach with a walk that was part of John Muir Park. It was to this strip of sand she was headed. The rain was tolerable; no threat of lightening as of yet, and the desire to stand on the beach and be eye-level with the stormy waves, the sea-breeze filling her lungs, sounded like the perfect cure for cabin fever.

The beach was deserted, forcing Molly to momentarily doubt the sanity of her notions, but then the drizzle sputtered into a few week drops, and she felt it safe enough to continue. The tide was low, stretching back so that the glistening sand seemed to extend for miles before meeting the white foam. Slipping out of her wellies, Molly toed the sand, imprinting her feet in the cooling ground. She stood in the space between high and low tide, looking out towards the horizon in easy meditation, the natural rhythm lulling her into a deep serenity so that time was forgotten. Her mind turned to the legends of natural in-between points: cross-roads; the gloaming hours of dawn and twilight, not quite day nor yet night; the stretch of sand between high and low tide.

Eventually, the drizzle resumed, though turned stronger this time, and Molly was forced out of her reverie. Unconsciously, she had allowed her umbrella to droop to the side, and now straightened it above her head once more. Checking her phone she read the time as being half past two, and if she were to follow her friend’s warning about time she had only eight minutes to return before Scotland would be plagued with a headache.

Chuckling to herself Molly cast a final glance at the sea before turning her back towards it.

Missed by her roving gaze, however, was a speck on the horizon. Smaller than a dot, yet moving swiftly towards the shore, its wooden body soon loomed clear as the men waiting within watched the ever approaching beach with war-lust in their eyes. The metal of their weapons were dull under the foreboding sky, yet they received the fall of the rain with a low pattering that thrummed pervasively on the hull of the longboat. Out of the scores of men, only one stood with the outward appearance of patience. His glance held a spark of wisdom missed by the others as he prepared himself to once again meet the somewhat familiar land of the Christians.

. . .

It had been quick. The tolling bells had eerily fallen silent all too quickly when the monks ringing them had been relieved of their heads. The monastery sacked, the town pillaged; young men who were no more than farmers or apprentices bravely stood their ground against the invading forces only to be cut down with a ferocity and cruelty undeserved. The passionate actions of the berserkers were dispassionate in their execution. There was no thought, no mercy, only the blood-lust that they entreated to take hold of their mind when rampaging. The women faced depredations hitherto unknown to them as they no longer had their men folk to protect them. Their screams related the horrors of the North-Men far better than any round church bell could.

Undisturbed by this red backdrop, Ragnar Lothbrok walked slowly down what had only recently been an aisle of the church. The wooden benches now overturned, cut, chipped, and strewn alongside the bodies that had fallen atop them. The sight did nothing to upset the marauder, though unlike the rest, it did not make him revel either.

His steps were firm, but questing. He had no predestined location that he sought, only to gather all that he could to learn more of this new world. Past a ruined door that led to an ante-chamber, he found more bodies slumped over slanted desks; their life’s blood mingling with the colorful ink on the illuminated pages.

Recognizing these monks as being similar to Athelstan, Ragnar flicked a curious glance towards the ruined pages, his gaze running over the unintelligible scripts. In terms of value, these sheets were worthless to him, even less to Earl Haraldson. He may not understand the lines that marked out a language, but he knew that they were filled with nothing but the Christian G-d. Still, there was an undeniable twitch in his hand that impulsively snatched at the most unspoiled parchment.

The yearning for knowledge, no matter its source, was a more powerful inducement than the finest of kings’ hoards.

. . .

It was not long before the treasures; the gold crosses and platters, the silver goblets and candleholders were accounted for and brought excitedly to the proud serpent’s head rising from the water. The lapping waves caressed the hull, only to turn to erratic splashing when the tread of the Northmen disturbed the shallow depths as they distributed their goods throughout the boat. The rain had ceased early on in their raid. Their talk was disconnected from the carnage they’d delivered to the town; happy and boasting of the fine things they would get for themselves and their women once returned. The honor that would come to them as their riches increased; as they had no doubt it would, seeing how bountiful this land to the west was proving to be.

Ragnar stood back from this talk, both physically and figuratively. His ambitions were perhaps more far-reaching than those on the beach, yet his wits were sharper. Earl Haraldson was much on his mind of late. Ragnar had drawn the board and now the moves must be played by himself and those involved – whatever the consequences.

The land he stood on was rich, richer than mere jewels and trinkets - it was a land of wealth. Tillable soil, hardy animals, weather not so unforgiving as the climes of his homeland. Yes, he thought, his narrowed gaze taking in the sprawling promise, the flash of his eyes striking against the brown of his skin. Yes, there are riches to be had here.

Movement caught his notice breaking the spell he was weaving for himself. There was a flash of red between the green foliage of the trees that grew on the far reaches of the beach.

Cautiously stepping forward Ragnar paid a quick glance over his shoulder to the men by the boat. He was unobserved by them. Looking back to the trees he tilted his head, his eyes roving for a sign of a threat while he unobtrusively tightened his grip on his axe.

Flicking his gaze back and forth, Ragnar entered the first line of trees. He could hear the person’s tread now - quick and careless. At first they seemed to be marching away from him, however, a few seconds later had them returning in an indirect route. They changed course for a third time, and Ragnar found himself intrigued.

On silent feet he followed the noise, his grip no longer so intense on the handle of his axe. Low murmuring soon joined the footfalls, then, what sounded like an exceedingly frustrated grunt. There was a feminine lilt to the aggravated noise, and Ragnar quickened his steps until he saw a woman crashing through the trees away from him, only to change course as if she didn’t know which direction was hers.

Sidling up to a large trunk he watched her unseen.

Her raiment piqued his interest, as did the implement she was currently wringing in her hands. The curved end was intriguing, though, with a raking gaze, Ragnar determined its dullness, therefore it’s uselessness as a weapon. The satchel at her side was more promising of finding something of interest. His head was tilted curiously, his breathing quiet as he observed the woman’s ill contained hysterics.

She did not belong to the town they’d just sacked, he was sure of it, though he had nothing to base it on other than an educated summation.

Cocking an ear, he heard her distressed murmurs catching on barley contained sobs. There was a foreign lilt to her undertones, alas, ere he could distinguish the tongue, her reckless ambling began taking her further away from him.

As a shadow, he trailed her, pursuing her with a hunter’s instincts. Unknowingly, she made it easy for him.

She branched off a few times in opposing directions, displaying clearly that she was as much a stranger in these parts as Ragnar was. Several times he had looked back over his shoulder contemplating the distance he was risking by plunging deeper into these foreign woods. It was when he desired to go no further - and was entirely confident that this woman was alone - that he slipped from the concealment obtained from the woods and let himself be seen.

He anticipated her change of heart a second before she made it and was there to catch her startled gaze the moment she spun on her heels to retrace her steps.

Immediately she froze; a stifled gasp swallowed quickly in the back of her throat. Almost imperceptibly her fingers tightened around her strange device as her eyes darted over his appearance. At his side, his axe still had flecks of blood from spots he had missed in his initial wipe of the weapon, and he was sure splattered red ornamented his face and clothed chest. A slow smile tugged at his lips bearing an overwhelming resemblance to something feral as he enjoyed her eyes on him.

“You are a stranger?” he poised it as a question, though his tone was indicative of knowing the answer.

The woman’s eyes snapped back to his from where they had been staring at the lethal array of weapons strapped to his belt. Slowly, she shook her head, voicing a stuttered response in a language unfamiliar to him. He did not doubt her authenticity, though, immediately his interest was piqued even further. A new language meant a new land, a new land meant new riches, and new riches held the tantalizing treasure of more knowledge.

In mere seconds a plan had formulated.

The woman still stood frozen, like prey who knew they were caught yet clung to the hope that if they drew little attention to themselves they’d rediscover their freedom.

“I have a proposition for you,” Ragnar began in a tone of voice that might have been interpreted as mocking in his overt congeniality. It was clear she didn’t understand him, if the desperate shaking of her head was anything to go by. And which only intensified when he brought himself a step closer to her.

With a trembling step back she interrupted him speaking again in her tongue; the hitch in her voice audible.

“You will come with me,” he said, keeping pace with her, never quickening his step in a terrifying show of unconcerned victory. He had her, and both knew it. She stumbled away regardless, tripping on her own feet as she was unwilling to turn her back towards him. The useless implement she held she began defensively brandishing when his eyes glinted.

“There is a story to your presence, and I would have it; a meaning to your language.” His gaze dropped to her denim-clad legs deliberately, then back to her eyes. “A reason for why you wear such tight trousers where any man may appreciate your form with little imagination.”

She spoke again, almost pleading as her footing faltered over some roots, and Ragnar deemed it time to end the cat-and-mouse game. With little effort he was before her, trapping her between his form and the solid trunk of an oak. Grasping first her wrist, he little expected the rattle to his head when the woman suddenly struck out with her odd stick and attempted to flee. His grip tightened immediately, holding her to him, as he brought her right before his nose where he proceeded to stare down at her squirming figure. Her entire body was engaged in struggling against him, tears streaming down her already wet face as he closed his large hands around both her wrists. Even then the fight persisted in her. Her fists railed against his chest, straining to break free of his hold. The curved handle of her stick proceeded to strike Ragnar in the face a couple more times before he wrenched it from her grip and flung it blindly behind him.

He was beginning to bristle at the soreness in his nose from the implement he’d initially deemed useless.

With a final attempt, the woman threw her body weight at him, knocking him only slightly off balance, though, startling him nevertheless at the move. She was able to slip her wrists from his grasp and, forgetting her stick, darted away. However, the North Man was too sharp for her. His grasping reach for her caught her round the middle, sending her crashing to the forest floor where her head collided with the hard ground; the impact rendering her unconscious.

Ragnar breathed heavily from where he fell atop her stomach and looked up to see her still form. His brow furrowed minutely until he saw the flutter of a pulse in the dip of her jaw. Taking a moment to examine her unimpeded at such proximity he decided that he had made the right choice in seeking her out. Her face agreed with him and when her eyes would be open once more he hoped to see that flare that had sparked even through her fear. Her hair fell long and tangled prettily in the grass and fallen leaves. There was no stain of blood which told Ragnar that he’d better use this time to his advantage and get her to the boat before she woke. He would investigate later into her satchel.

The others had noticed his absence, but it was Rollo who voiced their question.

“What is this?” He extended his chin to motion at the woman slung over his brother’s shoulder.

A few appraising eyes scanned her drooping body as they continued loading the last of their treasures and slaves into the long boat.

“A woman,” Ragnar answered broadly, splashing into the sea, walking towards their vessel home. Rollo huffed in irritation at the deflection; he followed after.

“What is she doing here?”

“Presently? She is unconscious.” He turned to give Rollo a half-smile. “She was not an easy catch.”

“Why are you bringing her? We already have many slaves. She will be an extra mouth to feed.” Briefly, his eyes roved over her raised derrière, taking in the shapely cut of her legs on display.

“Is that your only complaint against her coming?”

“It matters little to me which creature you decide to plow, only don’t let your cock decide who has the smaller ration.”

Ragnar swung into the boat with a little difficulty due to the woman, but when his feet were solidly on the deck of the boat, the woman slumped in front of him against the side, he looked down at his brother.

“Your proficiency with words, brother, leaves little to the imagination. There will be no shortages of food,” he assured before hauling the woman back up and bringing her farther down the boat, effectively winning the argument.

Rollo spit into the sea, watching his brother’s back a moment longer. He finally turned away with an unpleasant twitch to his lip, as the last of the load was brought on board and the Vikings cast off.

. . .

The first thing Molly was aware of was a nauseating dip and rise that moved her body, and which made her spinning head that much more unbearable. Her eyes were shut still, and she decided to let them remain as a shield against an unfamiliar scene. The sounds engulfing her were foreign and baffling. The voices of men speaking in a different language rang left and right of her, while the rushing song of the sea made clear why she was experiencing vertigo. A cool sea spray tickled her cheek causing her to flinch.

Her head was lowered, her chin nearly touching her chest, and she felt a soreness at the back of her neck from being bent so. The throbbing on the side of her skull, however, outweighed any of her other discomforts.

Molly remembered falling; remembered the man who’d appeared out of nowhere, interrupting her hysterical hike through the forest.

Upon quitting the shore with the mind of returning to her friends, Molly underwent a transformative experience of confusion, denial, anger, then raw fear when the horrid screams had pierced the stifling quiet. It was then that she heard the distant crash and clang of metal, of fearsome roars that she instinctively knew no animal emitted. In her turmoil and desperation to get away from whatever violence was taking place, and to somehow return to something she knew, Molly had lost her way in the trees. The broad trunks soon turned maze-like, only increasing her panic and seeping away any vestiges of rational thinking she might have had at her disposal.

It hardly mattered when the screaming stopped. The screaming had happened, and she prayed that whatever had caused such anguished cries would miss her entirely. Interestingly, she felt guilty at feeling no guilt in wanting to help in whatever crises had just occurred. Without even seeing what evil had befallen, she knew she was out of her depth and possibly a bit mad. When she’d first climbed the path of the cliffs that lead to the B&B she’d found nothing. No lodgings and no town; as if it had never been.

When he appeared, when she turned and found herself face to face with a heavily armored man, visible blood flecked on his clothes, his face, and disturbingly on the blade of his axe, she felt a numbing that nearly threatened immobility.

Where was he now, Molly wondered?

A tall wave rocked her and the boat close to upright, and her fear, which seemed endless this day, compelled her to scream in horror at the reality of her situation. She strangled the impulse with a low whimper, one that was drowned out by all the other noises, and forced herself to remain quiet.

He’d kidnapped her! And with that little understanding it was all she needed to know that she had to get away – even if it meant succumbing to the ocean. A known fate, even fatal, was preferable to the unknown horrors that lay in wait.

With the seed of intention planted firmly in her mind, beating back the fear that had consumed her was easier with the prospect of action. Slowly, Molly cracked open her eyes, fluttering her lashes in tiny blinks to clear away the hazy grime coating her sight. When her vision cleared, she was grateful for the curtain her long hair provided, concealing most of her face, bowed as it was. Extending her consciousness to the rest of her body, she became aware of herself being propped up against something, her feet bent in front of her, while her unbound hands lay in her lap. Her umbrella was long gone, but she still had her bag; she felt it’s strap across her chest. Strangely, that comforted her.

It was the only chance she had. It was the only choice she had.

The men’s voices continued, and absently she heard them as she worked up her courage to spring for her freedom. She felt certain that she was against the side of the boat, therefore a leap, and quick turn would see her over the side.

Suddenly boots entered her line of vision and stopped in front of her. She squeezed her eyes shut, then forced herself to relax to allay suspicion should whoever stood before her stoop down and look. They did indeed stoop down, lowered in a crouch, and Molly felt their presence close to hers. A hand touched her head, smoothing down the side of her face until her chin was caught in their fingers; locks of her hair caught in between. Her head was forced back, exposed to the terrifying environment, and softly placed against the wood bracing the rest of her form.

Molly willed her breathing to remain even, willed her eyes to remain calmly shut.

She would escape, she thought to herself, encouraging her state of mind to take this attention as nothing more than passing. But then the wicked thought of lust poked at her; of his lust, of every man on this boat’s lust. What if that was why she’d been taken? What if they all planned on having their way with her? She was about to spring, uncaring of the hand that still cupped her face, uncaring of the dangerous timing.

She needed to escape!

She was going to!

Now!

The hand left her, and she heard him rise, the heavy tread taking him a few steps from her.

The time was now. No one was expecting it.

Molly’s eyes flew open, as she blindly turned while scrambling to her feet. Her shaking hands gripped the side of the boat, hauling herself up when she heard the first shouts of protest to her endeavors. The voices grew loud and angry, but she didn’t dare look back. Slinging her legs over in a surprisingly fluid movement, she dropped, only to feel an interruption in her fall to the lapping waves scant feet below. Gravity favored her, however, and it wasn’t until she felt the shocking cold of the sea that she realized what the hiccup had been. Allowing herself a single glance back, she saw him standing with every intention of jumping in after her, her bag clutched in his fist. But another restrained him, shouting words that the sea swallowed, while physically holding him in place. The boat maintained it’s course, speeding away from her, while Molly grit her teeth against the cold and the stinging pain of the salt water washing over her head. Her body rose with the waves, her hair sticking to her face as she pulled her eyes away from the striking boat, indicative of another time, and began paddling away. She didn’t even care that she lost her bag.

Her strokes were strong and deliberate, and to her relief, the shore was still visible. It would be the longest she’s ever swum in the ocean, but she could do it. She’d escaped her captors; she wouldn’t fail when deliverance was so close.

. . .

Ragnar stood stonily, his narrowed eyes watching the woman’s progress, his fist still gripping her satchel. His anger towards his brother was immense, despite the reason that was plain to view in Rollo’s argument. They had many slaves already, he knew. He’d been told. That was not what rankled him. It was something Rollo could not understand; something he hadn’t understood when Ragnar had protected Athelstan against his bloodlust.

There were more to these raids than violence and treasure – to him at least.

The current was in her favor, pulling her farther and farther away, until she was nothing more than a speck climbing out of the sea, straggling up the beach. Even from this distance, he saw that her gait was slow and labored, and had he had absolute command over this vessel, she’d already have been back on board and under his careful watch.

She was a slippery one. Almost begrudgingly, Ragnar had to admire her daring; the barest hint of a smile tickled the corner of his mouth, as his regret played ruefully on his mind. Now he could only imagine what secrets she had to tell; what manner of society permitted women to be dressed so tantalizingly, and if it was not her society, what circumstance had her attired so. Why it was she was so terrified, even before she’d been aware of him. And if he had discovered these things with her lips to his ear, and those legs wrapped around him, he wouldn’t have minded that either.

She was gone from the beach now, having disappeared from his gaze somewhere between the trees and the lengthening distance growing between them. Ragnar stared some minutes longer until he was certain that he could gain no further sight of her. The men’s chatter had died down after her escape, and Rollo, once he ensured his brother’s remaining on the boat, had moved away.

With a curl to his lip, Ragnar pushed away from the edge, his attention being caught by the woman’s satchel. He’d almost forgotten it in his absorbance of watching her. It’s weight was sturdy and the means of opening it occupied Ragnar longer than he anticipated, finally finding success when he tugged on the metal flap and dragged it down the teeth looking binding. He frowned at the unusual ‘zip’ sound, and greedily dipped his hand within, rummaging and pulling out the contents. Most of the items merely raised more questions, though one or two things were vaguely recognizable. There was a perfect ring of keys, the craftsmanship precise and clean and far the superior of any of their blacksmiths, as well as a book. Ragnar rifled through it’s pages eagerly, although he found nothing comparable to the works Athelstan had told him of, nor of what he had seen himself in the monasteries of the Christians. There were no colorful illuminations, only scribbles, words that maintained an elusive illegibility. Also unlike the monks’ works, there was no neatness to the script. The scratching looped and slanted, were big then small from page to page.

Skimming a hand down one of the open pages, Ragnar sought any clue as to what language he was attempting to read, yet continued to be disappointed. With a snap, he shut the book, but did not return it to the satchel as he did with the rest of her things. Resting it atop his leg, he stared down at it, his eyes mapping its corners as he projected future conversations with Athelstan about translating it for him.

He may have lost the source, but perhaps he would learn of something worth his time from the green book now in his possession.

Chapter Two →

#fanfiction #vikingfanfiction #vikings #writer #writing #ragnarlothbrok #adventure #romance #timetravel #veilsoftime #OC #ragnar/OC

2 notes · View notes

tigereyes45 · 5 years

Photo

For @tidalwaveofcats Here is your request! It’s not exactly what you asked for but I hope you enjoy all the same!

As he speaks the words, Sandor feels the regret building up. The look in her eyes slowly morphs into understanding. He thinks it is the first time he ever saw that look on Arya’s face. All those lessons all those days, and never once did she ever look at him the way she was now. Even when they thought he was dying, and she had to go. Her face was never this soft.

“Then come with me.”

“That’s not how this works,” Sandor scoffs letting go of Arya’s face.

She looks at the floor and shakes her head. “You say revenge is all that’s motivated you, but you weren’t looking for vengeance when you fought for me! When you offered to take my sister away from this awful place! You can live without killing him!” Arya shouts. Pieces of the roof fall down around them, almost as if it agreed with her.

“What would I do then, girl? Live in the North? Freeze my balls off every day angry and hateful.”

“You’ve always been hateful, but if I shouldn’t die here why should you?!”

“Because he’s my brother! Yours is waiting for you back home.”

Arya shakes her head and hugs Sandor. “I can’t go back alone.” She whispers as her arms loosen around him.

Sandor sighs and bends down so he was eye-level with her. She lets go of him only for him to now hug her. She laughs, “You really must be about to die,”

“Shut up.” He growls. He watches as the dragon flies above them. It’s fire reigning down on one of the towers. “We need to go.”

Arya’s eyes squint as she looks back at the Hound. ‘“What? I said we didn’t I?” He pushes her away before grabbing her hand. He flips around and decides that the way they came would be the safest route out.

As he leads the youngest Stark daughter out of the Red Keep he couldn’t help but reflect. Ghosts were everywhere here. Around every corner, a new scene would begin to play out before them. Where Sansa had been mocked, when Joffrey had taken her to see her father’s head. Where the imp had interrupted them. Where he had watched Petyr twist her. Where the queen had mocked her. Everywhere he looked was just another reason for him to keep running. For him to return to the cursed north. Fucking hell, why did he listen to Arya?

As they make it out of the castle all hell came down on them. The Hound pulls Arya closer as he walks them through a back alley. He pulls her along as a swarm of commoners surround them. He can feel her slipping behind as she holds his hand tighter than before. When she trips Sandor almost falls with her. He pushes the people around them away. He sets his arms under her and lifts her up. Resting Arya’s bruised head under his neck. Perhaps it was a good thing he had left with her. She would be one less ghost to haunt him. Sandor runs faster as the world comes crashing down on them. He ignores the screams of the less fortunate, and his fear of the fire only allowed him to push himself further. He would get her out of this. He feels something hit his shoulder. He tucks her head back under his neck. When his head is hit next Sandor falls. He wraps his arms around Arya’s small body as his own collapses.

When next Sandor opened his eyes he was buried under rubble. A small source of light breaking in from somewhere to his right. He tries to stand but his feet were being held down. He moves his hands only to feel Arya was still in them. Her face was clear in the light. She was covered in white ash and a bit of blood from near her shoulder. Otherwise, she seemed unharmed. He rests his own forehead against hers and listens closely.

As breath escapes from her nose he could feel his heartbeat slow. She was still alive.

“Don’t die on me yet.” He asks her he tucks her deeper into himself. He pushes his back up and towards the back. Making sure that any rubble on them would fall away instead of in front of them. A fire erupts in his shoulder as he moves it. Sandor bites his lip and growls. Arya stirs as he shakes the last of the rubble off. He looks back to see why he couldn’t move his legs. There was more brick on them than anything else.

“Stay still she-wolf.” He warns her in a low growl. He wraps one hand under her body to hold her to him. His left reaches back to tear the bricks off of him.

“S-Sandor?” Arya’s voice was quiet almost inaudible as he continues to try and dig them out.

“Shush now she-wolf. Save your strength.” He advises as his knuckles break against the bricks. He ignores the blood and keeps trying. His limbs scream out at him as every move is faster than the last. He would get them out of here. He would get them back to the North!

“Jon,” Arya whispers, and for a moment Sandor stops. He looks up to see her bastard brother was indeed there. A bit of a way down the street from them. Northmen and unsullied at his back.

“Bastard!” Sandor shouts causing the man to jump. “Snow!” He calls out this time and the Jon finally looks at him. Not just in his direction. “I’ve got the she-wolf bastard!” He shouts and now Jon as running to him. The closer he got the wider his eyes got. Just like a doe who was about to be hunted down. Sandor hated these direwolves. The women were all too fierce and the men were all does, wide-eyes and never where they were needed.

“Take the she-bitch, she needs to get out of here.” Sandor orders as Jon drops to his knees on top of the rubble next to them.

“Arya! What was she doing here?” Jon asks as he takes her from the Hound.

“Nevermind what she was doing here! Get her home!” Sandor orders as he pulls himself out of the rest of the way.

Jon looks from Arya back towards the Red Keep. His eyes squint as he puts the pieces together. “Was she in the Red Keep?”

“We were. Now move you dumb cunt.” Sandor orders as he lifts Jon up by the back of his armor. “We need to get her out of here!”

“The attacks stopped. Daenerys has won.” Jon explains as he carries Arya behind the Hound. “We can get you two into the Red Keep where the Queen is staying. Your injuries can be tended to there.”

Sandor spits to the corner and ignores the amount of blood that was in his saliva. “That queen or yours is vicious.” He looks back up towards the army marching towards the demolished Red Keep. “I’ll stay near the little wolf. Less she tries to bring another building down upon her again.”

“We didn’t know you were here. You two weren’t supposed to be here.” Jon growls back.

Sandor rolls his eyes and glares down at the bastard Snow. “Does that excuse her bringing them down upon everyone else. Because they weren’t part of your little pack?”

He looks back down at Arya in Jon’s arms. If he was better he would already have taken her back. Her head was nestled comfortably in his chest. She was finally back in the arms of her favorite brother. For once Arya seemed perfectly at peace. It pissed him off, but he knew it was best. Jon could keep her safe. Get her back North where she belongs. All he was good for was guarding her, and even when he was doing that he had lost her once and she almost died the second time.

“N-no it doesn’t but,”

Sandor growls at him before snapping out. His teeth physically jump towards Jon to silence him. He was done listening. They both needed to be seen. That was most important right now. Not whatever squabbling and nitpicking the boy had for his queen’s actions.

“Keep talking and I’ll take her back from yer scrawny ass. She needs to be looked at. Now,”

Jon instinctively moves towards his sword. Even if he was unable to pull it out with his hands full. Sandor notices and only laughed. The boy thought himself such a hero that he could take him on with the she-wolf in his grip. A fool as brave as his little sister. If not as smart. Sandor turns back around and shouts for directions to the closest medic from the unsullied.

When Sansa arrived Sandor was by Arya’s side. The young she-wolf had been up and moving within hours after the city was taken, but after her brother killed his queen she was the only Stark free in the city. So Sandor was always just a few steps behind her. Making her presence known to all. Much to the annoyance of the trained killer. She had grown to enjoy living in silence and shadows. In a way, a lumbering dog could never do.

When the red wolf arrived a few cheered. All of the Targaryen forces were grim-faced. Arya stood at the top of the stairs leading to the Red Keep to meet her sister. Ready to inform her of Danerys’ death and their brother’s imprisonment. As Sansa approaches them, Bran being carried up the steps behind her, her face told them she already knew. Sandor looks at Bran to see him give a gentle nod towards Arya. The boy had strange abilities unlike those of anyone else he had ever met. It made him feel uneasy. The only comfort was knowing that he would never dare use such abilities against his sisters. That may be the only thing keeping Sandor nearby as the three Starks reunite once again.

Sandor takes note of Arya’s apparent preoccupied attention. She kept looking past her family towards the carriages. Her brother notices as well. For once he was next to her he pulls on her sleeve and whispers in her ear. Sandor tries to listen in, but Sansa steps in between him and the youngest Starks.

“It is good to see that you lived Ser Sandor. Having realized my sister’s sudden absence was concerning. When I heard you were with her down here it relieved a bit of my anxiousness.” She smiles and it causes him to pause.

“Cut the shit, you were never worried. The she-bitch is the fiercest fighter in the Seven Kingdoms.”

Sansa smiles and for a second his ear picks up on a brief laugh. It was short but oh so sweet. “That is true. Perhaps it was someone else’s absence I felt concern from then.”

He shakes his head and holds back a laugh. “Beguiling words are your new sweet song, aye Lady Stark?” He looks back up to see the shock on her face. “Weren’t expecting that were you?”

“Nor was I expecting to find you alive, or with my little sister.” Sansa retorts as the shock fades. She returns to her stony expression, but Sandor saw the little curve of her lips. There on her, hidden under cold blue eyes, and blood red hair that outlined her face was the faintest of smiles. A smile only a dog could see. A smile just for him as her song had been once.

“Sister a council will be meeting soon now that you have arrived. Uncle and the Prince of Dorne are already there.” Arya speaks looking bewilderedly at her sister.

“Indeed, come, Bran, we should make our way to the rest.”

“They will wait. Lord Baratheon is still seeing to the horses before he comes up.”

“Well, he is new to lordship while we would have no excuse.” Sansa insists. Taking the back of her brother’s chair from a Northman. As the Hound and Arya follow the she-wolf offers a questioning glare to him.

“What she-bitch?”

“I saw that.” Arya points out accusatorily.

“Yes, I have a tongue. I talk unlike you do nowadays. Been following you for weeks now and you’ve spoken less then you did in one day of our little journey together.”

Arya rolls her eyes, and Sandor thought he was looking in a mirror for a moment. She gives Sandor a look that he can only read as a warning. Then she was walking behind her siblings. Sandor was quick to follow in her footsteps.

After the meeting, he sits on the docks watching Snow being sent off. The scene would have felt heartbreaking to many. All the Starks were finally together again after all the trauma and years that had been piled onto their backs. Now they were all being torn asunder again. Snow beyond the wall where all snow belongs. The she-wolf had already made clear her intentions to leave behind Westeros. Sandor did feel a pang upon hearing this. For some reason, he knows that whether if she means it to be permanent or not that it will be. Bran was king. A fucking cripple was king. Sandor wasn’t sure if he was the first cripple to be king but he would be the first fucking Stark to rule in King’s Landing.

And then there was Sansa. As she hugs Jon he wonders if he had ever seen her so open with anyone else. So completely herself the way she was with her family. Then he remembers that there was a time she had been. Back in King’s Landing before her father died. While Ned Stark’s name alone could still protect her. When she was free before the cage fell around her. Eventually, it had collapsed in on her. Somehow the little bird had picked herself free. Now she was returning North with a crown upon her head and no family or even a knight by her side to protect her. A lone bird with the fur of a red wolf.

As Snow departs and the Starks stroll back to shore Sandor remains seated. He had found the cold stones of the wall by the docks comfortable. After so much rubble had sat on top of him it was nice to sit on top of something that would eventually be nothing but crumpled rock and rubble. He watches the ship carrying Snow sail away as the other Starks depart and separate.

“Will you be going with her?” He doesn’t jump when the voice comes from his back. Arya had jumped out of nowhere so many times by now that he had no fear left to give.

“With who?”

“Arya. Will you be sailing West with her?” Sansa asks again to his back.

“Why does the Queen of the North want to know?”

She sits next to him on the wall. For once Sandor actually notices how much taller she had become. Her height was closer to his own now. It only reaffirmed what he already knew. What he knew as soon as he heard the news of Ramsay Bolton’s cruelty.

“She may be looking for a Queen's guard,” Sansa suggests coyly.

“What about the behemoth of the woman that was with you? The blonde from Tarth?” He asks finally looking at her. Not past her, or by her, but right at her. He allows his eyes to hover on her face. On the way, her blue eyes moved with mirth. The way her lips quiver as her breath escapes with every outtake.

“She is going to stay and become commander of the Kingsguard. So will you be joining my sister?” Sansa asks again this time meeting his gaze.

“Yes, will you be joining my sister?” Arya asks as she appears besides Sansa.

Sandor looks at her dryly. “I don’t have to join anyone. I could say fuck all and leave.” He points out. It's just barking. He knows he would never abandon them both. Not again, not with a choice.

“You won’t though.” Arya smiles as she basically voices his thoughts out loud. Sansa looks to Arya before glancing back and forth between them. Confusion evident where before she had seemed accepting.

“Aye I won’t,” Sandor admits and Sansa looks at him again. Her cold face having returned. He looks to Arya and for once felt nothing but pride.

“I’m sorry Little Wolf, but what’s out there,” he stops and looks out to the sea. “What’s out there I can’t protect you from.”

“It’s fine Sandor.” He looks up to see the Little Wolf stood in front of him. Her wound already healing up. “You’ve protected me enough.” She wraps her arms around him. Without thinking he wraps his own around her and squeezes tight. “Keep her safe for me Sandor,” Arya whispers in his ear.

“Aye.” He promises, holding her tighter. “Make sure to come back alive. Or I fucking hunt you down myself!” This time he makes his promises a little louder. Earning him a firm hand on his shoulder from the other Stark.

As Arya lets him go she dashes down the docks. Not even looking back towards them. Never even bothering to go back and say goodbye to the smith before. “She’s a cold bitch.”

“Not as cold as you may think.” Sansa corrects leaning against him.

As Sandor realizes that the smith was already on her ship, Sansa kisses his cheek. “I think you’ll grow used to the cold Sandor.”

He rests his own hand on top of hers. Presses her fingers even deeper into his shoulder. “Aye, I might.”

46 notes · View notes