Pretty please? ;)

Chapter 10 - Trial

Rating: R for this chapter, explicit overall. 18+ only, no minors.

Pairing: Harald Sigurdsson x F!Reader

Warnings: Canon-typical violence.

—

The castle guards eyed the Prince of Norway warily in the inner bailey. Puffs of warmth breath streamed steadily out of their noses, mingling with the crisp morning air. The prince stalked back and forth, like a predator, inspecting the rows of men.

No matter what Harald did, he could not ease the sense of unrest that constantly churned inside him. It was a symptom of the real illness, a grief so acute, it threatened to tear him apart.

He tried to dispense with this excess energy by training with the men of the keep. He had scarcely finished healing from the assassination attempt by the treasonous Jarls. As soon as he could life his arm, he was out in the bailey’s training yard.

Harald pointed his long-handled, bearded axe at a guard. “You. Spar with me.”

The guard let out a strangled choke. “No…no, milord. I would rather not.”

“Pity…” Harald replied, with not a bit of sincerity. “But that was not a request. Walk forth and ready yourself.”

With all the enthusiasm of approaching the gallows, the guard hefted his shield up and walked forward. While the guard took up his position, Harald shrugged off his shirt and tossed it aside. He lifted his axe and swirled his wrist, spinning the axe around in a few practiced arcs, the blade whizzing softly through the air.

The guard became acutely aware of the contrast between his full-body chainmail and Harald’s half nakedness. He cleared his throat and with extreme difficulty, managed to raise his concerns.

“Sir…milord…you are….are you… will you not wear any armor?”

Harald brought his axe close and thumbed the edge, testing its sharpness. He slid a cool glance to the nervous guard.

“I do not require any. SHEILD!”

The guard barely brought his shield up in time before Harald’s axe came crashing down. The sharp crack of iron hitting wood over and over again rang out like bells in the practice yard. Harald pummel the guard, ruthlessly advancing on the man as he stumbled back and struggled to keep his footing.

WHACK, WHACK, WHACK

Harald roared as he brought his axe down in a decisive blow, chopping the shield neatly in two. The man stumbled off, with a sort of glazed look on his face and clutching his shield arm to his chest.

Harald panted, warm breath blowing from his nostrils like a bull. He had been sparring and practicing with the guards since before dawn. Still, he could not dull the biting edge of pain that festered inside him.

Jørgen, woken by the sounds of sunrise battle, had made his way to the bailey to find his castle guard fully suited, weary, and bleary-eyed. He ambled up and stood beside Harald, his arms crossed in a relaxed manner.

“Glad to see you are taking it easy” he replied dryly.

“Heh” Harald grunted. “Your men need training. They are bloated and weak.”

“Do leave some of them standing. I would hate to suffer a siege and explain to Canute why half our men have been laid flat.”

Harald scoffed. “I mean to keep my one, natural talent sharp.”

“Being a bastard?”

Harald gave Jørgen a challenging look.

“Is that the best you can do?”

“No,” Jørgen said, with a touch of indignation. “You have a face like a donkey’s ass…?”

“That’s not insulting.”

“It is to the donkey.”

Harald rolled his eyes. Jørgen tried again.

“You have a nat’s cock?”

“Jørgen, please. ‘Tis early and I far too sober to discuss cocks” Harald replied, while shrugging his shirt back on.

“I disagree,” Jørgen’s eyes crinkling. “I find first thing in the ‘morn an excellent time to discuss a man’s cock.”

Harald worked hard to bite back a smile. He was in a glorious, foul mood and preferred it that way.

“Stop trying to cheer me up.”

“Heavens, are you in low spirits? I wake to find my castle guard leveled to rubble and you shivering, half naked save your bandages, and roaring like a kraken. I cannot fathom anything is amiss.”

When Harald deigned to reply, Jørgen tried a new angle.

“I should share some insults my wife bestows upon me. They are quite imaginative.”

Harald could not imagine Jørgen’s wife, impeccably mannered, insulting anyone at all. At least not to their face, but he was intrigued. “Go on.”

“A tiny pricked fopdoodle.”

…

“A zounderkite with two mooncalfs for parents.”

…

“A good for nothing scobberlotcher.”

Harald regarded Jørgen with a quizzical expression. “What the devil are those supposed to mean?”

“I do not know,” replied Jørgen. “Though I gathered they are not flattering. Come, join me for a meal. I’ll have the cook send up bread and ale to break our fast.”

Harald arched a suspicious eyebrow.

“Is the cook still learning to cook?”

Jørgen grimaced. “Aye, his flatbread was a wee bit flat…even for flatbread.”

“Shoe leather tastes better than what the dim-witted fool serves.”

“Have you had much experience eating shoe leather, milord?”

“Certainly many a men have tasted mine.”

Jørgen grinned and Harald’s lip curled back despite himself. Jørgen’s companionship was the only respite he found from the turmoil of his thoughts.

Harald swiped his forearm across his brow and turned, spying Canute watching the sparring from the inner bailey wall.

Jørgen and Harald gave each othering a speaking glance.

Harald tucked his axe into his belt and walked towards Canute. The king was garbed in his signature style of a black tunic, laced and bucked up the front, a dagger sheathed in his belt, and a short mantle of fox fur draped over one shoulder.

“Canute” Harald greeted the king. Canute cocked his head in amusement.

“Terrorizing the soldiers again, are we?”

Harald shrugged indifferently, his eyes sweeping over the men practicing in the busy yard. Iron clashing against iron cracked and splintered the frigid air.

“Did you wish to speak with me?” Harald asked, preferring to move straight to the point.

“Walk with me.” Canute turned to walk back inside the keep. Harald followed in step, locking his hands behind his back.

“I know you prefer to speak plainly,” Canute started. “So I shall. We need to secure you a new betrothal. Our hold over England is tenuous and your marriage to one of the northern kingdoms would make our position more secure. I have readied a few matches, preferably to Mercia, to soothe tensions after I dispatched them of their traitorous ruler.”

‘Dispatched’ was certainly one way of describing how Canute beheaded the man during a dinner celebration.

Stunned, Harald felt as if he had been doused with a bucket of cold water. His pace slowed a bit and was quiet for a moment before he spoke cautiously.

“I have a bride already, from the royal house of Sweden.”

Canute scoffed. “A child bride that ran off and is most likely dead. The contract is void, you must marry again. Only this time, to unite the great northern empires.”

Harald’s thoughts whirled with agitation. This is not what he…what they…had planned. Canute had promised to help him raise his banners and take back Norway – to tamp down the uprisings between the Christians and the pagans.

Canute schemes were becoming increasingly familiar. He had promised Harald the boy King Edmond’s head, as retribution for the massacre of his brother. Yet, he had been denied from seeking his revenge, so that Canute could instead install himself as King of England.

Then, Canute had enticed Harald to leave Norway, travel with him to his stronghold in Denmark so that he could rally banners to his cause. However, all he had done since his arrival was be a royal errand boy.

Dread swelled deep in Harald’s belly and his chest felt tight.

Now, Canute wanted to sell his hand in marriage, against his will, to some maiden in Mercia to advance Canute’s interests and not his own. Once again, he was being manipulated like a pawn in the great game of thrones.

“But what of Norway?” Harald challenged. “What of my people, fighting and killing amongst themselves? How can I restore peace in Norway if I am off bedding a bride in Mercia?”

Canute turned to face Harald fully. “We are all onepeople, Harald. We are Vikings. And my interests serve all of the empire. You will have your crown and your peace, when the time is right.”

As Canute turned and walked away, Harald had the sinking feeling that he was standing outside his life, looking in.

—

Danmǫrk.

A kingdom that is flat, wet, and devoid of natural riches. Little wonder that if the Danes wanted wealth, they must steal it, preferably from the English.

The humid air chills your bones and seeps into your skin. You feel perpetually clammy, the air heavy with a fine mist that never dries. Everything and everyone smells like dank earth and sodden wool.

You hate it here.

You had made your way on foot from town to town, seeking odd jobs where ever you could to feed yourself. The traveling was slow and people were suspicious of you. A women, clothed like a warrior and speaking with a slight accent had raised more than a few eyebrows.

You slogged on, determined to make your way to the village of Heringa, Canute’s stronghold. You prayed to every god you knew that Harald was still with the king. If he left, to seek his destiny elsewhere, you knew all hope of finding him was lost.

Heringawas a well-established market town at the top of the Jutland peninsula in northern Denmark. The town had quickly become the meeting place for the clergy, where the Christians established no less than three churches. The erection of the churches and the assembling ministry drew many people to the town. It was a prosperous city of merchants, traders, and artisans, all contributing the Canute’s strength and wealth.

You ambled aimlessly along the merchant’s town center. Rows upon rows of buildings with hay-thatched roofs and large overhangs protected barrels of wares. Tightly packed drums of apples, grains, and other harvest fruits were displayed for purchase or trade. Herds of sheep and goats strutted by, seemingly to get in everyone’s way whenever possible. The ground was thick with mud and muck. Your feet squelch with each step, sucking your leather boots in.

A fine mist had begun, turning the sky to a pewter color. You pulled your hood down over your face and focused on today’s task.

Find a way inside the castle. Find Harald.

You had no access to submit an official petition to seek an audience with the court. You also had nothing to offer by way of occupation. You were not a smithy, a cook, a carpenter or a groom.

Perhaps I could…

Your thoughts were disturbed by the angry grumble of your belly. You had precious coin left and were loath to spend it on food. Yet, you needed sustenance to maintain your strength and keep your mind sharp.

An enticing smell of freshly baked bread fought its way through the other smells of livestock and wet earth. You spied the curved, bricked roof of a bakehouse, set back from the main thoroughfare. As you approached the bakery, you fingered your shell necklace, given to you by Garrick as a winter solstice gift. It pained you to part with it, but you needed food and hoped the master baker would trade it for a few loafs.

Teams of young boys worked in unison, snaking long-handled paddles deep into the oven’s mouth to deftly turn and rotate rounds of cracked rye bread. At the same moment rounds were retrieved, a fresh batch of raw, dome-shaped blobs were thrust in. Just as you walked away from the vendor, down one shell necklace but having gained a few loaves secured in your satchel, a flurry of activity caught your eye across the market.

“No!” shrieked a young girl, no more than aged twelve, as an older man gripped her fiercely by the wrist. He squeezed hard and the girl cried out in pain, dropping the apple from her fist.

“You thieving little rat. You know what the punishment is for theft?”

The girl went quiet, silent tears of fury streamed down her reddened face. Your heart softened for the girl. She looked positively desolate. You had come to recognize the look of desperation anywhere. She wore naught but a humble shift dress of rough cloth. Too poor to afford leather, her feet were bare and wrapped around her waist was a humble rope.

The punishment for theft could be swift and severe, but given her age and the pitiful apple she was trying to swipe, she probably would spend no more than an hour or two in the town pillory. Nothing but her pride would be hurt, but still an effective punishment.

Yet, two more men came up and surrounded the girl. Your brows furrowed suspiciously. The men’s voices were too low to hear. They talked in a conspiratorial manner, with one throwing his head back and laughing. The girl still firmly gripped by the accuser, he began to drag her away –the two other men following behind.

However they were not leading the girl to the pillory, like you had thought. Instead, they were dragging her further into the bowls of the village, to a back alleyway out of sight and earshot.

Forgetting all about your breakfast, you took off. Head low and steps sure-footed, you deftly darted through the busy crowd, keeping their direction firmly in sight. When you finally turned down the darkened corridor, you drew your sword. The beautiful blade sang out to you, as if rejoicing to be unleashed.

The three men were huddled around the girl, as she thrashed and screamed helplessly. Searing hot anger thickened your blood. You wanted to see their reaction as you approached, so you kicked over a nearby stack of empty crates, sending them crashing.

The three men spun around in surprise. Quickly, their faces darkened into a scowl. You gripped the pommel and pointed the tip at the young girl, her face awash in a mix of surprise and fresh alarm.

“I may not be a Dane, but I doknow that this is no proper punishment for the crime of theft. Release her to the town’s magistrate if you must. But you will cease whatever ideas you had. Otherwise, I will end you.”

The man whom had caught the girl sneered at you while unsheathing two short daggers from his belt.

“Then I suppose you and I are both in luck. For I happen to be the magistrate and you have threatened a Kingsman.”

You stomach flip-flopped.

He regarded you with a gleam in his eye, his eyes running lavishly up and down your body, taking in the way your leather tunic hugged your chest.

“Nor would a proper woman garb herself in such crude attire. Now you will come here and I shall dispense your punishment as well.”

The other two men, bored, turned their attention back to the young girl.

“I should like to see you try, you stinking, whoreson piss-wit” you goaded.

My, how things have changed, you belatedly thought as the man charged. Good, that angered him. Angry men were sloppy when they fought. It was the cool, calculating men that scared you. Men that fought like Filipe, like Harald.

He took a swipe at you with his right and you dodged. Anticipating his left, you swerved and popped up, slamming the hilt of your sword into his temple. He dropped like a rock. When he hit the ground, you kicked his stomach hard, the air escaping him with a whoosh.

“Your back!” the young girl shrieked, and you spun around just in time to block the arc of the second man’s sword with yours. The impact shook your arms and jarred your teeth. Clenching down hard, you used his blade’s momentum to swing your blades around and down, striking the earth. You knew he would not let go of his sword, so with his hands essentially tied, you leaned in and sank your knee into the soft, tender flesh of his groin.

The third man, having the advantage of seeing how you fight, hung back and waited for a clean shot before launching his knife at you. You ducked but not quick enough –the blade slicing your shoulder as it flew past. A singular, hot flash of pain erupted, momentarily distracting you.

The third man advanced while you clutched your shoulder. You turned to look at him, your eyes going wide with fear and watched as he hefted his axe high over his head.

‘A large windup like that leaves your entire body exposed for an attack…’

Indeed. Quicker than lighting, you flicked your own dagger out and sank it deep into his chest. The man’s face, the axe still poised high above his head, twisted into a grotesque mask of agony. The axe clattered to the ground the same time as he. You knew you hit a lung when his wound began to gurgle, the sound not unlike a babbling creek. You kicked the axe away and rushed over to the girl, who sat frozen in the wet mud.

She looked up at you with wild eyes. You towered over her, a magnificent sword in one hand and your long cloak blowing in the breeze.

“Are you…a warrior?” she breathed in disbelief. You huffed a small laugh and helped her to her feet. You cocked your head and waggled your eyebrows at her.

“A warrior queen.”

If only she knew, you thought with wry amusement as you sheathed your sword. Reaching into the inner folds of your cloak, you withdrew a hunk of rye bread. Your empty stomach clenched painfully.

“Here” you said, pressing the cracked round into her dirtied hands.

She accepted it readily and tore a piece off to stuff in her mouth. So consumed by hunger, long moments passed before she remembered herself. She paused and sheepishly looked at you.

“You do not want to share it?”

A small smile touched your lips. “I broke my fast already with a large meal. I am afraid I am stuffed like a hog. Please, eat it.”

The girl nodded gratefully and proceeded to plow into the bread. Between mouthfuls, she managed to speak—

“M’name is Astrid, milady” as she gave you a small bob. “My family lives in the village, not far from here. We have nothing to eat, but my ma could tend to your shoulder, if it pleases you.”

You smiled warmly down at her.

“I would like that very much.”

—

Harald furrowed his brow, the lines etched across his forehead. He smoothed a hand over the large map, pushing a rock weight into the upper corner to keep the parchment from curling up.

Canute’s cabinet room was furnished simply, but with well-crafted pieces. A large oak table stood in the center where an enormous map was laid out of northern Europe. Layers of thick, woven rugs in deep garnets and navy blues carpeted the planked floor. A small fire crackled in the hearth to chase the ever imposing chill of the air.

A few simple cabinets leaned against the wall, displaying ancient texts and manuscripts. A royal collection of a dozen such books would be considered extensive. Canute had twice that many. Across the room hung several battle-worn shields, crossed axes, and swords. Mounted proudly in the center was Canute’s coat of arms.

The dawn’s morning light filtered through the leaded windows, gilding the floor in diamond shapes. Harald could not sleep, his mind restless, so he had sought out the comfort and privacy of Canute’s cabinet.

Padded footsteps approached the cracked door. Harald did not look up from the map, but listened quietly to the tiny creaking of metal hinges and the whisper of skirts.

“Prince Harald” Queen Emma’s voice came out softly. “What brings you here at such an hour?” she said by way of greeting.

“Your highness” Harald murmured, as he lifted his gaze to his early, surprise visitor.

Queen Emma’s beauty was harsh and severe, like a winter sunrise. Her long, raven hair was braided and arranged into a crown, dotted with pearl and diamond-tipped pins. Her porcelain complexion was set off by a pair of thin, arched eyebrows, a straight nose, and plum-tinted lips.

She wore a regal, cobalt-blue silk gown heavily embroidered with swirls and curls of gold thread. The gown was form fitting and showed off her slender, whippet-thin frame. Although modest in its cut and fashion, the dress radiated regal authority.

Harald understood why Canute had set aside his previous, hand-fasted wife for Queen Emma of Normandy. She was stunning, sharp-witted with a tongue to match. Should Canute sire any children with her, Harald shuddered to think what sort of brutal talents the offspring shall inherit.

“I could say the same of you,” Harald remarked mildly. He sank tiredly into a chair before the map. She walked over and stood beside him, resting a hand on the back of his chair. She regarded the map Harald had pulled out and lifted a velvet brow.

“Plotting a new scheme with my husband?” she asked with a hint of humor.

A corner of Harald’s lip curled. “Is that not your specialty?”

Emma smirked and gave a side-long glance at Harald. He knew that Emma was as involved with the planning and executing of Canute’s plots as his advisors were. The latter, purposely unaware of just howmany ideas originated from this formidable woman. She was Canute greatest weapon, clad in armor of silk and jewels instead of chain and leather.

“I understand that Canute wants you to take a lady from Mercia as your new wife.”

Harald gave Emma a long-suffering look.

“Aye. I am told her name is…Blossom.”

“That is hardly her fault” Emma replied reproachfully.

Harald snorted. “Every night when I’d ask her to bed, I’d feel like I was calling the cow home.”

Emma, to her immense credit, pressed a smile firmly flat. Harald was thrilled with his small victory to ruffle her and grinned.

“Please, by all means laugh Queen Emma, your secret would be safe with me.”

This finally earned Harald a small smile. “I trust my secrets with no one, especially not with a roguish Prince of Norway.”

“Then I shall trust my secret with you. I do not wish to marry and send yet another bride screaming from the marriage bed. But, Canute believes it will help unite the northern lands. After which, he promised we would sail to Norway.”

Emma was quiet in contemplative silence. She gracefully stepped away from Harald’s chair and walked over to one of the stained glass windows. The sun shone upon her porcelain skin, the light playing up the sharp features.

“I never properly thanked you for freeing me. When Olaf locked me in that room and threatened the lives of my children. ”

“You do not need to thank me, your highness. ‘Twas the honorable thing to do” Harald said in a low, soft voice.

Peering out of the window, Emma took her time before speaking again.

“Have you heard of Aesop’s fable, The Wolf and the Shepherd?”

Harald considered it. “No, I have not.”

“My mother use to read Aesop’s fables to me and my siblings when we were young. Later, we had to translate them ourselves from Latin manuscripts.”

“Of course you did.” Harald was not in the least bit surprised that Emma could translate Latin.

“It was one of my favorites” Emma started.

“There once was a wolf that had been stalking a flock of sheep for quite some time. The Shepherd was anxious, naturally, that the wolf would carry one off. But, the wolf never attacked. Instead, he began to help the Shepherd take care of the sheep –guarding them and protecting them. The Shepherd grew so accustomed to the wolf’s presence, that he forgot he was a wolf at all.

One day, the Shepherd left the flock in the wolf’s care while he went on an errand. When the Shepherd returned, many of the flock had been carried off or killed. He then knew, how foolish it was to trust a wolf.”

Emma left the window and walked back to the map. She drew a pale, delicate finger over the map of Norway.

“We are wolves, Harald. Do not forget it.”

Harald watched Emma’s face, as she studied the map. So elegant where the planes of her face, so finely boned and crafted. He wondered how many men have been fooled by that exquisite exterior.

“Canute is a friend, and he has made…promises” Harald said carefully.

Emma smirked. “A king does not have friends, he has followers. The question is, what are you? Are you a follower, Harald?”

Emma’s message was a gift delivered in her signature style. Carefully, like a needle-thin blade driven straight to the heart.

Canute was ruthlessly ambitious and craved power above all else, even friendship. If Harald waits around for Canute to help him take back Norway…well, he might be waiting a long time indeed.

—

You plunged the wooden bat into the trough, stabbing the wad of bedclothes and pounding them roughly. The water stunk of lye, stale urine, and wood ash. Once you finished the beating, the other women would drag the garments to the nearest stream for rinsing before the harsh lye could damage the linen.

The visit to Astrid’s home turned out to be the miracle you needed. After learning how you had fought to protect their daughter, her mother had insisted on repaying you. They were poor beyond measure and could not offer much. But when you stated all you wanted was a way inside the castle, Astrid’s mother had lit up like a candle. She was head laundress at the keep and could bring you on as a new underling.

You had been at your new position for a few days, and per custom, assigned the lowest of tasks. You beat the clothes in the large wooden trough until your back ached, your hands blistered, and your skin cracked. Despite the weather, sweat collected along your scalp and dripped down your back, soaking your borrowed clothes.

Astrid’s mother had supplied you with a borrowed servant’s garb so you could blend in with the rest of the castle’s staff. You had stashed your warrior’s clothes and Harald’s sword beneath the wooden pallet you slept on each night.

But with each miracle Odin granted, Loki was there to add his own spin on the situation. The problem with the position is it never afforded you the opportunity to search for Harald.

As the lowest laundress, you were confined to the servant’s quarters and never left your duties. Toiling all hours of the day, there was hardly time to eat and sleep, let alone go exploring. If caught leaving your duties, you would be beaten by the steward for such insolence.

The sound of soft laughter trickled from the other side of the scullery. Two other servants stood about their own vat of soiled clothing. Ylva, a young pretty servant, glanced in your direction and gave you a dirty glare. Her pretty exterior was a keen disguise for the vapid nastiness lurking beneath.

You gave her one right back.

Your first night in the castle, you had found your pallet molested. Your blanket was shredded and the hay sopping wet. You had brushed it off, knowing that as the newcomer, you would be subjected to torment until you were accepted.

At suppertime, Ylva had the duty of ladling the porridge and had purposely missed your bowl, dumping it on the floor. Of course, there was none left and you had gone hungry.

Each day brought about new pettiness. She was a terrible gossip with an even worse work ethic, somehow assigning the blame to you when chores were not completed. Today, she and another servant were talking very loudly about various bits of court gossip.

“…Lord Evenson is rumored to have sired another bastard child…”

“…A curse has been placed on the Henriksen household…”

“…Prince Harald has just returned and I hear Lady Freja fancies him…”

You nearly jumped out of your skin at the mention of his name. The shock was quickly swept aside by a deep undertow of lounging. Despite your attempts to appear disinterested, Ylva noticed you stiffen. Like a wolf smelling blood, she practically beamed with wicked delight.

“Oh, goodness! Do you fancy Prince Harald?” she sneered. “The new girl with her mannish muscles and haughty opinion of herself” she laughed acidly. “You could not catch a man between your legs if you covered your dirty nest in honey.”

You finally snapped.

You threw your bat into the trough and stormed over to Ylva, ready to throttle her. Gasping with fear, she backed up quickly, too quickly. Her bottom hit the trough’s wide, low edge.

Your breath caught in your throat and paralyzed, watched the scene unfold. Ylva pinwheeled her arms, desperately seeking balance, but it was useless. Her trajectory already set and the momentum much too great to stop.

She fell backwards, directly into the hot, steaming vat of piss.

Sputtering and shrieking like a speared boar, her arms waved about, splashing the stinking water everywhere. Steaming mad, she snapped at the other laundress to help her out. As she stood up, her hair plastered across her face and red with rage, she pointed a damming finger at you.

“You are finished! I am going to tell the steward that you pushed me in and he will take a strap to your back!”

You gave her a look strong enough to strip paint.

“Aye, go ahead then. Just know that in three days, my bruises will be healed, but you’ll still smell like a chamber pot.”

You strode up to her and shoved her back in the vat.

You whirled around and fled the room. Storming down the torch-lit corridor, you headed for the servant’s sleeping quarters.

“Manish muscles,” you muttered to yourself. Have she no inkling how heavy a broadsword is?

You had enough of this nonsense. You did not cross two kingdoms to piddle time away washing bedclothes and suffer constant torment by that twit. Cautioned be damned, you were going to sneak out to the main keep and find Harald.

It was near dinner time, so the large chamber room was empty while the staff was busy with meal preparations. You found your hidden sack of clothes and quickly stripped off the horribly scratchy servant’s garb. The wool breeches and leather tunic felt warm and smooth against your skin as you slipped them on.

Once mortified by the warrior’s clothes, they were now a comfort. So was the sword, as you strapped it down your back, the hilt peaking over your shoulder. With practiced care, you pulled on your cloak, hiding the sword as much as possible.

Darkness had already fallen, despite the early hour, giving you an advantage. As you made your way to the great hall, you stuck to the shadows along the servant’s passage ways. The castle was built so that the noble men and women did not have to share corridors with the servants. This enabled staff to carry out their duties without the court suffering their presence.

It also gave you means to travel to the hall undetected. Mostly.

You carefully opened a thick wood door that spilled out into the keep’s main corridor and poked your head through. Dinner must be underway, for sounds of laugher and eating trickled from the hall. You turned your head the other direction and found yourself staring directly into a wall of chainmail.

Startled, you jerked back and stared wide-eye into a face of helmeted, castle guard. He frowned down at you disapprovingly. He snatched you by the arm, barking out—

“What is a servant doing—?”

But he halted when your hood fell back and your cloak splayed open. He eyed your leather tunic, lightly armored and buckled, the dagger in your belt and most damming of all, the hilt of Harald’s sword over your shoulder.

“You dirty little thief” he shook you hard and in the blink of an eye, he drew the sword from its scabbard. Reflexively, your free hand went to your dagger, but you paused.

No, I cannot attack a castle guard. They will hang me for such a crime and no one could stop it.

The guard examined the blade, his jaw going slightly slack as he took note of the exquisite engravings and markings.

“Where did you get this sword from?”

“I…I…” Your mind raced for any plausible explanation, but found none.

“It is Prince Harald’s” you replied simply.

Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free…a Christian once told you.

“That I have no doubt. I shall ask the gods for your swift and merciful punishment.”

Well, bugger that advice then.

He strode forward purposely, half dragging you behind him, Harald’s sword still in his palm.

“Where are you taking me?” you pleaded, your voice pitched in alarm.

“To see the king, of course. To render your judgment.”

—

“Oh, no, please! Not like this…not like this!”

The castle guard hurried you along, your feet hardly keeping pace with his as he half dragged you down the corridor, past the carved wood privacy screens and through the main entrance of the grand hall.

This was nothow you imagined facing Harald –towed by your tail, like a rat caught in the cook’s soup.

A hush fell over the crowd of feasting courtly men and ladies, as you passed row after row of tables heaped with rich, enticing dishes and dotted with lit candelabras.

As you approached the dais at the far end, the guard hauled you forth. A few months ago, the force would have sent you sprawling across the floor. Now, you merely stumbled a few steps before drawing yourself up with as much dignity as you could muster.

King Canute, the fierce and feared king of Denmark sat at the center and regarded you with mild interest.

Harald sat, still as stone, next to Canute. His eyes were wide and his lips slightly parted. His hand curled around a forgotten cup of wine.

He looked thunderstruck.

You felt your insides tremble and your heart ached to run to him. Your eyes went liquid, blurring your vision as you managed to find your voice.

“Harald…I—”

Blinding pain exploded across your face, the force tearing your head sideways. Stunned and breathless, you pressed a palm to your cheek to soothe the blow as you looked at the guard with a mixture of hurt and outrage.

“You have not been given leave to speak” he said gruffly and turned to face the king. King Canute, intrigued by this mealtime disruption, finally addressed the guard.

“What is the meaning of this?”

The guard cleared his throat and dipped his head in respect.

“Forgive me, your highness, for disturbing your meal. I caught this urchin lurking in the corridors. She was in possession of this—” and he held up Harald’s sword for all to see.

“Milord, she claims it is Prince Harald’s. She is dressed like a heathen and speaks with an accent. We have a thief and a spy amongst us.”

The seated members of the court murmured amongst themselves at the seriousness of the accusation. Your nerves skittered and your heart thundered a desperate beat in your chest.

Canute gave Harald a cursory glance. “Do you recognize this foreigner?”

Carefully, as if every move was precisely measured, Harald sat back in his chair, his eyes glittered as he spoke softly.

“I know not this woman.”      

The pain of his callous refusal to acknowledge you shredded your guts and your legs threatened to collapse. Your face crumpled when your eyes found his, beseeching him to say something, anything, to save you.

With great effort, his eyes lowered, his lashes a dark fan across his cheeks.

There you stood – starved, beaten, and flayed open before the man you loved with the force of a thousand exploding stars, and he refused you.

You dropped your head in defeat. A thousand times and a thousand more you had dreamed of your reunion with Harald. In seconds, your dream had morphed into your worst nightmare.

“Do you know what the Danes do to thieves and spies?” Canute said darkly. “We—”

“I choose trial by combat!” you blurted, interrupting him. Canute’s attention was sharpened to a fine point as you went on. It took all your strength to steady your voice.

“If I am in the wrong, the gods will not protect me and you shall have your punishment.”

The hall was quiet, a hundred indrawn breaths and curious eyes fell upon Canute as they awaited his decision.

“Let it be said…” he started slowly, as he thoughtfully stroked his beard, “…that the Viking King of England was a just and fair king. I shall grant your request.”

Harald snapped his head towards Canute, giving him an incredulous look. Canute nodded to the castle guard and scowling, he faced you and tossed you the sword.

Despite your anguish, you caught it easily. You held the sword up and looked at it blankly.

Is this how my story will end? Cut down by some nameless guard? Is this what I fought so hard for?

The guard leered at you, before giving you his back and began adjusting his armor, readying himself for combat. Filipe’s sage words echoed in your head –

‘…an honorable man is a dead one.’

He had told you to use any means necessary to win if your life depended on it. Any means.

So be it then. If this was your end, at least you could do is make it a fine spectacle.

You did not hesitate. Whisper quiet, you rushed at the guard, hardly making any noise as you charged. You wound up and slammed the pommel of your sword into the man’s lower back.

His head snapped back, as his entire body arced, electrified with white hot pain. His mouth gaped in a silent scream. You wound up again and this time swung your blade parallel, rotating at the last second to slam him upside the head with the flat of the blade.

His head whipped to the side and he crashed face first into the floor. Dazed, but still conscious, he managed to roll and block the vicious curve of your blade.

This was no farmer warrior or a half-crazed berserker. This was a highly trained guard of Canute’s command. He was skilled and would not be taken down easily.

He rolled away from you and sprang up to his feet – his quick recovery draining the blood from your face. His expression changed from arrogance to murderous determination.

“So you can fight” he growled, as he easily blocked a few more of your swipes.

“Cock or cunt, I will still kill you” he added, quite unnecessarily.

He lurched forward, his arm swinging and crashing upon you. You had never faced such brutal hits. Stumbling back, you quickly lost ground as you struggled to absorb his power. He was too strong and too fast. You could not let him continue to pommel you. You ducked and dodged away, widening the space between you to gain a few moments of recovery.

The guard grinned evilly while he watched you pant and your arms sag. He knew you wouldn’t last long from such an assault. He would not let you rest either. With a blood curdling scream, he charged at you, bringing his broadsword down across your body. Feebly, you blocked the attack, but it cost you.

You lost your grip on the sword and it went skittering across the floor.

You fell to your knees, the force sending shockwaves up through your skull. You stared hopelessly up at the man before you. Smelling the intoxicating scent of victory, he leisurely gripped his sword in both hands and brought the blade down in a slanting arc.

You waited.

You waited until the last possible moment, until the blade was in unstoppable momentum when you made your last, desperate play.

You lurched to your feet and brought your fist down on his wrists as hard as you could. The force of impact caused his blade to veer off its deadly path. At the same moment, you swung your left arm around and crashed the handle of your forgotten dagger into his Adam’s apple.

The man jolted and choked, stunned by the blow. Taking advantage, you wrenched the blade from his hand with your right and brought the edge across his neck. The sword cut deep and true, slicing down his neck and chest.

You hopped back and watched as he slid to the floor, his hand clutching his wound and his eyes bulged.

The audience sat in stunned silence. Courtly women clutched their chests with shocked expressions. Stumbling back, you bent over and took in big gulps of air.

Gods, you had won.

When you felt your heart was no longer in danger of exploding, you slowly straightened back up and turned to face the dais. King Canute’s face was stormy, his black eyes bored into you.

You took a staying breath and risked a peek at Harald’s. Your hands trembled as you caught his gaze. He was no longer in his chair but standing at the edge of the dais, his face inscrutable.

Had he…was he..?

The thought was quickly shoved aside when the king spoke.

“That…” King Canute said evenly “was most impressive.”

“Thank you, your highness.”

You tried to keep your voice even and exude confidence you did not own. Filipe would have been proud.

“Take her to the dungeons while I decide her fate.”

What?

Your head snapped up as two guards stalked to you. A look of disbelief crossed your face.

“I have won a trial by combat fairly milord!” you cried.

“Aye, you have” he reclined back decidedly, as he rested a chin on a fist.

“’Tis why I granted you the honor of further consideration of your fate.”

Canute dismissed you with a wave of his hand. The guards gripped you by the armpits and dragged you back.

“Nay!” you cried, planting your feet firmly into the stone floor. You tried to yank your arms free, but the thrashing only caused the men to tighten their grip. They yanked you brutally back and marched you out of the hall.

Helplessly, you craned your head around and tried to capture Harald’s attention. His head was turned, his gaze pinned determinedly to the floor.

Oh no, please, no.

That was your last sight of him before the guards dragged you away. A small sob escaped your throat and your resolved crumbled. You still fought the two men’s grip, but your attempts were feeble, less animated.

Down the long corridor you were marched, snaking in around endless passageways and doors. Finally, after a sharp turn, you approached a pair of stone steps that faded down into a black, bottomless pit. A cool, dank breeze wafted up. It smelled of fear and death. It was an oubliette, you realized. A place of forgetting.

A new panic surged through you, giving you a final burst of strength. Withering and screaming, the guards dragged you down the steps. You tried everything. You bucked your body, you lifted your knees and tried to kick their legs and ribs. Your efforts were brutally rewarded when they bent your arms at a cruel angle. The sharp pain yanked all air from your lungs and you stilled, least they dislocate your shoulders.

You reached the bottom of the steps and were blinded by the darkness. Blinking rapidly, your eyes struggled to adjust. The wet smell of mold increased tenfold, so thick and cloying you choked on it. You passed slimy rock walls, your feet tripped over mud and filth, and only a single, dim torch lit the way.

The guards paused before an oak planked door and shoved you in. You stumbled and went sprawling to the floor as the door screamed shut. A rattling of metal chains and you were locked in.

On hands and knees, you shook like a wet dog, fear trembling through your body. You patted around with your hands, taking stock of the cell. The ground was paved stone, with mashed bits of hay scattered about and it smelled like excrement. Gagging, you continued to feel around for a cot, a blanket, or some sort of mercy but you found nothing.

Deflated, you elected to curl into a ball on your side. You tucked your knees to your chest and rubbed your arms rapidly up and down, trying to generate some warmth.

Harald had done…nothing. He stood atop that dais and watched you fight for your life without lifting a finger.

You were too late. Harald had moved on. You had rejected him so soundly and thoroughly, that he had casted you aside.

You had left Ida and Garrick, crossed two kingdoms, fought through army of berserkers, and gave up your precious horse. You had been beaten, attacked, starved, and nearly drowned.

You had walked until you almost dropped and gave everything you had.

It would be worth it, all of it, to reach Harald. This was the one truth that you held most dear to you. That you clutched to your breast in your lowest moments, for it was the one kernel of hope that had made you persevere.

It had all been for nothing.

—

One the first day of your confinement, a plate of cold gruel was shoved under your door, most of it spilling onto the filthy floor. Appalled, you only eaten what was left in the bowl.

On the second day, your pride has sunk so low, you ate the spilled porridge off the ground too. Anything to ease the aching hunger pains that have taken up permanent residence. To take your mind off your pain, you tried to find ways to occupy yourself. You had counted every stone, traced every crack with your fingertips, and shoved your face under the door to get any sort of view.

The second day also brought forth a new misery, a blistering fever. In a never ending cycle of hell, your body swung like a pendulum between sweltering heat and shivering cold. Your muscles quivered and shook with exhaustion from trying to regulate your temperature.

Blearily, you thought about how Ida and Garrick would never know what came of you. Mayhap they would think you found Harald and lived out the rest of your days in happiness. It was better that way, you decided. Better that they never find out the true terror of what your final days entailed –wasting away, in a cold cell forgotten. For if they knew, it would crush them.

You passed the time by fantasizing about the farm and simple life you had left behind. About those precious weeks where Harald cupped your face in his hands, looking down on you like you were his entire world. How happy you had been then, how blissfully ignorant that it would all come crashing down, so spectacularly.

You coughed harshly, the spasms racking your body. You could not stop the sickness that had descended upon your lungs. The third day brought forth a usual bowl of spilled muck, sloshing around and long spoiled.

Only this day, you did not bother eating it. It was only a matter of time now. Starving would hasten the process, eating would prolong it. You took some small measure of satisfaction imagining the guards coming to render judgement, only to find a cold body instead.

You tucked your chin to your chest and thought of Ida, her round laughing face and a smear of flour across her apron. You thought of Garrick’s long, kind face, weathered and worn. You whispered a promise to them that one day, you will see them again, in Valhalla.

—

Hours later, your eyes cracked open at the sound of a door creaking. Though you were too tired and sick to move, your heart sped up in fear. It was an animalistic response you could not seem to repress. No matter how much you wished you could die, life-saving energy pumped through your veins.

The booted footsteps were sure and quick, scraping over the wet stones. They paused outside your door and your heart hammered a war beat in your chest. You shrank back against the far wall of your cell, wishing you could disappear.

Metal scraped along metal, creaking and clicking until the door groaned open. Torchlight spilled into the room, backlighting the figure of a tall, dark man.

—

Taglist:@albeeox​,@empireroyals​,@oceanmermaidwitch​,@drxchxl​,@ivanna6026, @casablancakawtar, @alitaar​,@queenophelia​,
@arishbear​,@buckybarnesisalittleshit​,@stargurl-battleship​,@across-the-starss​,@mariaenchanted​,@hotmessonline​,
@geminidas​, @lunerose0, @clairefraiser, @calmitee, @kate-lobes-harry​,@sakurasbtch​,@sweetestrose569​,@a-sunflower-in-bloom​,
@herefordistractions​, @nicklet94, @werenotjustfriends, @supernaturallover2002​,@extratragic​, @sendmeyourgarbage,
@practicallyperfectthings​, @brwneyedgyal, @haraldhardradagf​,@wingofshadow​,@aconflagrationofmyown​,@b-elova​, @bitsy895 @thisispurpleyam

Rating: R for this chapter, explicit overall. 18+ only, no minors.

Pairing: Harald Sigurdsson x F!Reader

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, explicit descriptions of battle, blood, gore. Please head the warnings. If you are not comfortable with the level of violence depicted in the show, you will not be comfortable with this chapter. Thanks!

—

The revelry was long underway in the main hall of Canute’s castle. His stronghold was much like the warrior himself. Dark, blunt, and ruthlessly efficient. The castle had no need of frilly adornments, but instead was encased in tall, covered battlements, a generous upper and lower bailey, and an enormous stone keep.

Inside the keep was the great hall, resplendent with thick stone pillars, flying buttresses, and walls lined with arched stained glass windows. Suspended from the ceiling were enormous, multi-tiered wooden racks dripping with hundreds of fat candles.

The room played hostess to many gatherings, as the king astutely understood the need for nobility and petty royalty to gather, drink, and scheme. King Canute, his new bride Queen Emma, and his closest advisors sat upon a wide dais on one end, framed by mammoth banners hanging behind them.

Hundreds of courtiers filled the hall – laughing, drinking, and feasting. Long trestle tables lined the room and servants scurried to replenish with overflowing trenchers of game meats, roasted vegetables, and freshly baked rounds of bread. The savory aromas wafted through the hall, enticing people to the tables again and again. Musicians employed by the court played bawdy tunes on their lutes and fiddles, to the delight of the attendees.

Emma, her perceptiveness matched only by her beauty, tilted her head towards Canute.

“Where has Prince Harald gone?”

Harald’s seat at the dais was noticeably empty,again. Canute frowned, having not noticed that Harald had slithered off as soon as the main feast was served.

Emma gracefully dabbed a cloth at the corners of her mouth, making to leave. Her senses were sharper than a hounds and Canute knew his wife would hunt Harald down and drag him back to his duties within minutes.

“No—” he placed a hand over Emma’s, beseeching her not to leave.

“Stay, keep me company. If Harald left, it is because he wishes to be alone.”

“He is alone much too often these days, milord.” Emma’s tone was blunt.

A lesser man may find such blatant authority in a wife to be a grievous fault. However, her directness and shrewdness was precisely why Canute loved Emma with the entirety of his black heart.

He did not know why a fog clung to his right-hand man, but it was clear it disturbed Emma and she was angling to solve it.

“Leave him be” Canute implored gently.

If a man were lost, Canute believed, it was up to him to find his own way.

—

Harald had picked a spot shrouded in darkness in a far, forgotten corner. In the room, but not part of it, he could not be accused of shirking his duties. People all around enjoyed themselves and their merry little lives. One shoulder settled against the wall and arms folded across his chest, Harald watched with impassive eyes.

He could not muster the will to drink, laugh, dance…or do anything at all. It all felt so insignificant.

A buxom woman with a hearty flush across her chest and a loosened top, sauntered over. She stopped just before him, wobbling a bit and drew a finger down his chest. Her scent wafted up and she reeked of smoke and stale ale.

It made Harald’s skin crawl.

“Where are you sleeping tonight, Prince of Norway?” she purred with lowered lashes. Harald slid the mask over his face like shucking on a pair of well-worn boots. He quirked a corner of his lip up, showing off the deep dimple of his cheek. The one he knew the ladies always fawned over.

“Wherever you are” he drawled, certain she will never remember this conversation.

The woman giggled excitedly and hiccupped. “Come find me then. ‘Tis be a cold and wet night and I shall keep you warm” she winked and meandered off, pleased that she had secured the evening’s most sought-after bedmate.

Harald watched her wander away, looking for more people to flirt and gossip with. He rested his head against the wall, content to lose himself in the shadows and let the dark swallow him whole.

—

The once roaring fire banked to slumbering embers in the small hours of the night. Only a few people were left lingering in the great hall. Some murmured quietly, the late hour turning people slow and sleepy. Other couples peeled off, heading to bed for a romp with their evening’s choice for a bedmate.

Harald continued to stare with unseeing eyes into the glowing logs, rosy red shadows dancing across his features.

No one came for Harald.

There was no kinsman to invite him for a late night drink to discuss some new plan or scheme. There was no tired wife, pleading him to finally retire to bed. Not even the buxom woman returned for him, likely busy entertaining someone else for the evening.

He was alone, in a castle and a country that was not his own.

Harald did not notice the passage of time and soon enough, the hall was deserted, except for him. Rolling thunder boomed overhead, followed soon by soothing melody of heavy rain beating the stone tiled roof.

Harald walked towards the towering oak doors and shoved them open. He stepped out into the pouring rain, turning his head to the heavens. A crack of lightning tore the sky open, momentarily casting his figure in a glow of silver.

In a matter of seconds, he was soaked through. Rivets of water coursed down his face, down his chest, saturating his fine wool clothes.

He greeted the cold as it seeped deep, prickling his skin and causing his muscles to involuntarily shiver. Waiting patiently Harald stood immobile. The cold sunk further, curling in and around his bones in an icy embrace. He welcomed it, for it was the only time he felt anything at all.

Someone, please save me from myself.

—

The small fire crackled quietly, the flames licking into the blue-black sky. Thousands of stars twinkled down at you, like diamonds strewn across a sea of midnight velvet. A chilly wind wound its way through the small clearing you selected to bed down in. Shivering, you pulled your cloak tighter, and tore off a section of carefully portioned dried meat.

You dared not hunt for fresh game in these parts. The southern lands were strictly governed by the local feudal lords. If a traveler was caught hunting on their lands without permission or paying a fee, they would be punished severely.

Travelling alone and as a woman had strung your nerves taught these past few days. A sickening dread clung to you each night you bedded down to sleep. The nighttime is when you felt most vulnerable. So far, you had been lucky and had come across few travelers. The autumn season meant the roads were less crowded, but on the contrary there was little help to be sought.

You could not decide to laugh or cry at the irony of your current state. The last time you journeyed alone and scared, you were running away from the very same man you were now running to. The gods must be having quite a laugh at your expense.

You bit off another piece of meat and cocked an ear, listening for Kaka. He had wondered off to crop and graze some time ago. You were not worried overmuch. The horse was loyal and had an uncanny sense of direction. No matter how far he strayed, he would always come clomping back…eventually.

Snap.

You whipped your head around at the small sound. Was that a natural, or unnatural noise? With narrowed eyes, you peered out into the dark woods. Holding your breath, you listened closely as the moment stretched…and passed.

This cursed constant anxiety, you were never going to get a proper night’s sleep on this miserable trip. At the start, you worried about succumbing to illness, injury, or starvation. Never once had you considered the possibility of keeling over from sleep deprivation.

Relaxing a bit, you turned back to the fire and tucked your knees to your chest. Your gaze flickered up aimlessly across the small clearing.

A hooded man stared back.

Your heart dropped to your stomach and every hair on your body stood erect. The man took a small step forward, and two more men appeared on either side, sneering.

This propelled you to action. Chucking your dinner aside, you reached behind your head and grasped the hilt of Harald’s sword. The metal trilled a beautiful, hitch-pitched note as you unsheathed it and gripped it in front of you.

The man in front barked a laugh.

“That is a large sword for such a small girl.”

You adjusted your trembling grip. Curses, what would Ida say in this situation? Something reckless, you decided.

“Would you like a taste?” you hissed.

Well done, that be a suitably stupid thing to say.

The other men chuckled low. They were not fooled by your bravado. They saw the way your hands shook on the hilt – how you held the blade improperly. Least of all, the sword was much too large for you and obviously not yours.

“Strong words for a poacher on our lord’s lands” the hooded man grinned coolly at you.

“Liar” you bit out.

These men were the poachers, not you. True enforcers would be wearing the colors and seals of their liege lord. From the looks of them, they appeared road-trodden and weary. Their clothing was a slapdash collection of ripped cloaks, cobbled together leather armor, and piecemealed wools.

Vast stretches of land with relatively little oversight meant thieving was rife in these parts. No doubt these criminals were making their last and final raids of the season, before the weather turned too poor and cold to do so.

It also meant that you were standing in their way. You could turn them in, the punishment for poaching was severe. You also had two things of immense value – a sword and horse worthy of a king.

The hooded man continued—

“You call me a liar, yet you are the one caught sneaking onto this land without permission.” He cocked his head. “You also possess a stolen sword, a very fine sword” he tsked.

Your mind violently thrashed about, frantically searching for anyviable option. You cannot fight these men off, but mayhap you could keep them at bay long enough to escape with Kaka.

Where was that was blasted, good-for-nothing horse!

“KAKA!” you yelled, while swiping the sword in front of you like you had seen other warriors do.

This did not have the intended effect. The men roared with laughter.

“Muffin? Is that a pet name for your maidservant?” he leered. Another man could not resist chiming in—

“Mayhap her companion be as fine and fair of face as this one, eh?”

That, turned your blood to ice.

“KAKA!” you screamed again, at a higher pitch. “Touch me and I swear on our maker you will regret it. Take your leave and go!”

The men decided they had enough of your posturing and slowly closed in. You backed up, continuing to hack the sword left and right, but your arms were already growing weary.

Just then, a thunderous pounding echoed through the small clearing. Startled, the men looked around in confusion, searching for the sound’s source.

Your shoulders sagged, relieved. Closer and closer, the terrifying rumble swelled until it was a roar in your ears.

A moment later, pure chaos erupted.

Kaka crashed into the clearing like a beast straight from the depths of hell. His eyes wild and mane flying, he reared back on his hind legs, displaying his terrifying height and slammed down on the hooded man in front.

The man crumpled like parchment. The other two men were screaming, moving to ready their various axes and knifes, but they were too slow. Kaka charged at one, sank his teeth into his shoulder and threw him off to the side. His body hit a tree with a dull thud and dropped to the ground. The other man wisely turned around and fled. A faint sound of shrieking horses and galloping hooves came from far off.

Ah, the men must have left their horses untethered, and Kaka has rightly sent them scurrying.  

You dropped the sword and stumbled a few steps. Hands braced on knees, you gulped down the cool air. Kaka paced anxiously, blowing hard and heaving, searching for any other threats to address.

“Good…boy…Kaka” you gasped out. Dimly, you knew Kaka was a highly trained war house, but you had never seen him in action. Cautiously, you staggered over to Kaka and ran a soothing hand down his neck.

“You are a…uh…good murder horse.”

You grimaced, unsure of what sort of praise one gives for flattening two men, but you hoped that would do. The horse snorted, his breath blowing white streams in the crisp air. You petted his neck over and over again, trying to calm him down.

“Ahem.”

You and Kaka whip your heads around simultaneously. Behind you at a safe distance stood another man, this one younger than the rest. His hands were splayed out sheepishly.

“A man goes for a piss and misses all the fun, I gathered.”

Kaka’s muscles tensed beneath your hand and he pulled back his lips. You quickly snatched Harald’s sword off the ground and waved it at him, but your arms quivered at the effort.

“Wait!” the man pleaded. “I am unarmed, aye?” as he raised his hands higher. You eyed him warily, your heart still a hammer in your chest.

“Go! Leave us! Or I shall cut you down and…and stabyou!Manytimes!”

Loki take me, I sound like an imbecile.

“With the pointy end, I should hope” he quipped with a small, teasing smile. Enraged by his jest, you attempted a shaky stab at him. He ducked away easily.

“I will not harm you” he said calmly. “My horse has bolt, the stupid beast taking my weapons and supplies with it. My men are…” he hesitated and he looked around at the two prone bodies.

“…dispatched by your fine animal. I am no threat to you. Please…”

You inhaled slowly and blew out one long breath. Kaka nudged your shoulder with his nose. Lowering the sword, you wrapped an arm around Kaka’s neck, letting him nuzzle you.

“If he moves Kaka, kill him.”

Satisfied by the shade in which the man paled, you dropped to the ground, rubbing a hand over your exhausted face.

“You are not really a liege lord’s henchmen, are you?” you finally spoke. The man, his hands still up, replied quietly—

“No. You were quite right. We are a band of thieves and cowards. Or were.”

You snorted, then relaxed enough to pause and examine this stranger.  

His face was austerely handsome with dark green=blue eyes framed by sandy eyebrows, a sharp angular jaw and a grim, but well-formed mouth. It was a face that spoke of many, hard learned experiences.

The sides of his head were shaved close, revealing tattoos that carved his scalp into swirls and symbols. His blonde hair was braided into a long tail down his back. He was tall and broad, his leathered vest and tunic set off a pair of powerful shoulders well acquainted with weapons and shields.

His attractive looks did nothing to sway you, however. Danger cold lurk behind the most beguiling face.

“What ‘tis your name?” you asked.

“Filipe” he replied simply. No surname.

“Why do you keep company with bandits, Filipe? Have you no honor?”

You wanted to keep the stranger talking, to see if he could be trusted. Perhaps, catch him in some falsehood and stick Kaka on him so you can be done with this place and move on.

Filipe shrugged, lowering his hands and hooking his thumbs on his belt. “My family is dead, taken ill by a plague that desecrated my village. I did not take kindly to squiring, bastard that my liege Knight was. So I took my skills and sold my sword instead. These men…” as he jerked a chin, “hired me and the profits were good. I did not ask questions.”

So, he is a sellsword, a sobering bit of information. You would certainly not be able to defend yourself against such a schooled mercenary. Nay, you could not trust this man. You needed him gone.

“Aye, Filipe, that is a sad tale but I find I do not care. I must bid you goodbye.”

Filipe did not move, he regarded you thoughtfully, his enterprising mind at work.

“Where did you acquire such a fine weapon?”

Your eyes fell to the sword lying beside you. Your fingers brushed the flawless etchings along the flat of the blade. The engravings were an ode to family, battle, and God. The three things you knew Harald was most devoted to. How magnificent he would appear, swinging the sword in battle. How perfectly the hilt must fit his palm, the same one that held yours.

“It belongs to someone dear to me” you said thickly. “I must return it to him.”

“‘Tis a shame you do not know how to wield it. I could teach you, in exchange travel on your horse to wherever you are headed.”

“You have two feet, you can walk” you muttered.

Incredulous, Filipe gaped at you. “We are hundreds of leagues away from the nearest port and my horse and supplies vanished. Do you not believe my knowledge is a fair trade for a mere ride?”

You lifted a shoulder. “What knowledge do I need? ‘Tis as you say, stick ‘em with the pointy end.”

Filipe moved in a blur. He shoved a toe under the hilt and kicked it up to his awaiting palm. A flash of metal and the tip was pinned at your throat.

“First lesson. Never, everallow your enemy to disarm you.”

—

“Thank you for the opportunity to accompany you, your highness.”

Harald and a young warrior named Jørgen were waiting atop their horses, their skilled eyes trained on the valley stretched out before them.

Jørgen was a good soldier, Harald had concluded. He was quiet and reserved, with excellent instincts and swordsmanship. Despite his age, he had rose quickly through Canute’s ranks and held high expectations for him. Harald enjoyed his company as well, preferring the quiet conversations to Canute’s more boisterous and outspoken advisors.

Canute asked Harald to escort a company of Jarls travelling from nearby feudal lands that took issue with Canute’s new decree to end the raids. A key part of his promise to England was that as their new king, he would end the Viking raids that have plundered and gutted the English coastline.

However, ending the raids enraged many powerful ruling families in Denmark. They felt the riches and spoils of England were theirs for the taking by rights and tradition.

Harald had requested that Jørgen accompany him on this errand. The plan was to meet the Jarls and their representatives and escort them to Canute’s keep, where he could negotiate with the disgruntled men and ease the tension. Negotiate, or bend their will, depending on how charitable Canute was feeling.

In Denmark, the Jarls were powerful rulers and could be deadly enemies. The king and his army were already stretched thin between England and Denmark. He could not afford an uprising in his own country at such a vulnerable time.

“Do not thank me, ‘twas your own abilities that brought you here today” Harald replied. He squinted up at the sun, softened to the color of butter in the overcast sky. The travelling party was late – they had been waiting there for hours.

Jørgen lips curled. “My wife is not so appreciative of my recent advancements. She complains my duties take me from home for far too long and often.”

Harald smirked. “‘Tis a woman’s greatest pleasure and godly duty to complain about her husband, Jørgen.”

“Wise words, milord” Jørgen laughed. “However, my wife be expecting our first child this winter and she fears I may miss his arrival. I hope for it to be a boy.”

Harald’s smile faltered. He swallowed and tamped down the icy green jealousy that flared up. He reminded himself that Jørgen was a good man and deserved such happy news.

With all the grace he could muster, Harald managed to respond—

“Congratulations, my friend. I bid you to pass my sentiments to your wife.”

Harald fell quiet for a moment. Unbidden, tender images of you swollen and cranky from the trials of pregnancy came forth. How he would soothe your aches and pains with hot sponge baths. How he would kneel before you, his hands on either side of your round belly, whispering promises to his future babe. A future that was no longer his.

God, help me. Why must you torment me so?

Harald’s horse shifted and stamped his feet impatiently. Harald stretched and clenched his hands, willing warmth back into them. The autumn weather had descended upon the lands and despite the glorious display of foliage, the air turning bitter and cold was unwelcomed. The lateness of the Jarls, his cramped and chilled muscles, and the stinging jealousy had turned his mood sour.

“Why are they so late?” Harald griped bitterly. Tardiness, in Harald’s opinion, was a grave insult. Perhaps the Jarls wanted to show a petty display of power by dragging their feet and setting their own time table.

Savagely, he decided to lead them back on a more precarious route to Canute’s holding. One that snaked through a less travelled road and was riddled with mud and potholes.

Harald’s spirits lifted a bit at imagining the Jarl’s party crashing through the muck, splattering their rich robes with mud. How humiliating it would be to arrive before Canute – filthy, wet, and shivering.

Jørgen voice snatched Harald’s attention from his wicked plotting.

“How many men did you say were to meet us?” he asked cautiously. His hand shaded his eyes as he peered at the wooded valley far below.

“Less than a dozen, I believe.”

“I spot a company of men, but there are no Jarls amongst them and they are heavily armed. Look.”

Jørgen pointed to spot where several warriors on mounts broke through the tree line.

Harald’s nerves prickled with heightened awareness and his pulse began to drum a steady beat.

A trap, this was a trap.

“Jørgen…” Harald growled. “We are being ambushed, they mean to kill us.”

Indeed, as the words left Harald’s lips, the traitors spotted the two of them and sent their horses to a gallop.

At once, both men drew their swords.

“Run” Harald commanded, his voice firm. “I shall hold them off as long as I can. Youmust make it back to the keep and warn Canute.”

“No,” Jørgen barked, “If I go, then you will die!”

Harald’s eyes flashed angrily at him.

“If you stay, we shallboth die! And no one to warn Canute that he has been betrayed! GO!”

“NO!” Jørgen roared. “We stay and die with honor, together!”

Harald hesitated and caught a glimpse of the future. Jørgen’s wife, crumpling before him when he told her that her husband was never returning. A lonely little boy born with no father to love and protect him.

Harald thought of his own dead father, whom he desperately wished he could seek guidance from – now more than any other time in his life.

No…justno.

Harald scowled—

“Go and live, Jørgen. Live so that one day, you can hold your babe in your arms.”

With that, Harald cocked his arm back and smacked Jørgen’s horse brutally with the flat of his blade. The horse bolted forward and crashed through the woods, leaving Harald behind.

Harald kicked his horse, flying down to the valley at terrifying speed. He charged ahead, like a man that had no one waiting for him.

He fought, like a man that has nothing to live for.

—

“Again” Filipe said mid-way through a yawn, bored and sitting idly against a trunk of a massive tree. Your arms trembled as you tried to lift the sword. A few hours’ worth of training and you could barely move your body was so exhausted.

Begrudgingly, you had agreed to Filipe’s bargain. You would take him as far as Oddernes where you would part ways. In exchange for travel, Filipe would train you to protect yourself and fight off enemies. He had taken one look at your meager cache of food and decided he was also going to hunt and provide fresh meat.

“When will we be finished?” you complained bitterly, as you moved through the stances once again.

“When you stop complaining. So, at this rate…all day.”

You muttered a quiet curse at him, blew out a deep breath and readied your sword in front of you.

“Wrong” he called out.

Gritting your teeth, you lowered the hilt. You were carrying it too high and too far out from your body. You adjusted your position.

“Wrong” Filipe called again, through a mouthful of an apple he had swiped from Loki-knows where.

I am going to poison him, you decided. You shifted your weight to your back leg properly, and made sure you knees were bent and loose, ready to spring with power. You swung the blade in a wide arc, bringing the hilt down and across you.

“Wrong, and now you are dead” he replied gaily.

Steaming hotter than a forgotten cauldron, you erupted.

“WHAT! What did I do now!”

Filipe pushed to his feet and strode towards you. He stopped a few paces away and crossed his long, muscular arms over his chest, his stance wide and cocky.

“A large windup like that leaves your entire body exposed for an attack. Unless you are hiding full-body armor around here, I doubt very much you’d enjoy being sliced in two. Here, hand me the sword.”

Obliging, you toss him the blade and he catches it one handed. He swept the sword up high and wide, then paused mid-air and gestured to his mid-section.

“This may give you the power you need, but see how it leaves my entire body open? You are too small for that and a man will always best you with his power. You—”

Filipe tucked the blade in closer to his torso and made smaller, circular jabs and thrusts.

“—need to keep your blade close, like so… ”

When done, he flipped the blade around, presenting it to you.

“Sometimes, you need to stick flowers in your arse and call it a vase.”

You halted, a bewildered look on your face.

“What, pray-tell, is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you need to use what you have. You will never have my power, but you dohave speed and wits. Now, try it again.”

—

Jørgen impatiently paced the top of the castle’s curtain wall. The days were growing shorter, darkness had fallen early and there was still no sign of Harald. Jørgen continued to stalk back and forth, snapping and snarling at any man that dared ask him a question.

The waiting was unbearable and Jørgen continually fought back the urge to ride out, caution be damned. If Harald never returned, Jørgen did not think he could live with himself.

Suddenly, a dark clump came trotting up, the moonlight set the silvered studs of the horses’ armor shimmering. A slumped figured rode atop the black steed.

Jørgen threw himself over the curtain wall and shouted down to the gatehouse guards.

“LOWER THE BRIDGE!”

One hand on his sword, Jørgen flew down the tower stairs and burst through the door into the inner bailey. He swore viciously as the drawbridge creaked slowly down, taking an interminable amount of time. As soon as the wood boards slammed down across the moat, the black destrier trotted obediently across and halted in front of Jørgen.

The slumped figure slid off the saddle and landed in a graceless heap. Jørgen kneeled before the figure and slipped the hood off the man’s face.

Harald’s face was battered and bloody. A vicious cut gaped above his eyebrow, long trails of dried blood coursed down his face. Jørgen grasped Harald by the shoulder, alarm coloring his face.

“By god, what happened man?”

Harald coughed, and spat out a thick wad of blood.

“They’re dead.”

“Who?”

“All of them” Harald croaked out.

Jørgen regarded the prince, unsure if he should weep with relief or finish the job. He selected neither.

“If you are so determined to die, then mayhap you should try a little harder.”

Harald managed a weak laugh, then gasped and clutched his side.

“I keep trying… but so far it has been my biggest…failure.”

Jørgen sighed deeply. He hooked his elbows under Harald’s armpits and dragged him to his feet. Squatting slightly, Jørgen dug his shoulder into Harald’s stomach and hoisted the big man across his shoulders. Grunting, he straightened and made his way inside the castle where the royal healer could be sent for.

“If you were not the next king of Norway, I may have some strong words for your carelessness.”

If Harald were not so exhausted and wounded, he might have found great amusement in being scolded like a boy.

“I cannot decide if I would parade you in front of my men, so they may laugh and jeer at your foolishness, or deliver you to the ladies of the court, where they would fuss incessantly and drive you insane.”

Harald grunted.

“Mayhap I shall do both…” Jørgen threatened, as he turned a corner and began to climb the stairs to Harald’s chambers.

“…but I promise you this…” Jørgen gritted, as he struggled with Harald’s large frame.

“…if you everpull a trick like that over me again, I shall unleash my wife upon you, and then you will know whattrue punishment is.”

—

Weeks of training with Filipe had given you a deep appreciation of warriors that you never felt before. Every time you stopped to let Kaka crop grass, refill your water skins, or hunt for fresh meat, you were training.

You have also have never felt thiswretched in all your life.

Bruises peppered your body as payment for failing to block. Your ribs ached every time you inhaled from repeated punches. Even though Filipe taught you how to flex your stomach to protect your vulnerable insides, it still bloody hurt.

In fact,every muscle in your body hurt, and Filipe could care less. His methods were brutal, but effective.

He worked you until blisters burst and bled down your hands, until you doubled over and vomited in the grass. You sparred until your legs and arms quivered and you could no longer lift the blade.

You practiced until you cried, shoulders heaving, where he pointedly reminded you that there were no ‘breaks in battle for women to whimper and pout.’

Yet every day you travelled closer to Harald, you grew stronger and your resolve hardened. Your hands, once soft and supple were hardened and worn. New muscles flexed in your arms and shoulders. The sword strapped down your back was no longer a heavy burden, but a comfort.

The days grew steadily shorter, pressing down on you as a constant reminder time was running out. Oak leaves the color of gold and fire swirled in the autumn air, dancing with each other before flitting off.

The afternoon was a day much like the others, only you and Filipe were training with live steel. You two were granted a boon and discovered an abandoned cottage set deep in the woods by a babbling creek.

While pilfering for food and supplies, Filipe had unearthed a rusted, old sword. It was crudely fashioned but sturdy and had seen some battles. He held it out to you, running a forefinger down its edge, bludgeoned and riddled with nicks.

“See here how the blade is sharp only on the upper two thirds?” You nodded your head. “That is where you want to slice and cut. But here…” as he ran his finger down the blade—

“…the back edge is dull – so you can push or block with your hand.” He placed the flat of his hand on the blade to demonstrate. “Otherwise, you would slice it clear off.”

He jerked his head towards your sword laying in the grass.

“Pick up your sword and practice with the slicing.”

Dutifully, you walked over and bent to retrieve the blade, when a stinging blow exploded across your backside. You cried out in pain and furious, whipped around and glared menacingly at Filipe.

“That was a dirty, rotten move!” you scowled at him while rubbing your bottom. “You did not even wait until I was ready!”

“Do you know what they call an honorable solider?” he arched a brow at you, leaning on his sword like a walking stick.

Caught off guard by the rapid change in subject, you narrowed your eyes.

“No.”

“Adeadone.”

He continued on. “Use anymeans necessary to defeat your enemy. When your life is at stake there is no victory in acting honorable. You do not wait for him to draw his blade, you do not care about what dirty tricks you employ. This is battle and your life depends on it.”

You nodded. “I understand, let us go again.”

You sparred, the heavy swords cracking and clashing as you blocked his thrusts. He lurched forward and you deflected the blow, but his swords’ guard struck your hand. Retreating back, you yelped out dramatically in pain.

Filipe paused promptly, concern flooding his face. “Are you hurt—?”

You took advantage of his distraction, spun, and kicked him neatly in the crotch.

Eyes bulging, Filipe folded in half and toppled over, clutching himself. You were upon him in an instant, your foot on his throat and your sword jabbed into his stomach. One flick of your wrist, and his entrails would have spilled before him, warm and steaming.

His face twisted in agony as he stared up at you in shock. You smiled sweetly down at him.

“Was that dirtyenough for you?”

—

You struggled with the ties of your breeches, appalled at how lewdly the trousers hugged your legs and enhanced the curve of your bottom. They were obscene. You had never worn breeches in your life, having only been garbed courtly gowns of your youth or more simple smocks for life on a farm.

Just that morning, you and Filipe had finally arrived at Oddernes, one of the southernmost ports along Norway’s coast and a bustling trading center. Most importantly, it was only a day’s sail to the northern coastal villages of Denmark, given the weather was favorable.

Now, here you were struggling to pull on the new garments while Kaka sniffed at you with interest. You nudged his head away and shrugged on the leather jerkin.

“Everything all right in there?” Filipe called out, voice dripping with amusement. “Shall I come to assist? I am most proficient at helping ladies get dressed.”

“Enter and I shall convert you from a man to a woman” you replied hotly.

Filipe made a sound of choked laughter.

“I do not understand why you insist I dress like a boy” you griped through the closed stall door.

“Skirts are impractical for a warrior. You want a man to grab hold of them and drag you down under him?”

“No” you mumbled. Curse that man and the day he was born for always being right.

“And…” he continued on. “A man travelling alone is far less suspicious than a woman.”

“No one will be fooled” you huffed impatiently as you stomped your boots on and tied them off. “I have breasts after all.”

And misbehaving ones at that. The jerkin was clearly designed for a boy and made no allowances for a woman’s anatomy. The end result was your jerkin laced and belted tightly up the front, giving everyone an ample idea of your assets. Splendid.

“So I’ve noticed” Filipe replied dryly.

You yanked the leather vambraces over your forearms, clasped the cloak around your neck and exited Kaka’s stall. You stood before Filipe with your hands on your hips and arched an eyebrow at him.

“Well? Are you quite satisfied?”

Filipe, not known to lose his tongue, was temporarily speechless. He eyed you up and down, and suddenly appeared to be uncomfortable. He rubbed the back of his neck, then remembered you had asked him a question.

“Aye, you look…different.” Filipe swallowed thickly.

“Gah!” you threw your hands up in exasperation and stalked past him, out of the stables.

He thinks I look ridiculous. Mayhap my foes will laugh themselves to death, saving me the trouble of combat.

Too late now. You had already traded in your clothes in exchange for this new, mannish garb. Next, you needed to secure passage to Denmark. Eventually, Filipe found his composure scattered amongst the hay and trailed after you.

—

Before descending upon the docks, you two decided to locate blacksmith’s forge to see what, if anything, could be done to improve Filipe’s sword. Yours was too looking a bit worse for wear and could use some sharpening.

The forge was clear across the other side of town and buried between two other shops. Lined in deep red brick from floor to ceiling, you stood outside the arched opening and watched the blacksmith work. He fed Filipe’s sword into the fire, methodically turning and rotating until the metal glowed white-hot. He was bare-chested save for a heavy leather apron. His forearms, covered in a dense mat of black hair, flexed and twisted as he pounded on the heated blade.

Oppressive heat poured forth from the forge, a welcomed reprieve from the chilly breeze off the coast. The air tasted thick and ashy and you closed your eyes – letting it thaw the tip of your nose and ears.

Distantly, the bell tower in the center of the port began to toll.

CLANG, CLANG, CLANG

It was not a delicate, pitched sound like singing church bells, but a blunt crash of metal colliding together. The inelegant sound boomed, reverberated across the village and set your teeth vibrating.

The blacksmith paused and lifted his head – his face went slack.

CLANG, CLANG, CLANG

Setting Filipe’s sword aside, the blacksmith silently shouldered passed you and ran out into the street. Other shop keepers appeared at their doors as well. Women clutched their skirts and started calling for their children, their voices firm and urgent. More and more townspeople poured forth from villages, shops, and inns, like rats fleeing a sinking ship.

The blacksmith dragged a hand through his hair and wordlessly bolted back inside his shop.

“Smithy” Filipe said warningly, his brows lowered and posture alert. “What do the bells mean?”

The blacksmith picked up Filipes sword, scowled at it, and tossed it aside. He hefted an enormous broadsword off his wall and thrust it into Filipe’s surprised hands.

“Berserkers. Word came a fortnight ago that they were attacking nearby pagan villages. They mean to cleanse the land. Wipe out all of those that worship the old gods. Your sword is shite. Take mine and fight. Find shelter for your woman.”

With those parting words, the blacksmith tucked two axes into his belt and set off, leaving you speechless.

You and Filipe followed a few steps behind, pausing in the middle of the town’s main thoroughfare. The forge was at the top of a small hill on the south side of the port. Giving you an advantageous view, your eyes scanned the horizon until you saw a huge mass of blackness. Withering and teaming, the mass was rapidly approaching the small town. Occasional sparks of sunlight glinted off scores of metal weapons, undulating like the white caps of rough seas.

“Odin save us” Filipe breathed, his eyes locked in on the approaching attackers.

Fear coursed free and easy through your body, trembling as you watched the group approach. It was eerily silent as they stalked down the hill towards the edge of town. They moved quietly for such a large group, making them appear all the more menacing.

It was not until they moved closer that you noticed something was wrong with them.

Their faces were bloated and red, rage painted in vivid colors across their features. Some were snarling and others were…chewing on their shields. They looked unhinged and no longer human.

“Filipe, there is something unnatural about these men” you uttered.

“Henbane.” Filipe spat. “They ingest it before battle so they can fight without fear or pain.”

Rooted to the ground, you and Filipe stood transfixed by the devastation readying to fall upon the bustling port.

“Dear gods” you whispered. “All of these innocent people.”

Villagers erupted into a full panic. Women, children and livestock were being haphazardly ushered on to boats. Men dove in every direction, grabbing weapons to fight, locking up their shops, or taking to the ships.

The bell tower continued to ring out its song of doom.

It dawned on you that you and Filipe were on the exact opposite side of the port from where you needed to be. Boats, one after another, started streaming away. At the rate in which the berserkers were moving, you and Filipe would never make it in time to retrieve Kaka and get onto one of the larger cargo ships.

You would have to fight your way there.

With a determined set to his jaw, Filipe adjusted his grip on the sword. “We are going to have to cut a path to the docks” he said, echoing your own thoughts.

“No! I…I cannot!” you cried in sudden frustration. You have come all this way, suffered through so much, only to fail now.

“Listen to me” Filipe said firmly, his hand reaching out to grasp your shoulder.

“You can fight and survive. You learned from the best. I know, becauseItaught you.”

“But…I am just a simple woman! I am no warrior!”

Filipe’s eyes shimmered down at you.

“If that is your low opinion of yourself, then aye. Go, slink back home with your tail between your legs and never find the owner of this sword” as he reached out and flicked the pommel of Harald’s blade.

You flinched, chastised by his harsh words.

“But I intended to fight. I cannot stand by and watch these innocent people be slaughtered.”

Mouth clamped shut, you watched him storm down to the center of the village.

Curses, I hate that he is always right.

You squeezed your eyes shut and said a quick prayer to Thor, god of war and thunder, asking for bravery and victory. Then, you sent a prayer to Harald, asking for forgiveness if you never reach him.

—

Just as you caught up with Filipe, a man appeared around the side of a sea low wall, a shield in one hand and a hatchet in the other. He ran upon Filipe, shrieking a fierce war cry. Filipe blocked the axe with the flat of his blade and punched the man in his liver. Dumbfounded from the blow, Filipe wrenched the axe from his hand and swiped it across his face. The man’s lower jaw broke free with a sickening crunch.

Filipe swiped the man’s shield off the ground and shoved the handle of the hatchet in his belt. You stood, dumbfounded at the efficiency in which Filipe had dispatched the man of his…face.

“Cover my back and left side!” he barked tersely at you. Stirred to action, you lunged forward into position.

Two more appeared, one stalked towards you with the swift purpose of a murderous predator. Your pulse quickened and your stomach soured with the distinct feeling you were upon some sort of precipice of which there was no return.

You decided to fall off that cliff.

As he thundered down upon you, you charged too, cocking your arm back as if to strike. At the last moment, you tucked a leg under and slid along the ground on your hip, just in time to avoid the lick of his blade. You sliced the back of his passing heal, and you felt the tendon give way and severe. He stumbled, falling upon his face. Reeling like a madman, you knew he would never walk again.

You bounced back up to your feet and positioned yourself behind Filipe again. Another one rushed at you, his eyes crazed with bloodlust. His arm drew back and at the last moment you crouched, sending him tripping over you. As he flew over your head, you thrusted your sword straight up, cutting deep into his belly. He landed in a heap on the ground.

You snatched up his dropped shield, spun, and caught a flash of a man rapidly approaching Filipe’s back with a spear.

“NO!”

You cried out and rushed forth and placed yourself between Filipe and swung your shield. The spear glanced off with bone-jarring force. You grunted through it and swiftly kicked the man square in the chest. As he was falling backwards, you were already hoisting the shield high in the air. You brought it down on his head and he jerked, quivering once before going still.

Your brain had gone numb and quiet, only the sharp tang of clashing steel and shields could be heard.

You spun around and caught Filipe’s eye, who gave you a quick nod of thanks. However, his eyes soon went wide before his lip curled into a snarl. He swung his arm up and blocked an axe that was moments from finding its way deep into your shoulder. With his other arm brought his shield up and sank its edge brutally into the man’s throat. He folded in half, his throat torn open and gushing.

You blinked dumbly at him and felt a surreal sort of peace settle over you. Floating outside your body, you watched all this horror unfold with a sort of detached interest.

“RUN!” Filipe barked at you, trying to shake your from your dazed stupor.

“Get Kaka and find a ship! Or else they will leave you behind!” he shouted. He spun back around and ran to help a villager struggling against his attacker. Filipe unsheathed a short dagger from his belt and sank it deep into the man’s rib, before yanking the dagger out, wiping it on his leg, and stalking forth.

Filipe’s tone left no room for argument. You ditched the heavy shield and dashed towards Kaka’s stables.

Once you got to the stables, you wrenched the doors open and slammed them behind you with all your strength. Chest heaving, you fell back against the doors, silently listening for any sign of a berserker following you. All you could hear was faint screams and shouts, coming from all directions.

You wrapped your arms around yourself and took a few deep breaths. Belatedly, you patted yourself down to see if you suffered any injuries. Your heart was still a gallop in your chest and your energy wound so tight, you would not be surprised if you lost a finger along the way.

Thankfully, you seemed whole. Filthy and splattered in blood, but unharmed. At least not yet.

You quickly walked to Kaka’s stall whose head poked out and impatiently whinnied at you. He was likely feeling put out for not being part of the action.

You smoothed a trembling hand down his nose and whispered a few comforting words. You tried to push away the images of the men’s faces, blurry and filled with such hatred. How can their god sanction such actions? You only hoped their death by your hand was swift, and that they be judged fairly upon the gates of heaven.

The stable doors crashed opened behind you and whipped around, hand already on your sword’s hilt.

It was Filipe, and you exhaled in relief. He was bloody and had taken a few hits and licks, but mostly in one piece.

His green-blue eyes glittered like precious gems. He inspected you intently, looking for obvious signs of injury.

“I am alright” you assured him, holding your hands up and proving you still had both of them.

“Thank the gods” he muttered as he came over and patted Kaka’s neck solemnly. His eyes slid over to you, his expression grave.

“The cargo and livestock ships are gone, there is no way to transport Kaka now. Soon, there may not be any ships left.”

“What!” you exclaimed. “Then I must go, mayhap there still be one left!”

You adjusted your cloak and rushed past Filipe, but he grabbed your wrist, halting you. His gaze was trained steadily on the floor and he spoke quietly.

“Would you ever have me?”

Time came to an abrupt halt. Speechless, your mouth parted as you beheld his soft expression.

“I know I do not offer much, but I would provide and care for you. Mayhap…you could learn to love me in time?”

His tone was so gentle and quiet, enough to make your throat constrict. Silently, you lifted your hand to cup his handsome face. His eyes fluttered shut, ravenous for your touch.

Faintly, the sounds of battle raged on outside. Steel clashed, horse hooves pounded the earth as they rushed by, and men shouted in terror. But inside, the air was still as stone.

“I do not doubt that, Filipe. Not for one moment. But I cannot give you what belongs to another.”

Filipe nodded and it tore at your heart. Mayhap in another life you would have found happiness with him. But the other half of your soul was out there, waiting.

Andhurting.

“Whomever that sword belongs to is a lucky bastard.” Filipe grumbled. “And…I hate him.”

You chuckled softly, letting your hand fall from his face to his chest as you looked up at him earnestly.

“I want you to keep Kaka.”

Filipe jolted, as if woken from a deep slumber, his glacier eyes piercing yours.

“If there are no cargo ships left, then you should have him. You need him to escape from here.”

Silently, Filipe shook his head.

‘Please…” your voice cracking. “I know you will take good care of him. I would trust him with no one else.”

You had to go, the remaining boats in the harbor will be sailing away with the last of the town’s survivors. Before Filipe could convince you otherwise, you wrapped your arms around him in a fierce hug.

“Thank you…for everything” you whispered and ripped yourself away.

“WAIT!” Filipe shouted at your back.

You did not wait.

Drawing Harald’s blade, you sprinted down the streets, hacking at any red-faced berserker that came at you. You brutally slashed a path ahead of you, running for your life.

With practiced agility, you leapt over the dead bodies, dodged swinging axes, and blocked swords. Blood sprayed in an arc before you as you slashed at any person that dared step in your path.

Must. Keep. Moving.

As the docks came into view, you deepest fear was confirmed. The last of the boats were already pulled away, dragging deep from the press of frantic and desperate simple folk trying to escape.

Your steps pounded down the wooden planks of the dock. You stabbed your sword back into the sheath down your back, flew to the end and leapt into the sea with a huge jump.

Your body hit the cold water and it felt like slamming into a stone wall. Dazed and numb, you sluggishly broke through the surface, sputtering and gulping for air. Your clothes pulled at you, dragging you down. Slowly, you swam out to a boat, to a couple of outstretched arms.

The people grabbed and pulled you up, until you pitched over the side in a wet clump. You staggered to your feet and dove to the edge of the boat, peering out into the harbor.

The village was decimated. Houses and businesses burned across the entire town. Bodies lay everywhere in the street. Frantic, you squinted and searched for any sign of Filipe. The silence lengthened painfully and your stomach dropped.

Then, a glimmer of movement caught your eye.

There they are!

Filipe was riding a top Kaka, flying through the streets. Filipe let loose a blood curdling scream as he chopped at berserkers with his broadsword. Undeterred, Kaka barreled through the men, either sending them flying or charging straight over them.

Faster and faster, the two ripped through the streets. You watched as Filipe guided him out of the ruins of the town, Kaka’s majestic tail blowing in the wind.

—

Next Chapter >>

Taglist: @albeeox​,@empireroyals,@oceanmermaidwitch,@drxchxl,@ivanna6026, @casablancakawtar, @alitaar,@queenophelia,
@arishbear,@buckybarnesisalittleshit,@stargurl-battleship​,@across-the-starss,@mariaenchanted,@hotmessonline,
@geminidas, @lunerose0, @clairefraiser, @calmitee, @kate-lobes-harry,@sakurasbtch,@sweetestrose569,@a-sunflower-in-bloom,
@herefordistractions, @nicklet94, @werenotjustfriends,@supernaturallover2002,@extratragic, @sendmeyourgarbage
@practicallyperfectthings, @brwneyedgyal

Rating: G for this chapter, explicit overall, 18+ only, no minors.

Pairing: Harald Sigurdsson x F!Reader

Warnings:None

—

Harald turned back to you, but it was all wrong. He was moving in half-time and his face fell when he saw yours. A deafening noise like crashing waves filled your ears. His mouth moved, but no sounds came out.

You looked down and saw him grab your hand.

At once, time sped back up to normal speed. You jerked your hand from his grip, spun around, and fled.

Thump, thump, thump.

Your feet beat the pounded path as you darted and weaved your way through the crowds. Despite the festival coming to an end, the village was still congested and teaming with activity.

Harald was roaring behind you, but you could not, would not hear him.

You were nimble and swift, able to sprint through the buildings and down pathways. Harald, was not. His broad shoulders collided into people left and right, slowing his chase. He could not keep up with you and you began to pull away.

Harald’s vision ran red. He bellowed your name. Startled villagers jerked back and hurried out of his way. You did not dare stop and look.

Thump, thump, thump.

You ducked and took a sharp turn down a narrow passageway between two shacks. Panicking, you grabbed the handle of the first door you saw and crashed through it. You spun around and slammed down the bar down, locking it. It appeared to be an old storage shed and smelled of dank earth and rotten wood.

Panting and breathless, your head swam and the room spun. You just needed a moment, a moment to rest and think. Your fell back against the wall and slid down. Drawing your knees up, you pulled them tight to your chest and gasped for air.

Soon, you heard heavy footsteps.

They stopped, turned, and ran down your alley. You could hear the heavy clunk of leather boots strike the ground in a rush. Your door shook and you flinched, clamping your hands over your mouth.

There was a pause, and then a great thunderous clap as a very frustrated man kicked the door. The door rattled as Harald pounded the door with his fists and feet. He gave up, swore through clenched teeth, and moved on to assault the other doors.

Gulping air through your fingers, you waited until he finally left. The air settled around you and your breathing slowed.

Harald…Harald was Harald Sigurdsson, Prince of Norway and your betrothed.

How could this be?

He looked so different from how you remembered him. You had only ever glimpsed his face from afar in the great hall at Kattegat. He was young then, with shorn hair and no beard.

He was a man now and looked nothing like that entitled prince filled with such hatred and rage. You shuddered as you thought of the night your father dragged you to him and bartered your life away.

Oh gods, this whole time, he knew who you were. Yes, that was precisely it.

When he woke from his fever and said “you are mine…”

When he deftly batted away questions too personal or pointed about his past.

And what of all that had passed between you? You thought of the first time he kissed you, how he touched your soul. What of last night?

Your face flamed and your guts twisted. You had given him everything. Your innocence, your love….and all the while he was a lying bastard.

He could have told you at any time. There were so many opportunities, yet he had said nothing for weeks. Angry, hot tears spilled down your face. What a fool you must have looked to him!

What stupid, stupidfool. How he must have laughed at you. How delightedhe must have been to have filled your head with thoughtless notions of love.

Goddess Freya, save me. My small soft heart cannot endure this.

You had blindly followed him, like an old horse being led to a slaughter. And now you were his, unable to take back the precious gift you had given him last night.

Your shoulders heaved as you cried out. Gasping, you could not get enough air. You felt the walls closing in on you and your lungs burned.

It was then, in your lowest moment that the most wretched and dark thought came to you.

What if it was all a great act of revenge? He must have been black with rage when you fled that night, destroying his plans for conquest.

Was his sweet vengeance? He had found you, ruined you, and would laugh the whole way home. For what man would want you now? Sullied and plundered as you were? Your anguish came in a deluge, as you felt your heart splinter.

My word, he had done it.

He had bested you and broken you. You wept until your eyes burned, your chest ached, and your heart thoroughly and cleanly cleaved in half.

—

Harald stood in the middle of the village, frantically scanning the crowds for you. Grinding his jaw, he rubbed his raw and bleeding knuckles.

He had pounded and kicked every door you might have ducked into. Then, he pounded and kicked others, just to vent his murderous frustration.

He could not delay Canute forever. The King retired to an inn and was waiting for Harald to meet with him.

But he could delay him a little longer.

—

You were not sure how long you had stayed hidden in that storage shed. It felt like hours, but time had a strange way of stretching out when you were filled with shock and grief.

You could not comprehend how drastically your life had changed in one morning. You fingered the woven ring Harald gave you. Just mere hours ago, you were to be married to the most patient, loving man you had ever met. He was everything you ever wanted in a husband. He made you want a husband. To see how much joy a union –a family, could bring.

It was all a lie.

You miserably wished you could turn back the great wheel of time, if only to hold onto that version of Harald forever. You would press him close to your chest, trying in vain to keep that reality from slipping through your fingertips.

But like the shifting sands of the shore, your future with Harald had been washed away. There would be no wedding with crowns of flowers and greens. There would be no Garrick standing proudly by, with Ida sniffling and dabbing her eyes. There would be no simple life on the farm. There would be no babe to hold in your arms, sporting Harald’s tiny features to coo over.

These were stupid dreams from a girl that was too dazed and amazed to recognize what insidious plan was lurking beneath.

Your chin quivered and your body shook, as despair threatened to overwhelm you again. Your heart was at war with itself – the grief from losing the man you though you knew and the depth of betrayal Harald lies had dealt.

You thought you had grown up. You thought that you were smart, brave, and resourceful. You had truthfully believed that you had escaped the traitorous plans of men, so that you could live out your life of your own choosing.

But Harald had swiftly and decisively shown you just how truly pathetic you were.

You needed to you move. You had been gone for hours and Ida and Garrick were surely worried about you. If only you could stay hidden in this shed a little longer, to gather the broken pieces of your pride. However, the festival was at its end and Garrick and Ida wanted to be on the road long before nightfall.

You slowly stood and brushed off the dirt and dust from your skirts. Bleakly, you wondered if there was any feasible way to leave the port without having to face Harald.

—

He stood in the midst of the market square, watching people stream steadily out of the village. They laughed and chatted, brushing past him, eager and excited to get home. A couple passed by, their heads tilted together, sharing in some secret. The man brushed a kiss against her temple, and she blushed.

Harald’s eyes shuttered at the sight. His hands hung limp at his sides, blood dripping from his battered knuckles.

“Prince Harald?”

Harald spun around, the voice belonged to one of Canute’s men.

“The king has sent for you, he is most eager to speak with you.”

Duty and honor. Always duty and honor.

Harald heaved a sigh. He had searched everywherefor you and felt as if his guts had been ripped open. Obediently, he followed the man away from the square to the inn where Canute was holding court.

The King of Denmark…and England, sat at the front of a huge table, loaded with food and drink. His men flanked his sides and were deep in their cups, eating only as men fresh off a boat eat.

Canute’s face brightened when Harald entered the hall. He jerked his head to the seat beside him.

Harald strode over and collapsed on the bench. Canute eyed Harald hawkishly.

“You look good for a dead man,” he said after a moment.

Despite everything, Harald managed a small smile. Canute was his closest ally and friend. It was a relief to see him and was grateful for the small reprieve from his internal turmoil.

“And you look good for the king of England…if a bit soft. Mayhap you be drinking more than fighting these days.”

Canute grinned as he clapped a hand on Harald’s shoulder and shook him.

“Wars are won both on and off the battlefield, my friend. Eat…drink…tell me what happened to you.” Canute motioned for a bar maid and she plunked down a tankard of ale in front of Harald.

He stared at it blankly.

Harald told Canute of his grave injury and how he escaped. He relayed how he washed ashore, taken in by an old couple and stayed to work off the debt he owed for their kindness and shelter. He made no mention of you. He could not stomach the thought of your name falling from his lips. For if it did, he was not sure he could stop whatever torrent poured forth.

Harald did not fear the answer for what he asked next. He already felt drawn and quartered, what more pain could possibly be inflicted?

“What news have you from Kattegat?”

Canute stroked his beard, weighing his words carefully. “There is great unrest between the pagan clans and the Christians. The people have no leader to unite them and quell the fighting.”

Harald nodded. “It was Olaf’s dream to convert the people – to end the fighting by making them accept Jesus as their savior.”

“And what of you? Do you share your slain brother’s dream?” Canute cocked his head.

Harald shrugged, the indifference in his manner alerted Canute that something was amiss. This was not the blood thirsty, ambitious warrior that crumbled the London Bridge. Canute did not know this man.

Canute’s eyes flickered curiously over Harald’s bloodied hands. He leaned forward then, his face darkened and serious.

“Come with me, to Denmark. We will see what allies and support you have in the north and we plan. I promised you once the crown of Norway, I intend to keep it.”

Harald rubbed a hand over his tired face and Canute declined waiting for an answer.

“Good, ‘tis settled then. We sail at once.” Canute glanced at Harald’s clothes and frowned disapprovingly. “And you shall change.”

“I do not care what clothes I carry on my back” Harald replied distantly.

“Aye, I can see that well enough. But I do. Your stake for the throne starts now and I will not have you arriving at Denmark, traipsing about and looking like a beggar.”

Harald glanced at the door, watching without seeing. Canute said something else and Harald heard, without listening.

—

Sweaty hands clutching your skirts, you scurried along the port village streets, keeping your head down. You were ashamed your face was a ruin, all stinging eyes and puffy cheeks. You could not bear the odd looks of curious folks as you rushed past. Just a few more turns until the pasture trail where you could beg Garrick and Ida to pack up and leave without delay.

You moved faster, but the day was fated to be filled with nothing but rotten luck.

Just as you rounded a corner, a stream of King Canute’s men exited the inn. You looked wildly from the men to the docks, and saw that the ship was sitting low in the water. The supplies had already been replaced and replenished for the outgoing journey.

Bringing up the rear, two great broad men exited, walking side by side. One was Canute, and the other was him.

Harald looked magnificent. He had been given clothes more befitting of his station. Gone were the homespun, humble tunics Ida had fashioned for him. Cast aside were the worn trousers, hammered belt and muddy boots.

Harald had been clothed in a fine wool tunic, black as night and edges stitched with fine leather ties. A leather baldric was strapped across his chest where a wicked knifed was sheathed.

He was draped in a floor-length raven cloak, silver studs glittered all along the edges. A fox fur mantle adorned his shoulders, clasped together with rows of heavy gold chains. Every surface of him seeped power and royal authority, permanently trampling the simple man you fell in love.

You fingered the cloth of your skirts, acutely aware of its plainness. Your heart wrenched when his eyes met yours. He strode over to you, his face a mask of determination and his words rushed—”

“We need to leave soon. Come, let us find Ida and Garrick and say goodbye, I will tell you every—”

“No.” you whispered.

He thinks me a slave, one in which he owns and can order about.

“Please….” he breathed, his voice laced with anguish. “Allow me to explain.”

“I do not want to hear it!” you cried out in a sudden burst. Harald went quiet.

“Are you satisfied? Have you taken your revenge? I abandoned my duty and agreement, and now you have come, pretending to be…” your voice faltered.

Someone I loved.

You could not say the words out loud. You shook your head, unable to give voice to the thought.

“Revenge was never my intention” Harald murmured. His eyebrows drawn together. This was rapidly spiraling out of control. His mind was screaming at him to do something, anything to make you see his side. But you were slipping away faster than he could grasp.

You wrung your hands and felt your body pulsating with hot emotions.

“No, just humiliation. You succeeded, you must know. How proud of yourself you must have been when I followed you around like a loyal dog. How smug you must have felt when I parted my legs for you.”

Harald flinched, your last words stinging like a slap to his face.

“No! I –” he tried to grind out, but you pushed forth. A terrible pressure was building inside you and threatened to explode.

“Consider your pride avenged, yourhighness.”

You slipped the humble woven ring from your finger. You studied it for a bit, your eyes flickering over to Harald’s own fingers. Several new gold rings, solid and shining, now adorned them.

The fight left your body in a sudden whoosh.

Only hours ago, the ring was your most cherished possession. It represented all of the hopes and desires a little girl could dream of. Love and happiness. A lifetime with a man that you could never dared wished for. Now, you see the ring for what is truly is – a farce. A reminder that you are just a pawn and deserve nothing.

For you are nothing and you havenothing.

No father to protect you. No family clan to welcome to you to their house. And no man that loved you for just who you are.

That immense pressure erupted. Tears trickled out, a few dropping to your dusty hand. You turned your palm over and let the ring fall to the ground with a tiny plop.

You wished you had the strength to throw it at him instead. To shout or rage or put on some sort of impressive display of will. It was fitting – your final act looked as insignificant as you felt.

Harald was panicked now. He cannot let this happen. He grabbed your shoulders, trying to make you look up at him. But your body came alive with a sudden jolt.

You staggered back and flung his hands off you. Like you had been…burned.

Harald’s thoughts were wild.The depth of your hurt and betrayal yawned before him like a great glacier chasm. Harald could see you floating farther and farther away. He thought he would have more time to explain himself. His words were failing him and his body too slow to react.

He flung his heart out wide and fast, like a fisherman casting his net to sea.

“Choose me…” he said, his voice rough but earnest—

“I think that loving you is the only thing that ever truly mattered. Yesterday, tomorrow…forever, I will always choose you. It has always been you.”

“Choose me…” his voice cracked with that last plea. He raised an outstretched hand, his eyes beseeching you silently—

Choose me.

You shook your head side to side, mouth clamped shut to swallow down your sobs. His lies and betrayal damaged whatever fragile love had blossomed between you two. A sweet, innocent thing that it was, now rotten and ruined. You refused his hand and wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to keep the broken pieces of you together.

“I want you to leave.”

Please, do not leave me…your traitorous heart whispered.

“You need not concern yourself with me anymore. You never looked for me when I left…you need not find me ever again. For I will no longer be a stain on your plans.”

I will never survive this.

“Go! Leave me be!” you cried, shoving at his chest angrily when he did not move. Harald took a few hesitant steps back, his hands fisted at his sides.

Stay and fight for me.

Harald’s chest heaved as he struggled with the indecision of what to do. Your entire body trembled. He was a seasoned warrior and the man knew when the battle was well and truly lost.

Harald knew he was not strong enough to witness any more of your heartbreak. He gathered what little pride and dignity he had left. Harald swooped down to pick up and pocketed the ring. He turned to walk away, then abruptly stopped, his head turned.

“I did look for you…” he remarked, keeping his gaze downcast and his voice carefully even.

“I searched for years. Sent scouts across the country, wrote to all the great houses…I even went looking for you myself, spending weeks out in the wilderness…” he trailed off, as he ran a thumb over the ring.

“I never gave up hope of finding you…” he finished.

When you said nothing, Harald nodded once. He had not been an honorable man. But he could do the honorable thing now, which was to respect your wishes…and go.

Harald turned to shield the absolute devastation play out across his face. His body moved, even though his mind will never recall doing so.

If you had listened closely, you may have heard his heart break. It was an earthy, clean sound like the snapping of a thick branch from the weight of too much snow.

Harald walked away, his long stately cloak swaying and bouncing off his heels. Your red, swollen eyes followed him. He made his way down the long dock, where the men were waiting patiently for him. Harald leapt onto the boat and perched on the ledge, his head turned towards the sea.

Ropes were tossed off and oars snaked out, gently rowing the long ship out of the harbor. Your feet were firmly planted to the ground, but your heart ached to reach out to him.

Any moment now, you thought, he will see through the thin veneer of my anger to find just a child’s heart that has been hurt.

Surely he will turn the boat around. Your muscles tensed, ready to run and leap into this arms.

But Harald did not halt the long ship. He kept his unseeing eyes on the horizon. A lifetime of nothingness stretched out before him.

Bits and pieces of his heart floated down in his wake – swallowed by the waves. He never looked back. You watched and watched, as your vision blurred. Steadfastly, he grew smaller and smaller.

He never looked back.

—

You thought you knew grief, like an old friend. It had followed you faithfully when you escaped your father and his plans for your future.

You were wrong.

This fresh pain was not something you could push through or stamp down. Not this time, anyway.

This time, there was no other side of the misery you felt when you imagined Harald as you once knew him. There was no end, it was not a task to be finished. Your sorrow was now a permanent part of you, something to endure.

Harald’s presence lingered heavy at the farm. His chair stood empty and gaping at the family table. The three of you feebly pretended there was no one missing. The chair mocked you, standing there so bare. You could still see one muscular arm draped across the back, one long leg stretched out under the table, occasionally nudging yours in secret. An easy grin on his face when you nudged his foot back.

You cannot escape him, for he was everywhere. He was in the barn, retrieving Kaka for his daily ride. Harald was standing at the well, chest heaving with effort, trying to put the fire out. He was tugging you to his chest, eye’s dark and heavy as they passed over your face. He kissed you amongst a humble bed of hay, the hills and valleys of his body encircling yours.

You never felt more alone then when you crawled into your bed at night. One day, Garrick and Ida will pass from this world to the next. Who will keep you warm in the middle of long, cold nights? Who will share this life with you?

But what was most devastating, was the terrible silence. The quietness as you went about your daily, mundane life. There was to one to share the day’s little triumphs and failures, like a tart rising beautifully, or a goat escaping the pen. It feels like they do not happen…or matter at all.

Is a life worth living, when there is no one to share it with?

The quiet was loud to the point of deafening, yet it could not smoother the tumult of thoughts in your head. Over and over again, you relive the tender moments, but also his clever evasions and the secrets. They swirled in your head like oil and vinegar – unable to make the two halves of one man fuse into one.

But one thought is unable to leave you alone.

You imagined Harald wrapping his strong arms around you, pulling you to his chest and whispering the words you desperately wanted to hear, one last time.

I love you…I will always love you…choose me.

‘Yes…’you whispered in this tormented fantasy. ‘I choose you.’

Just a moment. That is all you humbly asked. Just one moment to alter the course of events and escape from the suffocating weight on your chest. Over and over, the thoughts grind and crush your soul, until sleep comes to finally relieve you from yourself.

—

It was early morning and the cooler air of autumn caressed your skin as you made your way down the winding path from the house. You slipped inside the barn and walked to Kaka’s stall. His great head peaked out, expectantly. You stepped closer and smoothed a palm down the wide bridge of his nose. Kaka’s glossy dark eyes swept over you and his head sunk. His tail stilled and he whinnied sadly at you.

“I know, I am not the one you were hoping for.”

Kaka, so spirited under Harald’s attentive care, had been despondent ever since you all returned from the festival. You tried riding him daily and bribed him with treats, but he was listless. Some days, he refused to leave his stall entirely.

You leaned closer and wrapped your hands around his thick neck, nuzzling into the long mane.

“I miss him too…” The horse huffed and nudged you with his head.

“No, I do not think you will see him again.”

The two of you stood for a long while, before the hinges of the stable door creaked and you heard the rustling of skirts.

“Where are you child? Are you in here?” Ida called.

Ida had been so kind and gentle towards you since you have returned. You could barely tolerate it.

“I am here, Ida. What ‘tis it?”

“Come help me with the dough dove, while I butcher a chicken for supper.”

—

You stood at the table in Ida’s large kitchen, dutifully kneading the dough while Ida was expertly deboning a freshly slaughtered chicken.

The air was stifling in its emptiness. Like a disease, the silence grew and threatened to consume you completely.

“Ida…” you broke through the fog. “Can there be life again, after such a betrayal?”

Ida pressed her mouth into a thin line. She brought her cleaver down, savagely cracking the chicken carcass in half. Ida’s face hardened and her eyes shimmered as she regarded you.

Something inside her had finally, finallycracked.

Odin take me, you exhaled in relief.

“Did you not betray him too?” she said coolly. Confusion furrowed your brow as Ida pressed on.

“Did you not break your contract with him? Fleeing in the night with no explanation?”

‘Tis not the same!” you countered heatedly. “He hated me and wanted no part of the marriage!”

“And you are such a good judge of character, you can know a whole man from one conversation? One that was done under duress?”

“But—”

“Do you find fault with Harald wanting to keep his identity hidden, so that he could prove himself a man worthy of your love, without judgement?”

Realization… and horror dawned on your face.

“No” you whispered in disbelief. You did not want Ida’s words to settle on you. For if they did, you would have to face the agony of the mistake you made.

“Nay! He did it out of spite…and revenge. To punish me, surely.”

You were drowning in the thick panic rising up your throat. You wanted to claw at it, shove it back down to where it was tolerable again. Anger, you could tolerate. But this festering madness, you could not.

Ida huffed, but her tone tempered a bit at your growing distress.

“The only one punished is Harald. Punished for bearing his soul to you, for falling in love, only to have his heart so callously tossed back in his face. ‘Twas a miracle he made it back on that ship in one piece.”

Silver lined your eyes, as your hands paused.

What have I done?

“Aye, but you had your deepest desire granted, little dove. You wanted no part of that man. And now…you have made certain of it.” Ida’s words softened at the end, to lessen the bitter truth of it.

Drops rolled down your cheeks, chasing each other until they met beneath your chin and flowed down your throat. You were so blinded by your fury and betrayal, you could not see the truth of the man before you.

The whole man. No title, no crown, no contract. He had shown you who he really was. Just a man –a good man. And that was no small thing.

And you threw it in his face.

Your chest hollowed out and a cold, foggy emptiness floated in. Numbness settled as your eyes continued to flow freely.

“It is too late. Our fates have been set” you uttered, defeated.

Ida slammed her cleaver down, her eyes glittering. She grabbed a handful of flour and threw it straight at your face. You jerked back in surprise, sputtering as you blinked the flour away, your face and eyelashes dusted in white.

You stared at her, dumb and bewildered.

“Hogwash! It is never too late! You go and do the thing you should have done from the beginning!”

“What—?”

“You go to him!” she shouted, waving her arms about. “Stop wallowing around here and fight for him! He is yourprince, you find him and remind him of that!”

“But—” you stammered, your floured hands splayed out helplessly. “What if he will not have me?”

Ida barked a laugh and eyed the cleaver wedged deep in the table.

“Then you cut off his balls and keep them for yourself! Heaven knows you could use a pair!”

—

You checked the saddle bag one more time, tightening and straightening the leather buckles. Pulling the hood of your cloak low over your face, you grabbed hold of the saddle horn and swept onto Kaka’s back.

Your dark cape floated around you and you tightened the reins. You reached behind you and felt the hilt of Harald’s sword strapped securely down your back. It was heavy, but comforting to have a small piece of him with you.  

You had considered the shield too…tried to lift it up, then wisely left it behind.

Kaka snorted and stomped his feet, impatient to be off. You looked around the farm one last time, breathing in the site of the sunrise. The dawn sun casted a deep orange glow over the house and pastures. Clouds far off the sea burned red, as if caught ablaze. You etched the sight into your memory, noting every last detail.

You clicked your tongue and gave Kaka a firm kick. Kaka lurched forth immediately. It took you a moment to steady yourself and you leaned forward into the wind. Kaka picked up the pace, his hooves pounded the ground in a steady and satisfying rhythm. The horse was raw powerful under you, each strike of his hooves matched the thunderous beat of your heart.

“Fly, Kaka” you whispered to no one but yourself.

“Fly!”

—

Ida was staring out the window, watching you gallop off down the winding trail out into the unknown. Sleepily, Garrick walked up behind her, rubbing one tired eye.

“What ‘tis is? What woke you at such an hour?” Garrick mumbled, suppressing a large yawn.

“Our little dove. She has finally found her wings.”

That sobered Garrick entirely. He rested a hand on Ida’s shoulder as he peered out the window. Ida refused to tear her eyes away, watching Kara’s long tail blowing and your cloak flapping in the wind. You grew smaller and smaller, until you crested the last hill and sank away from sight.

“Where is she going?” Garrick asked, even though he already knew the answer.

Ida smiled warmly and patted Garrick’s hand.

“To go see about a man.”

—

Next Chapter >>

—

Taglist: @albeeox​​,@empireroyals​,@oceanmermaidwitch​,@drxchxl​, @ivanna6026, @casablancakawtar, @alitaar​,@queenophelia​,
@arishbear​,@buckybarnesisalittleshit​,@stargurl-battleship​,@across-the-starss​,@mariaenchanted​,@hotmessonline​,
@geminidas​, @lunerose0, @clairefraiser, @calmitee, @kate-lobes-harry​,@sakurasbtch​,@sweetestrose569​,@a-sunflower-in-bloom​,
@herefordistractions​, @nicklet94, @werenotjustfriends​

How to Break a Heart (Harald x Reader)

Summary:You thought you’d spend your life with Harald Finehair. Most importantly, you thought that he wanted to spend his life with you. You couldn’t have been more wrong…

Warnings:angst, heartbreak, mentions of death, mentions of raiding, first piece I’m writing since basically having zero motivation for 3 weeks

Word Count: 1,133

Requested by Anonymous:

Fuck Valentine’s Day MasterlistIIVikings Masterlist

#16 - “Say you’ll see me again? Please?”

#19 - “This is going to be our last kiss.”

#20 - “No you can’t leave! You can’t do this to me!”

Harald made Vestfold feel like home for you. It became the home you longed to have for a long time. He became why the morning sunrises seemed brighter and the cold nights seemed less cold. He makes you happy.

And you like to think that it’s a happiness that will last forever.

Today seems less bright to you. It started with waking up with Harald’s side of your bed being empty. It’s not something new to you, but if he had to leave before you woke, he would have left something in his place to make you smile. Something as simple as a wildflower. But there was nothing this morning.

You don’t usually pay attention to the hustle and bustle of the city. But as you walk the streets, wondering where Harald might have gone to, you can’t help but notice how there seem to be more warriors than usual, all ready for an order.

If Harald was planning a raid of some sorts, he would have told you about it. Right?

You knew you would find him in his Great Hall but it makes your heart stop for a moment to see him clad in armor, on his way out the door. He stops when he sees you standing in front of him and you try to hide the way your heart feels like it’s breaking with a smile as you slowly step towards him.

“Have I forgotten something?” you ask, your voice in a soft whisper. “I don’t seem to remember you telling me that you were leaving today.”

“I didn’t tell you,” he bluntly says and tries to walk past you.

You stop him, taking a step back and placing your hand on his chest, making him look at you with an annoyed sigh leaving his lips. This kind of reaction is something new to you. He’s never been annoyed with anything you do and if he has been, he’s never shown it so blatantly.

“Then tell me now.” You wanted to ask him why he hasn’t told you but you thought it best to ask what it is that he hasn’t told you before asking why.

Harald breathes out a sigh, his eyes darting to the side in hopes that someone will come up to him with a problem that will allow him to walk away from this conversation. “Ragnar Lothbrok is dead,” he starts, seeing that he won’t be able to avoid this now. “Kattegat is vulnerable now making it the perfect time for me to take it.”

So, it is a raid that he hadn’t told you about. And it hurts to think that he didn’t tell you because you thought that he would tell you anything and everything. You certainly did.

You opened yourself up to him, told him everything about yourself and your life until there was nothing else to tell and nothing left to do except live your life out with him. Create stories with him.

“Why would you want to take Kattegat?”

“I must if I want to be King of all Norway.”

Of course, you knew about his plans to have that title. Everyone who knows about Harald Finehair knows about his quest to be the King of all of Norway.

“I thought… Why didn’t you tell me about this? I would have prepared to come with you,” you whisper as your hands grip each other tightly like they’re a dam wall holding back your tears.

Halard steps forward, raises his hand to gently cup your face as his thumb caresses your cheek. “That’s the thing, (Y/n). I don’t want you to come with me,” he says, his words ripping your heart out of your chest.

You try to find some kind of hope in his eyes. Maybe he doesn’t want you to come with him because it will be dangerous and he doesn’t want to lose you. Maybe he thinks you will be safer in Vestfold. You try to find a sign that he still cares about you and loves you.

But his eyes are cold and show no sign of anything that you had experienced in the past with him.

“Say you’ll see me again? Please?” you beg. You still have hope that he cares about you and that this isn’t going to be a goodbye.

But your hope is too much and all for nothing.

He lets out a quiet sigh as he steps closer. “I don’t think that is a good idea. Let’s face it, you’re not cut out to be a queen of any kind.”

“You don’t know that-”

“I know enough. Besides, you were just something to pass the time with.”

You tell yourself not to cry, that after he had said those words that he doesn’t deserve to see your tears. But you can’t stop them from rolling down your cheek. “No, you can’t leave! You can’t do this to me! After everything we’ve been through together,” you sneer, pulling your face out of his hand and trying to step away from him.

He grabs your wrist, stopping you from leaving and causing a scene. Of course, he doesn’t want to end things with you in a way that everyone will know about it. He’s always been one to do things quietly so as to not cause much of a fuss. This time, it isn’t any different.

“You were in for more than I was. You always loved me more than I could ever love you,” he whispers, holding your hands tightly as he slowly leans in closer to your face. “This is going to be our last kiss.”

Then, he presses a gentle kiss to your lips that you don’t reciprocate. You just close your eyes, trying to not let this pitiful farewell kiss break you even further.

You know that this is an act for everyone watching. An act so that people might think their King is saying a heartfelt goodbye to his lover - who everything thought would make a lovely queen for them - before the raid on Kattegat.

“I hate you now,” you whisper as he pulls away glaring up at him with tearful eyes.

Harald smiles lightly as he places a hand on your shoulder. “You will get over it,” he mutters. Then he walks away.

Your head drops between your shoulders and you stare down at your hands for a while as your tears cascade down your cheeks. When you close your eyes, you can still hear his laughter with yours, a moment of pure happiness when everything seemed real.

It hurts now to think that it was all a lie to you. You were simply a distraction for him until the right time came to take Kattegat.

You can’t believe you were so stupid to not see that…

Did you enjoy this? Like my work? Support me and buy me a Ko-fi HERE!!