[Hi, so this fiction will be a series of one-shots, some closer together, some farther apart. The time gaps between each one will vary. Also, there is currently no pairing in the story, but it will end up as an Eret x OC in the future. Enjoy!]
Chapter 1: A New Life
"Mama!"
The shrill screech burst from the throng of confusion, all but completely muffled by the turmoil of what used to be a peaceful fishing village. Residents fled in every direction, trying desperately to get away from the barbarian invaders that rushed like a wave between the houses. They had received no more than an a few minute's warning before the invaders from across the sea landed on their shores, burning and pillaging, stealing and killing; the watch towers were seldom manned at night. There were no warriors in this trading village save the few guards placed by the coin house, their strongest fighter was a mere blacksmith who, whilst larger in stature, was nothing more than a cowardly soul who took one look at the Vikings and took what belongings he could find, making off without a glance back.
If the moment had not called for every ounce of her concentration, perhaps the girl would not have put too much blame at the blacksmith's feet. Even in this secluded corner of the world they had heard of the terrible Northmen, giants who worked as a pack, honing in on their victims to jump in at the last minute and slaughter all those who might oppose them and taking their spoils in both treasure and captives. But these tales were not the most unsettling things she had heard of the savage invaders, no: it was their dragons. Long held as only a myth along the Celtic coasts, the girl was told of fearsome winged beast that roamed the skies where the Vikings made port. If these wolves were strong enough to endure living among fire-breathing terrors, what chance did such a weak village have?
In the midst of all the commotion, a young girl of no more the fifteen summers waded through the sea of fleeing people. The constant whipping of the wind drew her red locks into a knotted mess behind her with the acrid stench of the burning village clinging to her like a parasite. Her short frame was pushed and pulled relentlessly as people barged past in their frenzied escapes. Woden must be truly angry at us. The girl thought to herself with a trembling heart. Only the allfather could know why such a fate was befalling her sheltered life, ripping her from an existence that was hard but comfortable.
"Eavane!" The piercing scream came from inside the hut to the girl's right but what she saw was far worse than the anguish in the voice that called her. The cottage that Eavane, her mama and papa had lived in all their lives was set ablaze, giant tendrils of flames licking and devouring the air. No!
"Eavane!" The shout came again. It was her mother. Eavane shot forward toward her burning home, dodging the dwindling number of figures as they threatened to knock her over.
Panting breaths wheezed from Eavane's throat yet she kept running. She had to keep running, to get to her mother before the flames consumed her completely. Finally, only a few yards from the front door, Eavane reached a hand forward in readiness to push into the hut a meaty shape blocked her vision and slammed into the side of her face. The indescribable force behind this intruder sent the girl reeling to the side just as her hand grazed the doorknob and crashed to the trodden mud. Her head swam as pain exploded behind her eyes.
The sounds that had thickened the air only moments ago seemed dull and far away, as if someone had placed her in a box. She could still hear the screams of her mother, she could even see her dear mama's blurred image clawing to escape the house as the roof caved in. But the sound that penetrated the fogginess which now held her mind was something else entirely. An eerie chuckle the felt so cold it sent waves of fear coursing through Eavane's limp body. The last thing she saw before her eyes closed was the looming head of a Viking, his hulking form silhouetted with twin blades across his back and a smaller, far more sinister character stalking up his left side.
A gentle sway woke Eavane from her sleep. The dulled chime of a bell clanked softly as waves broke against the hull of what she could only assume was a ship. The girl may not have been a sailor but she could certainly tell when she was on a boat. Eavane blinked a few times to clear the sleep from her eyes. The scent of sea spray and tarred canvas invaded her nose, it's not like she'd never smelt such thing before, simply that they had never been so damn pungent. With a groan, she sat up, instantly wishing she hadn't. Her head ached as though she'd been clouted, and her cheek stung.
But wait… memories began to filter back into the forefront of her mind as she concentrated. She did get throttled, the sting was a bruise shaped like a large hand that had turned an ugly plum colour with yellowing edges and a thin cut in the centre that could only have been caused by a ring. The image of her mother's screams crashed into her like she had just been rammed by a rampaging bull; the burning, the people scrambling over each other to get away, senseless murder and… the Viking pair.
"Shame we had to mark your face to get you more 'compliant'."
Eavane shrieked and backed away, her fingers scrabbling at the scratchy woollen plaid lain on the floor.
"Fanacht amach!" She tried to keep her voice from wavering but the pure terror she felt would not be masked.
"What was that?" It was the same voice as she had heard that laugh. His words were barely understandable in this foreign tongue for she only had a limited grasp of neighbouring languages. Her father had made sure she was wise in the languages of other civilisations but learning them had never been her strong point. Now Eavane racked her brains to try and remember it.
"I said, stay away!" She could tell her accent was heavy. The Viking straightened, his face morphing into a crooked grin.
"Now, why would I do that, slave?" The word hit Eavane like another strike. She knew this was what happened to those captured by the dreaded Vikings in their raids but tales of what was then done to them when they reached the Northmen's archipelago had never reached her village. One could only imagine.
"W-why did you take me?" She rasped through a crackling throat.
"Well why not? My men and I need a bit of sport now and then and we need a disposable body to look after the cargo so that… you know, none of my real men get injured. You'll do fine, you have a strong enough physique. Perhaps you'll last a few weeks."
Cargo? What cargo could injure people? Perhaps they were transporting weapons or worse, wild beasts.
"Who are you?" By this time, Eavane had curled herself into the corner of her plaid carpet.
"Oh my, how rude of me? Men!" The Viking called to the rest of his people on board the ship. The girl gazed with wide eyes as each man – there had to be at least thirty of them – came into view. Every one of them came to at least two heads taller than her, with broad shoulders and hateful snarls upon their lips.
"I am Viggo Grimborn, commander of the Dragon Hunters' legion!" He proclaimed with a flamboyant bow. The men snickered.
"And you are…" Viggo's voice seemed so soft in comparison to the rough baritones of his companions; however it did little to put Eavane at ease. If anything, it made the man all the more intimidating.
Eavane gulped and looked at each Viking. It was her turn and she could barely find the will to speak.
"I… I am Eavane."
Viggo cocked one eyebrow and gave her a sceptical look. "Evain?"
"Ay-vane."
"Well, Eavane, speaking my mind, I don't care who you are, you'll most likely be mincemeat within a few days. Isn't that right Ryker?" The chorus of cheers answered him was headed by a man whose stature was taller than Viggo and much larger of build too, though they had the same calculating gaze. When the girl spotted the twin swords on his back she sucked in a breath; it was the man who had batted her away from the hut door. He had flung her through the air like she was some sort of insect. He was responsible for her mother's death. He stopped Eavane from saving her.
"My brother will see to your… urm… attire." Viggo then turned and strolled away toward his cabin, not giving her another glance.
"Put this on." The savage brother who had been leering at her from behind Viggo threw a piled of rags at Eavane, who picked one up and glowered at him. They smelled rancid as though they had spent some time in the damp hold of the ship.
"I shall not."
"Yes you shall. You'll wear those or nothin' at all."
Despite having to relinquish what looked like a relatively warm long-sleeved work dress, Ryker could've sworn he had never seen anyone move quite so fast to put on some strips of cloth than he did the red headed girl before him. Soon she was dressed in what could only be described as a sack with more holes than actual fabric that did almost nothing to block out the frigid northern breeze. A set of thin arctic fox furs covered her chest – barely – and a ragged, old woollen sarong was draped around her hips as best she could manage. Her shoes had been taken, leaving her feet open to the biting winds and the only item even remotely warm was the plaid she had been laying on. But when her clothing was all assembled, she had thought it the end of the ordeal and had hoped Ryker would be satisfied and leave her be. No such luck.
The moment she had settled back to sit, the Viking surged forward, grabbing her hair in one giant hand. His fingers gripped the strands in a vice, pulling harshly on each one to extract a series of pitiful whimpers. In her renewed distress the girl failed to see a pair of rusted sheep sheers inching towards her head. The iron was dull, marred with spots of orange and green where corrosion had set in yet they remained razor-sharp and lethal. Ryker cut through her hair, snagging her scalp several times as he roughly sheered her before pushing her forwards back onto the plaid. Clumps of fiery hair floated to the deck to scatter at her legs and feet. Eavane could only imagine what she looked like, huddling there in the corner of the ship like a patchily shaved, caged deer.
"We'll be home by sunrise, then you can meet your cellmates." A malicious grin spread across Ryker Grimborn's face that sent chills running down the girl's spine. It was going to be a long night.
