Hey everyone!
I know I have multiple stories that I have not finished yet but this wouldn't leave me alone so you're all going to have to deal with it.
A note on historical accuracy: I'm going to try but I'm not going to that hard. As someone who is literally doing a history degree at this moment, I do recognise the importance of accuracy. However, as someone who actually wants to, you know, finish that degree I do not have the time to do any detailed research. Also, I believe that in historical fiction a degree of accuracy has to be lost in order for the story to actually be told. Otherwise, it might as well be a documentary. Plus, it's not like the show has any regard for historical accuracy either so like, ya know, why should I? (That's a joke, I want a career in history, please don't crucify me).
Rating: M for gore, violence and sexual harassment. This turned out way more gory than I intended - oops!
Disclaimer: I do not own Vikings or any its characters - this is a work of love and appreciation and nothing more.
EDIT: I realised that because this is a kidnapping story and it is set in the Vikings universe that some of you may be worried about issues like rape and consent. I want to make it clear now that there will not be any scenes of rape or non-consent in this story - I abhor it and I think it is a cheap shock tactic used by poor writers. In our current climate of victim blaming and rape culture, most stories get it wrong and it does more harm than good and I will not contribute to that. Not to mention, scenes of "rape" are not nearly as historically accurate as you may think. It drives me up the wall when people defend these scenes as something common to the time, as something everyone did; this immediately makes it clear to me that they have not actually read a history book or anything about women's history. It is a lot more complicated than that and assuming that men raped women left, right and centre is just wrong and a poor defence of shitty male writers trying to defend stories of violence against women.
With that out of the way, I hope you enjoy!
Chapter One
The kingdom of England was full of pathetic, docile lambs awaiting the slaughter. They clung to their god like a child clung to their wet-nurse, hiding behind their prayers as though that were enough to save them from Odin's wrath. It was disgusting.
And yet, in that moment anyway, Halfdan found he did not mind. He was crouched behind a large tree, watching the comings and goings of a fairly wealthy estate. Easy prey meant easy access to supplies and easy access to supplies was exactly what he needed right now. Avenging the death of Ragnar Lothbrok would not be possible on an empty stomach.
One glance had been enough to tell him that this estate could be taken with no trouble at all on their part but Harald, always the ambitious one, had another idea. Striking after the sun had set - after the servants returned from the market saddled with fresh goods – was the best way forward. Halfdan did not disagree but it was hard not to glare at his brother when they had been crouched in a thick net of bushes for the last two hours. To put it simply, Halfdan was bored.
The estate was like every other in this strange land. Made of creaking wooden beams (easy to burn) and full of plump (easy to spill their guts), weepy-eyed people, scurrying backwards and forwards in a monotony of greys and browns. Sometimes they called to each other, sometimes the young ones would be scolded with a quick whack to the shins but none were warriors. None stood straight and tall, head held high with the blessing of the gods. Halfdan was half surprised they did not keel over and die from the boredom of it all.
At noon, things finally got a little more interesting. A wobbling wagon hurtled into the drive at full speed, its driver scrambling to his feet in his rush to open the door for his master. He had just barely managed to wrench it open, the hinges squeaking in protest, when a Holy Man burst out. Clad in what looked like a dull white sack, he shoved past his sputtering servant, striding into the house and calling out in a high and reedy voice. Halfdan did not understand the language but it was obvious the Holy Man was upset. He felt his lip curl in distaste.
Moments later, a woman stormed from the manor. She was different from the rest – well cared for and well groomed. Clearly a lady of some sort of standing. Her hair cascaded down her back in thick chestnut curls. Her skin shone with her youth, bronzed from the soft summer sun. Her eyes were the colour of a rich glade at the height of spring, her gown a deep green to match, made of the best cloth. And yet, her face, one that could only have been carved by the gods, cheekbones sharp as an axe and lips an enticing, blood red, was twisted into a scowl.
She stomped to the edge of what, Halfdan guessed, passed for a garden, mere paces from his party of ruthless heathens. He bared his teeth, anticipation for what he would do to her later making his blood run hot. He loved beating their faith from the Christians. He wondered if she would plead with him or her god before he ran his blade over her delicate, smooth throat. Maybe she would start chanting in that strange, tilting language the way the Holy Men did? It did not matter; as long he watched the light fade from her feeble, defenceless eyes.
The woman was breathing heavily, glaring at a rose bush before she turned around and punched a tree. Maybe she was not so feeble after all. Her knuckles crunched from the impact, scraped raw and bloody but it only seemed to fuel her rage. She turned her ire to her hand, glowering at it like it had committed a grievous sin. It was rather amusing.
The Holy Man's wheezing words drifted towards them from the house on a summer breeze and the woman's head whipped toward the sound. She muttered something and clenched her fists, her jaw squared and tilted back with a defiance Halfdan had yet to see in her people. He should not have been surprised – of all the lands he had ravaged, the women most often proved to be the most fierce, fought the hardest.
By now a fairly large party of people streamed from the house, their clothing of the same quality as the woman's. They snapped and whined, all clamouring to be heard over each other and not quite managing to drown out the Holy Man. He led the charge, marching on the woman who met them head on. Halfdan did not understand their words but got the general gist of things. They were unhappy with the woman, who met all their complaints with quick, sword sharp retorts that steadily made the Holy Man's face turn a shade of red found only on Halfdan's favourite berries.
"You should be ashamed of yourself, Elfreda," the Holy Man said, "your behaviour is not befitting for a woman of your standing. How do you expect to be a good Christian wife if you persist on running wild outdoors every day?"
She raised a dark brow. "I did not realise the two were mutually exclusive."
"Freda," warned a man with the same eyes and same brown curls.
"Well," she said with false cheer, "I can put your minds to rest. I have no intention of becoming a good Christian wife - all your worries are for nought."
The Holy Man sputtered for a few long moments, mute in his rage. The man who could only be her father stepped forward again.
"Elfreda," he hissed, his face a splotchy mess of reds, "do not embarrass us. Your talk of the pagans, of their gods and of," his voice became weak and he made a gesture Halfdan recognised as one used for prayer, "their men has lost you more marriage proposals than you can afford. They think you a heathen; they think you lost to God. For the sake if your soul, please, listen to Father Burne."
The woman rolled her eyes, sighing as though she were most put upon, like the Holy Man's presence was a mild bother to her at most. Halfdan could see the way her nails cut into her palm though, could see the tension in her back. She was more agitated than she let on. Even though he could not understand the conversation, he could read body language well enough.
"Honestly, you are all so dramatic. A heathen? Because I wish to marry a man of my own choosing? Because I refuse to be an obedient dog for one? Because I want a man who does not breathe like a pig and try to slip a gnarled, aging hand up my dress when they think I am not looking? Please," she scoffed, "do not be ridiculous."
Her father appeared lost to despair. He fell to his knees, uncaring that his garments, carefully pressed, would be stained an irreversible green. "Elfreda,' he almost sobbed, "you do not have a choice. You are well past the age of marriage - at twenty years, for pity's sake – you are an old maid. If you do not marry now, no one will have you."
"Oh, what a shame." Her voice dripped with sarcasm.
A woman, possibly her mother, let out a screeching wail, pressing a handkerchief of careful embroidery to her mouth. She turned and fled to the house, her cries lost to its shadowed depths.
"I think," the Holy Man forced out, "that we should continue this later, when everyone is in a more reasonable state of mind. Let us pray and think on this poor girl's future."
The woman waited until the crowd of people had turned their backs before she pulled a series of faces, silently imitating the Holy Man and mocking his gestures. A little boy, who had turned back to stare, giggled. She winked at him.
The Holy Man slowed before he reached the house, saying something to his companions then turning back around. The woman quickly straightened, pretending to stare serenely at the forest, her gaze, if it had slid just a tree to the left, so deliciously close to detecting Halfdan.
The woman shuddered as the Holy Man grew close, her shoulders tightening in what only could be described as fear. Halfdan wondered what she had to fear from the frail pile of skin and bones.
"Freda," he said in a murmur, condescending. His breath smothering the syllables of her name. "My dear Elfreda, I can make all this trouble disappear." He slithered closer. The woman gripped something hidden in the folds of her skirt. "Have you not thought on my previous offer?"
"I would rather die," she spat out with a vengeance, her eyes now the colour of the oldest tree in the deepest part of the forest, where only the gods and the beasts go.
"Now, now, do not be so hasty. Would it be so bad? You would be a woman of God, revered and sacred to all, tucked away from the world… with me." He reached out a crumbling hand, pawing roughly at her face. "I could teach you the," he paused, "ways of heaven." His hand slid lower, down her chest.
The woman snarled, pulling out a knife and slashing his wrist with it. It cut deep, almost instantly spraying the two of them in a river of blood. His hand was dangling from his wrist as he howled and writhed, his blood pooling at their feet. She stared in horror, watching his hand swing as he moved, held on by a single bloody tendon.
"You will pay for this, witch," the Holy Man spat as he stumbled back the way he came.
The woman's sickened expression shifted to one of panic in the blink of an eye. Faster than a deer, she darted to the treeline, scrambling over logs and ripping up flowers in a frenzy. She grabbed a rock, its surface jagged and grey.
The Holy Man was trying to run now, his pleas for help mere whimpers as he staggered towards the house. The woman dove after him, bringing the rock down over his head, which caved in on itself with slick crunch.
The woman gagged, throwing herself away from the body, which was the same shade as the rock that killed him. Shaking, and casting one last longing look at her home, she sprinted into the forest, bypassing the Northmen completely in her blind sprint for her life.
Halfdan turned to his brother. "Continue the raid without me. I want the woman."
Harald raised a brow but did not object, nodding his permission. Halfdan smiled.
Ta daaaa!
I know this seems really dramatic and extreme and goes from zero to one hundred with no explanation but I promise all will be revealed next chapter!
Thanks for reading!