Floki did cackle

Time ceased to turn as the days became weeks and then months as captive to the Northumbria men. Elspeth hardly recalled home now, pressing it back into the far recesses of her memory. It seemed so distant now, like a dying fire; without prodding the embers soon even the last of its warmth would turn cold. So be it then, she thought. There was no returning now to the Highlands and even if she were able to escape, what was there to go back to? Her people had been slaughtered by the King's men. Her own father, the clan war chief had been beheaded as a pagan heathen unwilling to renounce the gods of old. Recalling now, Elspeth knew the druids had been right in their predictions: The Saxons would be her people's ruin. So here now she sat, bloodied and bruised, and even the gods would not hear her silent prayers.

Eventually Elspeth would be brought before their king, if she made the journey that far. Only the old ones knew what would happen to her then. If the King of Northumbria thought she could be used as a ransom to bring the other Highlanders to their knees he was mistaken. Each clan fought their own battles and she was little more than a competitor in a pathetic game for power. No…once the King realized this; Elspeth might as well be dead where she sat. For what was more rape and harassment to her? Nothing. What was a beating and forced hard labor? Nothing. Death seemed a pleasant escape from the routine she now kept with these men of "God". And they wondered why so many refused to convert to their Christian Jesus.

They were speaking now. Elspeth had given up trying to communicate long ago. Their language was ugly and lifeless and no doubt the words they spoke to her were crude and unwanted. Yet this time they were not speaking to her—no—they were frightened. It was easy enough to see upon their faces, but frightened of what? Part of the young woman did not desire to know. Before she knew what had happened, her frail body was tossed upon the back of a stallion; her bond tightened at the hands, a long chain secured tightly around her torso. This was a measure taken to ensure her breathing would remain limited, so to prevent a fruitful escape.

The descent to the shore from their camp above the rocky cliffs was windy and cold. Elspeth shivered and huddled closer to the rider, despite her hatred for him: the leader of their group. He had been a cruel master and had turned the Celt into his personal whore when she too refused to convert. And now this same man, who so boldly beat her, was shivering in the stirrups. The girl could not help to wonder why? From her tired eyes she peered over an armored shoulder and looked to the coast line. What she saw instilled her both with fear and a false hope.

They were giants compared to any men Elspeth had ever seen before. Crazy eyed and bearded these wildmen seemed the sort not unlike her now dead kin. They carried their weapons and shields no doubt with intent to use and without guilt the young woman prayed the man she was with would find his end by one of the axes. Little did she know her bitter prayers would be answered by the gods.

Elspeth sat in the saddle loosely, watching without much care the transpiring events that she did not understand. What little she recognized were not so much words as familiar noises and her interest was slightly peaked as the leader of the wildmen knew the Sassenach's language. Even with a crude understanding of her captors' native tongue, it was easy for Elspeth to grasp that the Wildman spoke it brokenly. The English seemed frightened. Then something happened that Elspeth did not expect. The wildmen began to argue amongst them. They bantered back and forth in their own tongue, which was just as foreign to her as the other. It wasn't until there was silence that followed when she truly began to fear.

The one who could be conceived as the leader, pointed to a tall man who hovered over him, dark haired and fearsome. He no doubt gave horrible news to the English; Elspeth could have told them these men from the sea weren't here to trade. Nevertheless she knew her captor would offer something in good faith…

Before she could finish her thoughts she was torn from the steed and twisted in pain at the chains. Elspeth cried out and was promptly silenced by a sharp tug on her locks. Her chest burned as she tried to draw in a deep breath and her eyes lost focus as she was planted firmly in front of the tall dark haired man. He towered over her, his eyes like ice piercing her soul. This was it then, she thought. This is where she would die. Surely he would slaughter where she stood. Elspeth closed her eyes and he took hold of her arm...

There was a shout—coming from one of the wild men. A death cry no doubt; she waited for the final blow. It never came, though a searing pain coursed through her breast as her body was thrown aside. Daring not to open to her eyes, she heard the unsheathing of metal and the crashing of sword against shield. Screams of dying men mixed with the hellish blast of rendering flesh. Still, Elspeth refused to see what was taking place. Whichever side came out victorious did little to secure her own safety. The Highlander's life would still be at great risk.

However long they fought one another she did not know, but eventually the cries became silent and the gentle waves of the ocean were once again all that was heard along the coast. Where Elspeth lay in the sand, she could feel the frigid waters rush against her back and hair, carrying out with it the last of her sanity. How desperately she wished with each receding wave that her last breath would be carried with it. Elspeth desired death. There was no higher want than its sweet embrace; to her dismay it was not death's touch that met her arm, but one of the wild men.

As he pulled her to her feet, Elspeth opened her lids and stared back emotionless. The time she had spent with the English had taught her the less emotion you show outward the weaker the effort in causing trouble for her would be. And strangely enough there was no trepidation in her bones when she looked into the face of this man…one she had not seen before. Like the rest he towered over her small frame by nearly a foot and a half—he was different than the others. Matching them for height his hair was neither long nor plaited, and round his eye was black as pitch. The air he carried was one of mischief even though in that particular moment his face was solemn. When he drew a small dagger from his side, Elspeth winced and gave a small whimpering cry which was muffled by the actions he took to ensure her he meant no harm. Like a mother soothing her distraught child this man did coo at her and placed one hand behind her head. With his dagger he did free the lock which bound Elspeth in chains and threw the irons into the sea. He then stepped back into his group of men and left her soaked and shivering before them.

It was the first time Elspeth looked around her person. The dead lay strewn about in fleshy heaps…all English. A horrendous face plastered on the man who had so mercilessly raped her, gave Elspeth a new fire. Perhaps the gods had heard her plea after all. Her mind wandered to the distant past of her father and her kin and how they too once lay dead at her feet. All of it became an empty victory.

"Heill!"

The shout caused a sudden jump; the sharp breath taken in burned her lungs. It came from the one who knew the Sassenach's language. Elspeth stared blankly back at the wild men. She assumed he was attempting to greet her—to no use. They were foolish to think that she understood them, even when he made a second attempt in the tongue of the English. The female among them spoke softly for one so great and tall, Elspeth thought. She was the only one who seemed to grasp that Elspeth knew neither tongue of which the leader spoke. It was a dance among the illiterate which continued for the better half of a quarter of an hour. Finally, it was the man who had broke the lassie's chains that had once again stepped forward.

He still held his dagger in hand, twirling it round in his palm before placing the blade against his breast. His eyes were crazed as he spoke—his lips curling beneath his teeth. "Floki."

It was the only word that passed between them as he continually gestured towards himself.

Growling furiously when Elspeth did not answer, this lanky being whipped around and pointed his dagger in the direction of each of his companions starting with the cat-eyed leader. "Ragnar!" He shouted. Then at the woman, "Lagertha!"

"Eric!" Was the next.

"Rollo!"

He then ran back and hunkered down to Elspeth's height, again his dagger pointed towards himself. "Floki…"

Within a moment the tip of the blade was pointed at her breast as he made an inquisitive sound. It was then Elspeth realized he had given their names and they wished to know hers. She peered over the man called Floki's shoulder and stared at each face with little passion.

The English never knew my name, she thought to herself. Yet then again they never asked. Then again these people attacked my captors without truly trying to communicate before…then again they set me free from my chains… And so the inner battle of 'then again' had persuaded her many times over as she continued to observe these strange people. Outwardly the wild men began to grow anxious.

Ragnar spoke something softly to the fierce one who grunted and stepped forward, thrusting his strength upon Floki to remove his person from their fire-headed stranger. As Rollo gripped her arm once more and raised his axe high above her, Elspeth shook terribly and threw her body to the ground and her arms in the air.

"Elspeth!" She cried, staring down at the pool of blood and sea water that now consumed her. A tower of pride fell then as the grip Rollo had on her was loosened. Elspeth sobbed raising her hand to point to each of the strange men. Like Floki, she recited their names—pointing to each of them, "Ragnar, Lagertha, Eric…" Elspeth looked up at the giant soaring above her as she let his name cascade from her lips. "Rollo…"

Then curling her arms inward her chest caved in and her shoulder's shook. 'Elspeth' rolled off her tongue in agony and her eyes burned from the hot stream of tears that poured down them. From the strangers' point of view, she seemed a baffling idiot.

"Well Ragnar, what do you suppose we do with her?" Floki cocked his head to one side, hunched over like dog begging for scraps.

"Do with her," Rollo turned round, his faced disgusted, "She has lost her wits—if Thor had a hand in blessing her, she would not break so easily."

And so they fought amongst themselves as Ragnar watched and waited to test the opinions of his men. Finally hearing enough, the man who waits and listens turned to his wife. "What do you think wife?"

The shield maiden eyed her husband from the corner of her gaze, and then made contact with each of the men with them. "I think…" she inhaled a deep breath. "That any woman held and raped would fall under the pressure of an axe."

"But if she was touched by Thor—" Rollo began but did not finish, for his sister-in-law spoke sharply.

"Thor does not protect women against the fatalities of war! And why would Frigg not stay her hand against a woman blessed by Thor? How many women do you know that would help a child fathered by a son of her husband's she did not bear?"

Floki raised his brow and nodded in silent agreement.

"I think it is a sign from the gods!" Ragnar's bright smile and sudden input raised all's attention. "I think—we should bring her back with us! Clearly—she is not English—which means she comes from somewhere else—perhaps further west. If this is true, the English are just as clearly her enemy…and who can deny Thor's hand in this? Does she not bear his markings?"

It was Rollo then who stared down at the weeping girl. The color of her hair danced against the blood of the dead; her translucent skin dusted with a thousand freckles. This woman was not of the likes he—nor any of them—had seen before. Though he would never admit it aloud, after forced to stop and think (not an action he did often) it was clear to distinguish that Elspeth was of divine creation. He instantly felt foolish for nearly striking her down. "And what will become of her, should she return with us?"

He ever so slightly turned his head to Ragnar, his little brother, who stepped forward and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"You tell me brother…she was offered to you."

Rollo did not like the mischievous look Ragnar gave him.

Floki did cackle like a crow.

A/N: I know this is a pitifully short chapter...however I did not expect a warm embrace to this tale! Thank you to all who liked/faved, and review. Especially reviewed. Those mean the most to me. Unfortunately for the length this is all I have written so far- I wanted to see if anyone was really interested to begin with.

I guess I'll also say that in this fanfiction- as far as the Scottish implications are concerned, I will be bending time a tad bit. So please no flames there. I'm well aware that items such as Tartans and clan colors/names/word usage was not popular in this time. Just go with it if you can.

Hopefully I kept everyone in character! What do you think? This weighs on my mind a lot.

Remember to review/like/fav.

Blessing to all of you. -Aranel