Hello, dear readers! This is a little something that I've been adding to here and there on the side when I'm struggling with my other works. It may not be updated regularly, but I have most of it planned out. Not everything will be canon or historically accurate, so please don't leave angry feedback if you think something it out of place. The main character's name is Aoife (pronounced ee-fa) and she is basically the only thing I own.
When the screaming began in the darkness of the morning, Aoife was already awake. It was only a few moments later that her master burst through the door to her shabby room, eyes wide and rolling in a pale face that was glazed with sweat. Aoife backed away, watching the man warily.
"You!" he roared, filling the doorway. "You brought these heathens to our shores, didn't you, witch?! Now we shall all pay for your wickedness! I should have gotten rid of you while I had the chance!"
He lunged for the girl's throat, fingers curved like claws. Aoife ducked under his arms and leaped onto her narrow cot, hands scrabbling under her thin pillow. Her master grabbed her ankle and pulled her toward him, spouting curses at her and promising her death.
Unfortunately for the tavern owner, his servant was one step ahead of him, as always. Aoife thrust upward with the dagger she had stowed under her pillow, sliding the razor sharp metal between her master's ribs and into his heart. The blade cut through his flesh like butter. Warm blood splashed in fat drops on her face and neck, dripped down her arms, and stained the blue wool of her dress.
"Go to hell, you bastard," the girl hissed at his corpse, pushing his weight off her and onto the floor.
Hearing the screams intensify in volume and frequency, Aoife leaped from the cot, dagger still in hand, and darted around the room, throwing all of her belongings into a leather satchel, which she then slung over her shoulder. Distantly, she heard the smashing of pottery and the sharp crackle of flames. The village would soon be destroyed, and her along with it, if she didn't find a way to escape. Contrary to her former master's belief, she did not summon the invaders and did not much wish to meet them.
Slipping from her room, Aoife descended the rickety stairs to the tavern and hurried to the trapdoor behind the counter that led to a small cellar. Creeping along, she reached her hands blindly before her until they made contact with the small hatch that would lead her outside. With caution, she lifted the hatch a few inches and peered out into the alleyway between the tavern and the blacksmith's house behind it. All was clear, save for a body lying in the mud a few feet away.
Aoife waited another moment, just to be sure, before slipping out of the cellar and into the alley. Dagger gripped tight in one hand, she crept toward the end of the alley that was lit with an orange haze, hoping the smoke from the flames would hide her. Peeking around the corner, she caught sight of large figures a few houses down, kicking in doors and cutting down villagers as they tried to flee.
Whispering a prayer to the gods, Aoife took a deep breath and darted into the street, quickly disappearing behind the midwife's house, which was also ablaze. She sprinted as fast as she had ever done, but when she turned the corner to the road that would take her out of the village and into the cover of the woods, she came face-to-chest with what was easily the tallest woman she had ever seen. Considering Aoife herself was not that tall and larger women were not all that uncommon, this woman surpassed them all.
Her blonde hair was pulled back into many braids, some stained with ash and blood. She was dressed in trousers and a tunic with leather armor, as Aoife herself had done when she was among her people in the north. A sword glittered in her fist and a wooden shield sat proudly on her arm. She was a goddess of war.
Surprised, the warrior took in the sight of the girl before her. Wild red curls tumbled around a face that was spattered with fresh blood. Her eyes, one blue and one green, were wide in a bloody face, and a long dagger was clenched in her right fist. Her dress was stained and torn, exposing her shoulder and her right leg up past her knee. She had the look of one who had lost a lot of weight in a short amount of time and never gained it back. She was a curiosity.
The two remained still, observing each other cautiously and with no small amount of interest. Aoife was terrified, heart pounding in her chest. Her eyes darted around for a means of escape, but her hopes were in vain. Approaching the women was a man who bore a shield and an axe that dripped with blood. Aoife was fast, but not fast enough to get past two northmen, so if their plan was to kill her, she would not go down without a fight. She raised her dagger higher.
The woman lowered her sword slightly as the man reached her and said something to him in a tongue Aoife had never heard before. The man replied in the same language, eyeing Aoife with interest.
"Do not be afraid," he then said in the Saxon tongue, startling Aoife so much she almost dropped her blade.
"We will not hurt you," he continued, stepping towards her. Aoife stepped back, eyeing him with suspicion.
"Who are you?" Aoife demanded.
The man slid his axe into his belt and lowered his shield.
"I am Ragnar Lothbrok. This is Lagertha, my wife. What is your name?"
Aoife looked between the two for a moment, chewing on the inside of her cheek.
"I am Aoife," she finally replied.
The woman, Lagertha, sheathed her sword and took a step towards Aoife as well. Out of instinct, the girl made to retreat again, only to crumple to the ground, unconscious, when another northman appeared from behind and struck her upon the head with the edge of his shield.
When Aoife came to, she became instantly aware of three things: that the back of her head felt like a horse had trampled it, that her bag was missing, and that she was on a boat. The last realization made her headache fade slightly under the panic of being in an unfamiliar place. She sat up slowly, afraid of what she would see when she looked over the side of the boat. To her dismay, land was nowhere in sight. They were surrounded by endless water.
"Aoife!" a woman's voice called, causing the girl to whip her head around. She winced at the throbbing of her head and squinted up at the approaching form of Lagertha.
The woman reached down and pulled Aoife to her feet, uttering what sounded strangely like an apology to the girl as she gently ran a pale hand over the back of her head. Aoife winced as the woman from the north touched the bump on her skull and flinched away.
"Come," she said to Aoife, pulling her toward the back of the ship. As they went, Aoife noticed a few others from the village, hands bound and ropes around their necks, marking them as captives. Strangely enough, she remained unrestrained.
When Aoife passed the miller's wife, the older woman spat at her, cursing her name and blaming her for their fate.
"Witch!" she screeched. "Heathen bitch! You've ruined us!"
Aoife stepped back from woman in surprise, bumping into a large man who steadied her with his hands on her shoulders. Lagertha, to her great surprise, knelt in front of the woman and smacked her across the face.
"You are a slave now," she hissed. "You will never do that again or I will cut out your tongue and feed it to the pigs."
Neither woman understood her words, but her meaning was clear.
Standing, Lagertha motioned for Aoife to follow her again. Before she moved, however, Aoife could not help but put in a final word.
"What harm have I ever done you, Hilda, wife of Aelwyn? Do you forget who it was that helped bring your grandchildren into this world? Was it not I who healed your husband when he was on the verge of death? Perhaps it was your ungratefulness that sealed your fate. The gods brought you here, woman, not I. Remember that."
The hands on her shoulders let go and Aoife turned to look at the man who she had bumped into. He was easily one of the largest men she had ever seen, with a broad chest and arms that looked as though they could snap her in two. He had blonde hair and a beard to match. Although his size was intimidating, Aoife couldn't help but notice that he had kind eyes that were now gazing upon her with something akin to awe. Nervous, Aoife gave him a hesitant smile before hurrying to Lagertha's side.
The warrior woman led Aoife to her husband, who was sitting at the stern, whetstone and axe in hand. When he caught sight of the women, he set them down and leaned his forearms on his knees.
"I am sorry," he said to Aoife, surprising her yet again. "I apologize for my brother, Rollo. He is the one who hit you." He gestured to a dark haired man who was rowing a few yards away. "He is sometimes…too much?"
Aoife just nodded curtly.
"What are you going to do with me? And where are my bag and dagger?"
Ragnar Lothbrok leaned back against the side of the boat, observing her.
"I am sorry," he said, "but you are now a slave. Your belongings are part of the hoard that will be divided among our crew."
Aoife, having expected a similar answer, felt only bitter resignation.
"Whose slave am I to be?" she asked, voice flat.
Ragnar looked carefully at Aoife for a long moment, taking in her appearance, before standing suddenly. He took a step towards the girl, sharing a glance with his wife.
"May I?" he asked Aoife, reaching for the torn shoulder of her dress.
The girl stiffened but nodded her consent before clenching her jaw and looking away. The northman was gentler than she would have supposed as he pulled the torn fabric away from her shoulder, revealing more of her skin. She heard Lagertha let out an angry hiss and knew that the woman and her husband could see the mottled purple and black bruises that covered the pale skin of her shoulders, back, and upper arms. The woman also crouched beside Aoife and parted the torn fabric of her dress, revealing similar bruises on her legs.
Aoife, head still turned away, could see the large man from earlier watching her. If she didn't know any better, Aoife would almost have said that he looked concerned.
Standing, Lagertha said something in her native language, which her husband translated.
"She wants to know who did this to you. Was it one of our people?"
The tone of his voice and the look on Lagertha's face made it very clear that if it had been one of the northmen, they would be facing swift punishment.
"It was not one of your men," Aoife replied, voice low. "The man who did it is dead, and that is all that matters to me."
The northman repeated her words to his wife, who nodded, satisfied. Before Ragnar let her return to the front of the boat, he had Lagertha fetch her a blanket, which the woman wrapped around Aoife's thin shoulders.
"I am sorry," Ragnar repeated once more, this time for more than the bump on her head.
Aoife believed he really was.
It was three more days before they finally reached their destination, a place that Ragnar told her was called Kattegat. The new slaves were unloaded first, thrust roughly onto the dock and tugged along until they were out of the way of the northmen and their families. Aoife watched the happy reunions with a blank face. Although she remained unbound, she was carefully monitored. She was still a slave, to be sold to the highest bidder like so much meat.
Once all of the precious metals had been unloaded from the ship, the slaves were tugged along their leads toward the largest building of the town. Aoife found herself in step with Lagertha, who offered her a small smile and clasped her shoulder before continuing on to her husband. Aoife could only wonder why the northmen's leader and his wife were so kind to her when she was still meant to serve them as a slave.
The dividing of the bounty went by quickly. Though Aoife tried to discover who claimed her possessions, she quickly lost sight of the leather satchel and had not even glimpsed her dagger. Finally, the last of the gold pieces were distributed. It was time for the slaves to be sold.
Aoife felt a cold dread settle in her stomach. She was about to be sold once again, most likely to a man who would abuse his power over her. She had already survived being beaten for years on an almost daily basis; Aoife was not sure she could do it again.
Ragnar Lothbrok stood on the dais at the head of the room, as their Earl, and peered down at the group of cowering Saxons before him.
"We have many slaves to sell today," he announced, eliciting cheers from his audience. "However, there is one matter to address before we proceed."
Aoife could not understand the words spoken in his native tongue, which only made her anxiety worse. She remained unbound. Perhaps if she ran now, while everyone was distracted…
A glance around the room, however, showed her that not everyone was distracted. Lagertha watched her with a tiny smile on her face, leading Aoife to wonder just what there was to be happy about regarding her particular situation. Perhaps she would buy her? Aoife didn't think that would be so bad.
"Torstein Dalgaard has forsaken a portion of his gold and silver in exchange for the girl Aoife!" Ragnar exclaimed.
Aoife's head jerked up at the sound of her name. She stared at Ragnar with wide, panicked eyes, and he smiled back at her in return.
"In exchange for denying a portion of our bounty," the Earl spoke directly to her in the Saxon tongue, "Torstein Dalgaard has asked for you instead, Aoife. He is your new master; go to him."
He gestured to a man standing at the foot of the dais and Aoife was shocked to see that it was the same man whom she had bumped into on the boat a few days previous, the one with the kind eyes. But why had he asked for her specifically? Aoife could make no sense of it.
So, she slowly made her way to his side and bowed before him.
"Master," she murmured, staring at the floor.
The large man took her shoulders and gently pulled her up. Her face was level with his chest, the top of her head not even high enough to reach his shoulder. He smiled down at her.
"Come," he said, leading her to a large table filled with others she remembered from the boat.
He motioned for her to sit. Aoife obeyed, settling delicately on the wooden bench across from a girl with wavy blonde hair and eyes rimmed with kohl. Her master, Torstein, gestured at the others around them and offered their names.
Helga was the girl across from her, settled closely besides Floki. Rollo, the man who had hit her over the head was seated next to Siggy, while Arne and Athelstan were farther down the table. Torstein did not point out the rest, for food was soon brought out to the tables, eliciting roars of approval from the men throughout the room. Aoife ate little, instead preferring to watch the people around her. She would need to learn their language and customs quickly so as not to displease her master. It was to be the start of a long day.