If this was dawn, they certainly made sure of it. The bells were so loud...but no, something was not right.
As the bells continued to ring, screams began to be heard. I sat up quickly, looking about and taking off my nightgown, hurriedly putting my day clothes on and taking my Khaleegy dress. I shoved it in the inside pockets of my cloak.
The smell of smoke reached my nose.
I looked outside of my window and saw the source of distress. Men, several of them, at least a legion of them-armed with chain, leather, and steel and their beards long-charged in. Houses were burning and I could see a mass slaughter taking place.
I had to stuff my fist in my mouth to prevent from crying out in horror, tears blurred my vision and my blood pumped with fear.
If it's one thing I knew about Vikings was that they were the cleanest medieval Europeans ever recorded and that they had rounded shields. Along with many attributes such as cruelty and bloodlust, but that didn't matter right now.
These were Vikings. They had rounded shields. They were coming to raid Whitby. I had to leave.
I yanked the candle out of its holder and grabbed my nightgown stuffing my Khaleegy dress, some linen, a bar of soap I found next to the bowl and jug, mittens and socks, and the candle inside. I grabbed the leather shoes given to me and fled down the hall to the back window. Would I survive this jump? Possibly.
But no, I was not that lucky.
"You!" Godiva shrieked. I turned around and the amount of hatred in her eyes stunned me. I didn't even know this woman. I grabbed the nearest thing I could find, it was a candle holder. Godiva shrieked madly and charged at me.
"You thieving craven bitch!" Godiva roared. My hand came down on her head; it stunned the woman for a moment. The moment allowed me to punch her in the nose and push her back onto her bum.
I turned around and the idea of jumping off the window fled me. I ran down the back stairs but to my horror, my sight was met with my worst nightmare.
Vikings.
All of them were blonde to the root, all of their eyes hazel, green, and blue-like the colored gems. Their beards were surprisingly well groomed and their teeth were shockingly white as they snarled at me.
A loud command stopped an oncoming blow to the head.
The man who stopped them was not blond at all. His hair was the color of the burnt chestnut; he had an undercut, leaving the top of his head filled with hair and below completely bare. The top of his hair was in cornrows that met into one long braid that reached his shoulders. Tattoos filled the bare area of his scalp and his neck, disappearing below his clothing. He was significantly taller than everyone else, on his legs were metal braces tightly wrapped around his legs, which were muscular like the rest of his body. His shoulders were broad, his face was angular. But his eyes; they were so blue, that the whites of his eyes seemed to glow blue too. He was extremely handsome, and it was clear that he had some authority over the people.
"Don't touch this one," he said sharply, gesturing with his sword at me. His voice was like steel, sharp. But it was also like thunder, deep and rumbling; a very compatible combination.
"Why not? Want her all for yourself little cub?" one of the men sneered, he had a chipped tooth. The dark haired man was young, yes, but he already sported a beard, I would give him a solid eighteen years.
"If I do, what then?" the man challenged, moving his sword to point at the man rather threateningly. "It is my right to take her as a slave, I humbled her home."
"You fool, she is not saxon—"
"I can see that," the man said sharply, "that does not matter, she is mine, to get to her, you go through me. I am sure we do not want that to happen, yes Erik?"
"Yes Ivar," the man sneered, turning to me and looking me up and down as he licked his lips. I recoiled from him but was shortly stopped as the man named Ivar grabbed me by the hair tightly.
I yelled, hugging my sack tighter to my chest. Ivar bent down, pulling his nose sharply to my neck and inhaling.
"This one takes care of herself," he said approvingly. He heard grunts of approval and someone speaking in Danish, presumably to make a vulgar joke but I ignored them. I couldn't focus on them when someone such as that terrible, fallen angel loomed above me with glowing blue eyes.
"I hear that their faith tells them it is immoral to use water," another man said, snorting with wicked derision.
"She is not of their faith, not anymore," Ivar said sharply, his eyes never leaving my face.
He switched to English.
"Where are you from?" he asked in broken but good English.
"Egypt, sir," I hadn't realized I was trembling until the hand on my hair trailed underneath the neckline of my dress onto my collarbones.
"This one knows respect," He switched back to Norweigan, chuckling without humor, "All the more reason to keep her."
"Egypt did she say?" a new voice said, I tried to look around Ivar's body but I didn't get very far when he pulled me by my hair again.
"Then she must know of where Bjorn went!" another voice said, this one feminine.
"Let her know, what Bjorn does is his business, he knows what he is doing. For now, we move on," Ivar said sharply, "We have a king to slay and a father to avenge."
I had heard the tales of famous Vikings. Living in Norway, not knowing of at least one of them was nearly unheard of. The most popular were always Ivar the Boneless, Harald Harada, Leif Eriksson, Ragnar Lothbrok, and two more whose names I forgot. Many said that Ivar the Boneless was crippled. I would never have guessed so; perhaps the braces in his legs helped him stand up but whatever his condition was, he was the most graceful of the lot.
"This one comes with me," Ivar announced, seizing me by the waist and dragging me past the four men and the woman. One of the men greatly resembled Ivar but his eyes were gray instead. The female was blond and her eyes were surprisingly brown.
"Why so interested brother?" it was Erik who sneered. Ivar didn't look at him as he replied.
"Does it matter? You wouldn't know anyways, you are still a boy."
Erik flushed but the woman came to his rescue. "And you know?" she asked sharply.
Were they unaware that I understood their language and implications? I hope so; it would give me an advantage.
"Whether I do or do not, it does not matter, I will know again soon enough." I tried to struggle out of his grip but his hand came down on my face. The only thing keeping me from falling was the grip he had on my arms.
"Cease your struggles girl," Ivar hissed in English, his blue eyes glowing brighter than ever.
Something about his eyes made me heed his command. I don't know what it was but I could see how it made everyone listen to him, how it would command the attention of a room. It made me feel almost compelled to try to please him which was terrifyingly strange.
He grabbed my poor excuse of a sac that I hugged to my chest.
"What is this?" he drawled in English, "the little bird was trying to escape her cage; well she was smarter than the rest."
"Please," I begged, thinking of my Khaleegy dress, the only thing I had from my home. He looked down at me, his face contemplative but still icy. He gave me a toothy smirk, and I noticed that his canines seemed really sharp.
Then I heard another shriek, this time, it was from Godiva. I whirled around and saw the woman standing at the top of the stairs, a crazed look in her eyes as she held a dagger. Not even the man who held me so threateningly made me feel so scared as with Godiva. The crazy woman flung her dagger at me, screaming the word 'whore'.
I heard a ripping screech, and for a moment I wondered where that came from until I realized it was from me. I closed my eyes and pushed myself backward, but Ivar's arms held me steady and the dagger never came. Instead, Ivar was holding it, just inches from my face.
He then flung it back at Godiva and it caught her straight in the chest. Godiva crumpled to the ground and I was too shocked to move. If I wasn't so shocked, I would have surely noted the grace and quickness of Ivar's movements.
"Burn this church down," Ivar commanded in English, dragging me away "Take all the gold and valuables."
My legs wouldn't move, I only saw these kind of things in the movies. It was further proof and a rougher awakening into the fact that I was no longer in 2016 Norway.
Ivar huffed and bent down, flinging me over his shoulder. That woke me up.
"Put me down!" I yelped in English, pounding on his back hoping to dissuade him but he only laughed and jousted me, smacking my behind soundly.
"Stop moving or I will beat your lovely ass again," he warned, and I could hear the humor beneath his serious threat. I was still smarting from his vulgar form of discipline, this wasn't Fifty Shades of Barbaric Shit.
I smacked his behind instead. He gave me two resounding slaps on my behind that had me yelping in pain.
"Do that again and it will be more than just your ass"
Was I not heavy for him? He didn't seem to be struggling yet. Perhaps he is stronger than I gave him credit for. I was getting dizzy now. The stench of burning wood and flesh reached my nose and I wrinkled it.
"Are you burning the bodies?" I asked, using his butt as leverage to pull myself up. He had an enviously firm butt.
"Yes, if we leave them to rot then they will spread disease. We cannot risk that."
"Are you planning to stay here?" I didn't want to stay here next to burning bodies.
"No," his answer was short.
"What—"
"Gods, woman, do you always ask so many questions?" Ivar smacked my behind again.
"Stop that," I yelped like a wounded puppy, "You are hurting me."
"Good, take that pain as a lesson and silence yourself," he growled.
It didn't take long before he was dumping me on the ground. Blood rushed from my head and I could already feel a migraine coming on.
"Get up and get on the horse," Ivar said, not offering to even help me up, the savage. I struggled to my feet when his hand came to the hilt of his sword. He then grabbed a bunch of rope from the satchel on the saddle on a great brown mare and grabbed my hands, tying them up tightly. Unnecessarily tight in my opinion but I wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of seeing my pain and making one of those scathing, humiliating comments to me.
"How will I get on the horse now?" I asked testily and he glared at me. In one fluid movement, he grabbed me by the waist and threw me on the poor animal in the most unorthodox way.
"Sit on the horse properly, one leg on each side, this is not a frivolity," Ivar said sharply, slapping the side of my thigh. I hissed in pain and glared at him but complied. He then threw my white sack inside the satchel of his saddle.
"We move on," he loudly called in Norwegian and I heard a few more shouts as the clanging of steel and the neighing of horses got louder. He then got on the horse in front of me, grabbing my tied wrists and pulling them above his head.
Ivar dragged my hands down his impossibly broad shoulders; my wrists were straining with effort and he finally wiggled his hands out of my awkward embrace. My arms were now around his waist.
"Hold fast," he said coldly, craning his neck to look down at me. I glared at him, he rolled his eyes and the horse began moving.
Let me tell you something, being on a horse is not fun. Not like it looks on big screen. The insides of my thighs were chafing, my arms were straining, my shoulders were on fire and my back was in near-chronic pain. Ivar seemed unaffected, though. He wasn't even panting.
Let me tell you something else, horse riding is a strenuous activity and I can see now why it is classified as a sport. I looked to my side and saw Erik riding his face completely void of emotion and a helmet on his head, surprisingly, there were no horns like I saw in Asterix and the Vikings.
Suddenly, all my misconceptions about Vikings seemed silly, as though it was something I was supposed to know, living in Norway. I was silly, another attribute to add to my ever-growing list of faults. I almost laughed at my stupidity. How many times have I been taught about Vikings? I never paid much attention in history class, but I passed with a respectable mark. Now that I look back on it, I felt stupid. I memorized the facts, I never understood them.
At this point, my self-esteem was so low; I had to let out a few tears as secretly as possible to let out some fume.
I don't know how long we have been riding, but soon, it was too dark to ride and we barely managed to set up camp. Well, them, I didn't do anything, I just sat next to the horses and waited for Ivar to come and untie me from the tree.
My stomach grumbled loudly. Instinctively, my knees flew up to my chest and I leaned forward, hoping they were too far away to hear my pathetic stomach.
I hate that taco now. Why did I have to be such a sneak? Well, no use crying over spilled milk now, it is too late for even crying over it.
It seemed like forever when Ivar came over, a bowl of something hot and steamy in his big hands. He squatted in front of me and I watched him wearily. Something that smelled like roasted meat wafted into my nose and my stomach grumbled loudly, I blushed with shame. If he noticed, he didn't say anything.
"Open up" he commanded, I opened my mouth and to my horror he hand-fed me. But it was the most delicious, if not the blandest thing I have ever tasted. Any other time, something like this would be tasteless and for all the love I had for food, unsalvageable.
I haven't eaten in two days, so that must be what finally ruined my taste buds. The morsel clearly had some form of crispiness and it gave it a better taste. I almost moaned in pleasure. Let me tell you, the experience of eating food after two days was borderline orgasmic.
He waited for me to carefully swallow, waiting a second before feeding me the next morsel, I nearly burst with impatience. Why was he so slow in feeding me?
"I can feed myself."
"I never said you can't," he said patiently.
"Why can't I feed myself then?"
"Because you will gobble it all and then you won't be filled. If I feed you slowly, you won't be so hungry," Ivar explained with a long-suffering sigh, pulling a morsel from the plate and into my ready mouth.
I could see his reasoning, he may be a savage, but he certainly wasn't stupid. When I chewed the morsel and swallowed it, I opened my mouth; "thank you"
It won't hurt to be nice to my captors; it might make my time with them easier. I already counted myself lucky that Ivar decided he wanted me. Despite slavery being a genuinely horrible thing, it was a sort of insurance for someone like me. Someone who didn't know anything and it was the best I could ever hope to get so soon in a world like , I couldn't bear to think of what would have happened to me.
Ivar grunted and fed me the last of the morsels before taking out a water skin from his bag and commanding me; "tilt your head, open your mouth"
I did as I was big and the cool refreshing water ran down my parched throat, I swallowed the water eagerly, careful not to choke on the precious water.
"Sleep" Ivar commanded.
I was all too glad to comply.
When I woke up the next day, there was a lot of noise. Gosh, that must have been the stupidest thing I have ever narrated in my head, but I was groggy from sleep.
The men (and women) were breaking camp and Ivar walked up to me, surprisingly, his braces didn't seem to bother him.
"Good, you are awake. Can you sew?" he asked, tossing me an apple.
I wanted to shake my head and tell him I knew nothing but that would be a lie, and I needed to make myself useful. If I wasn't useful in the most important skills then I am a literal waste of space. He would either rape me or kill me and I really enjoyed living my life, despite how much I complained.
"Only a little," I admitted, "Nothing too complicated."
"Good, sew this together for me, it will be a while before we start moving,"
He had given me a blue linen shirt that was cut at the chest. He threw a bag of sewing supplies to me. Thankfully, there were fastening pins. Otherwise, I would have been hopeless. He then untied the ropes from my wrists. To my utter dismay, he tied my waist to the tree.
"I won't escape," I said testily, but honestly. Where could I go?
Ivar didn't say anything, he just looked at me, and then he yanked on the rope, hard. I yelped.
"Stop it" I griped. Ivar only smirked at me.
Sewing wasn't hard; it was the pricking of fingers that made my teeth grate with annoyance and mild pain. The end result wasn't as horrible as I expected, in fact, if it wasn't for the different color strings, it wouldn't have been so prominent.
I could be proud of something at least.
"Done?" it was not Ivar, but it was the woman at the church. I could only stare at her, awestruck by the beauty I was silly to have never noticed before. It took me a while before I realised she was speaking English. How stupid I must have appeared to her, gaping like a fish.
Thankfully, she was patient with me.
"Yes," I stuttered. She snatched the shirt from my hands, which were not trembling.
"You did better than I expected," she mused, "Perhaps you are not too useless. We begin moving now. Ivar will be here shortly to get you."
She threw the shirt back at me. I was so shocked by her mannerisms. I certainly didn't expect her to be kind to me. But I felt there should be some sort of womanly kinship. Apparently, that was too much to ask for and I would not blame her. She was a badass-shield maiden. I am like a lump of potato that is practically inedible, totally different things. I just prayed to God she wasn't an admirer of Ivar, otherwise, I would be as good as shesh-kebab.
"Alof" Ivar's steel-on-stone voice rang sharply. Alof didn't even look fazed as she turned to Ivar with a smirk, very similar to Ivar's.
"Ivar, you should take better care of your precious pets," Alof taunted. Ivar didn't take his eyes of her. He didn't say anything either, just stared her down with his glowing blue eyes until even Alof shifted with discomfort.
"Leave," he hissed. Alof didn't miss a beat as she moved. Ivar didn't take his eyes of her until she was a considerable distance away.
He turned to me and I resisted the urge to squirm. He walked up to me—well he more like stalked, with an attractive, manly wiggle to his hips that I never noticed before.
He bent down and snatched the shirt away from me
"Good enough," he grunted. He straightened up and to my mortification (and secret awe) he yanked the shirt he was wearing off. It took all I had to not drop my jaw or worse, drool.
He was sculpted like Michelangelo's David statue, which was infinitly more attractive than those American models my friends obsessed over. His torso was like an upside-down Dorito (funny, I always think about food)—and those arms—ohh. Tribal tattoos, thick and black, covered the entire length of his arms, neck, shoulders, and chest, with a single body of a snake running down his obliques and disappearing past his navel. It really drew one's eye. I could see smaller tattoos on his naval too that disappeared below his belt line. I imagine there was more at his back.
Stupid—I mentally screamed at myself, he was my captor; I wasn't supposed to find him attractive. But oh—it was inevitable. It seemed my stare was fuelling his arrogance. He caught me at it, I wanted to groan and smack my head but I held myself. I had to admit though; the tattoos were a bit of a turn off. I never appreciated a man with ink. I always imagine they were callous. I know I was not wrong on that count. At least for this person specifically.
"Like what you see?" he teased, shrugging the newly sewn shirt back on and folding his old shirt carefully. Seeing him do such a menial chore made him all the more attractive.
I could only huff and look away, a blush coming over my face. Thankfully, he didn't open up that conversation. He squatted down again and untied my waist and much to my displeasure, re-tied it around my wrists. I held my tongue this time, unable to even look at the man.
"Have you bled yet?" he asked casually, as though it was a question about the weather; I could only stare at him in open-mouthed shock.
"Well, have you?" his eyebrow quirked up. I slowly nodded my head, unable to form the words to grace his question with an answer. I wasn't much into old figure of speech but I could understand when someone asked about my monthly cycle. That priest from the church had no problem about it either.
"How old are you, did you say? You look like a sixteen-year-old to me," Ivar asked, pulling out a dagger from his belt and to my utter disenchantment, picked his perfect teeth with them. What was there to pick anyways?
"Fifteen," I begrudgingly huffed, slightly impressed at his estimation. He stopped picking at his teeth and looked down at me, surprise evident on his features.
"Should you not be popping your third child by now? I know the Saxons like to start early," He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.
"I am not Saxon," I countered sharply, "I am not married and I do not appreciate you speaking to me this way."
That was my biggest mistake; it was the worst thing to say to a Viking who held authority. I could see immediate change in his expression. He even had a dagger in his hand, goddammit.
Perhaps you should have been more tactful, that snide, shit-eating voice whispered gleefully.
His blue eyes froze over and shone, his mouth twisted into a wry smile, as though he expected me to slip up like this, but his eyebrows pulled together and he was the definition of threatening. In one swift move, his dagger came down right beside my head; I felt a sharp pain in my ear.
An unearthly silence descended over my mind and then, a loud, ringing sound and hot white pain. I tried to move my head but the pain intensified by a ten-fold. A ripping sound made me wince and I only realized it was me until Ivar's stuffed a piece of cloth in my mouth.
"Don't move unless you want to rip your ear out," he warned, his face moving impossibly close to mine, our lips were almost touching and tears were streaming down my face. I couldn't even scream. I was speechless with fear and pain.
"You will learn to respect me, if you do not like how I treat you, you deal with it. If I wish to do something you do not want, you do it. If ever you speak to me so, it will be more than your ear," he snarled so softly, I had to strain to hear over my haze of pain.
"Am I clear?" he asked softly, his mouth ghosting over my lips, my nose and my eyes, which were tightly shut. He pulled the cloth from my mouth and I held in my pathetic sobs.
He shook the dagger gently and the pain that came along with it almost made me faint.
"Oh Gosh, yes, oh my—please, I promise, I am so-so-so-sorry" I stuttered over my tears, my hands flying to grip the chest of his tunic, clutching so hard, my fingers were starting to hurt. I wanted to push him away but my muscles wouldn't budge. Perhaps it was for the better, I would think, later, that I didn't push him away.
I could feel warm liquid trail down the lobe of my ear, blood. I felt Ivar breathe gently against my lips and in one swift motion, he pulled out the dagger.
"Don't scream," he hissed. It was all I had to not scream. My body convulsed forward and my face was met with his hard chest. I tried to muffle my screams and sobs into his shirt. The pain and the relief was so intense, I felt light headed.
"Shh..." he cooed me softly. How could he be so callous one moment and the so tender the next? The confusion set my emotion spiralling down and I had to muffle another sob in his shirt. My pain tolerance was so low at the moment.
Ivar softly stroked my hair; his mouth went over my inured hear. His hot mouth came down on it and he gently sucked. The warmth of his mouth clashed horribly against my injured ear and I cried even more. I couldn't even bring it in me to be disgusted by this.
"Hush yourself now," his tone took on a hard edge but it still didn't lose its softness. "Am I clear on that note?"
He nudged my face with his chest gently. I nodded my head vigorously, unable to form proper words.
"I need you to speak," he said, his hand burying itself in my hair, tugging softly.
"Yes," I gasped.
"Good," he said. To my utter surprise, he picked me up, cradling me like a baby, and walked over to his horse, setting me on it. He climbed in front of me and again, wiggled my arms around him. Tears were still streaming down my face; I had to bury my face in his back. I angled myself so that my injured ear was exposed to the cool wind.
I closed my eyes.