In Eldur, Itachi routinely saw faces much like his own: pale skin, black hair, dark eyes. With mouths pulled taut by a smug air of nobility into scowls. The typical countenance one would expect for an Uchiha. Nary did he ever see a beard - leading to the common joke Uchiha men wanted to look like their women. Not really the case, his clan simply saw having a beard as a sign of laziness. Plus, they were itchy.
But here?
Beards were everywhere framing tanned and wind-burnt visages, all cheering the Fyrking and his sons return as the longships made for the harbor. Hair wasn't all black - in fact, some colors didn't even make any sense (did that man have blue hair?). Thralls it seemed rubbed elbows with karls, merchants, and other well-to-do members of society; ugly faces mixed with the beautiful; young stood next to the old; everyone and everything was so crashed in a loud display that Itachi's eyes couldn't focus. Never could he imagine Midgard being home to so many different people with different faces.
Where there's unity there's strength, he thought looking at them all. Seeing this made the Uchiha reaving all seem like a lost cause. How his family ever thought the Senju weak considering the multitude they gathered in one market was beyond him. This square alone could pass off for a small village back home, maybe on the islands of Seltkirk or Hrafn.
Aboard the ship they were assigned places for disembark, a visible sign of Hyden Lyf's hierarchy Itachi presumed. Butsuma and the huskarls were first, followed then by Hashirama and Tobirama and the Uchiha weregild second, lastly came the retainers. Because Itachi and Sasuke were "honored guests", they'd walk with the family - Along with their kinsman it would seem. However bad an idea that seemed, considering Itachi saw him being roughly pulled from below deck, visibly drunk and needing the extra two pairs of legs to help him stand.
"Left honey mead down below to make him agreeable." Hashirama said to Itachi, but he looked even worse than when they left Orm. In the light of day you really could see how wasted away he became.
"Nothing could ever make him agreeable." Itachi said pitiably.
"My father called him "the black one". Not very clever, I know. But all of you have black hair to us, so, there you go. Name stuck." Hashirama looked sorry as the man was freed from the bonds holding his hands together. He stumbled, looked to slur something unintelligible, and his eyes were half-lidded, all the things which could make a man cringe to see how far one could fall. Perhaps he left a little too much alcohol for the man. "What's his real name?"
Itachi looked at the drunk figure wasting away in his tunic and couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness. In spite of all that was said, he was still a part of the clan. And as his prince, Itachi felt a duty to at least afford him some small sign of respect. "Where I'm from, it's considered rude to speak a person's name without their knowledge. If you wish to know, ask him yourself." Sounded harshly blunt, but for the most part Hashirama didn't seem to mind the answer.
A gangplank was prepared as the ship made it to the pier. Hashirama found Itachi a spot near him and his brother, who regarded the Uchiha only with the most coolest of looks; at least one Senju had the sense to treat an enemy with disdain. Good, made it easier for Itachi to better safeguard himself. He made sure to pull Sasuke close to his side, though little brother gave him an indignant retort of quit it and walked on. Their sloven kinsman was placed with them too, propped up by two guards who looked none too pleased to be baby-sitting a drunkard. Sasuke snorted in derision when he looked at him, but the man only regarded them through half-lidded eyes and said nothing.
Butsuma cleared the way like an impatient bull, indifferent and uncaring for the cheers and raucous praise around him. Awaiting them were the living dead it looked to Itachi. Elderly faces lined with wrinkles, liver-spots and bad tempers judging by their frowns. Beside these esteemed individuals lined men with shined brynjas and tall spears. Some looked experienced judging by the gold and silver arm rings; Itachi wondered how many they had to kill to heap such a horde upon themselves. Others were not so gaudy. Arms were bare and faces young and scrappy looking. No doubt waiting expectantly for the day they too will earn their rings and stories.
"Asagrim," Hailed one of the old faces. He was flanked on his left by an elderly couple, and to his right by a burly warrior with a beard "Your fishing trip is over?"
"No fish, only Uchiha." Butsuma's voice sounded like it could scare a wolf. A giant paw reached out and prompted Itachi over. "Come, boy." Came the stern order. Itachi needed no incentive to obey, although Hashirama gave him a slight nudge just to make sure. Sasuke followed close and along with their drunk fellow who dragged, stumbled, and nearly looked to yack before presenting himself to their captors. "Couple o' black princes," Butsuma said showing off his catch to all present. "With a Vanir dog. Not a bad haul." Butsuma noted
The man eyed them like a butcher assessing meat, deeming if their quality was good enough to be palatable. He nodded his scarred face in acceptance. Apparently they pleased him. "Not planning to eat them are we?"
Butsuma's laugh sounded like he swallowed a fistful of stones. "No, not today, Danzo. Want something hardy after a long trip." Some people just aren't meant to attempt humor. Words just get caught in their serious demeanor.
A hushed whisper told Itachi that was Danzo, the Aesir thule and a noteworthy man in Butsuma's hall. He was an old, scarred, tested, hoary warrior who campaigned long with his father and with his father before him. He was a man about as abrasive as a rusted axe and about as mean as one too. If there was a reason to be wary of anyone, Danzo was one not to make enemies. For his role in the court was to determine the truth of public statements and oaths, to protect Butsuma's reputation so as to not be associated with betrayers, mutineers, and people of ill-boasting. "If there's anyone you shouldn't lie to, it's him. Man can sniff out the truth like a whore a coin, and sometimes make up his own truths too. Be careful." Hashirama said. Itachi agreed. A man with that many scars and lived to talk about them should be noted.
"Now...WHERE IS MY BEAUTIFUL WIFE?!" Itachi was shook as Hashirama's loud voice boomed; figures he could yell over a crowd that big and still be heard. "There she is!" Hashirama pointed, clasping Itachi close and directing him to a lovely red-head in regal dress. "The love of my life! Isn't she beautiful?" She was. Long, illustrious red hair styled into two buns, framing a kind face and graced by a dignified glow.
Hashirama saw fit to guide Itachi and his brother away to more pleasant company. The long walk, he said, past the market and to their hearth would be better spent with pretty faces face than with old men and their battle scars. He lead them over to where Mito Senju patiently waited for her husband with her ladies. All were fair to look on, and cast many glances towards the Uchiha brothers as they came close, especially one with a long, blonde ponytail. A long bang covered one eye, but that only intensified her smirking lust she sent over to Sasuke's direction. Itachi heard an amused *Hn* come from his brother.
"Evening, ladies." Hashirama flashed them a warm smile, eliciting a number of giggles from the girls. All except Mito who was impervious to her husband's charms it seemed. "Mito." He nodded his head. "Told you I was going to come back, eh?" Hashirama said warmly to her.
"Aye, s'pose you did," she responded with a tempered smile. "And here you are returned to me."
"Heroes always come home, especially when they have a woman like you to come back to." Hashirama released the brothers from his arms to wrap them around something far more enticing. It was good; Sasuke chaffed at such close proximity with Hashirama anyway. "You look beautiful today." Said the Senju bringing his hand up under her chin.
"You say that to me every day." She said unamused.
"Aye, but you never look this good without a reason." Mito certainly looked the part of a Kindling's wife. A creamy white dress topped with a luxuriously orange fox pelt draped over her small shoulders, with bright red lipstick and amber-gold Uzumaki spiral earrings which caught the light alighting an already warm face. Uchiha women only wore so much on two occasions in their life: weddings and funerals. It wasn't smart letting your neighbors now how many riches you possessed. Living with island raiders tends to breed a healthy bit of paranoia.
Mito playfully smiled at her husband as he went in for a kiss, but she turned away. "You're right," She said with a hint of mischief, which only made her more alluring. "I do have a reason. Something I want to confide with you. In private."
"Oho, I think I might like that. Hope we don't do much talking."
Their love was cute, but it was more than a little uncomfortable having to stand there and see it for the Uchiha brothers. The maidens may have fawned, but Itachi and Sasuke were more than a little put off by such an open display of affection. Like the islands they hail from, Uchiha weren't really known for their warmth. Even he and Izumi hadn't said much to each other before their nightly tryst, their affections being more of an understood reciprocation than lusty passion. It was the prim and proper way of love, which tends to make Uchiha seem to have a proclivity toward insensitivity.
"Asuma." Butsuma turned and greeted the burly warrior with the wrap-around beard brusquely. "Hall ready. I want to get right and proper with the feasting."
"Always ready, my king." Responded the big man.
Butsuma craned his neck to scan the crowd behind him. "Notice your father isn't here." Sounded more like an accusation than an observation. The man known as Danzo smiled past his scars, while Asuma kept a steady face and responded without missing a beat.
"Torque Giving night for some of the young'uns. Most like got caught up in the story of how he got his first copper. You know how old men are, like to talk." Asuma shrugged indifferently, but Butsuma's prickly pride didn't take kindly to excuses.
"Hmph," Butsuma gets quiet for a moment, like an anger is building inside him but settles down. He's a smart man, knowing temper should be like a sheathed sword, present, but not at all wasted on petty trifles. It should only be seen as a humble guarantee, not brandished like a flippant threat. "And my wife?" But he asks questions like he swings a sword; direct and with no remorse.
"Not feeling well today, Asagrim," Danzo redoubted the blade with his quick response, though the lone eye peered ever so clandestinely through his wrappings to rest on their drunk comrade knowingly. Itachi sensed a latent intimacy perhaps with whatever knowledge the scarred one kept hidden. See your enemies before they see you. Repeated his father's sage advice. "Summers...still don't agree with her."
"Bullshit," Butsuma snorted. "She's had close to twenty of them to get agreeable, and she still happens to find herself indisposed? Hmph, damn jotunns. Can never please'em."
At the top of towers is where you'd usually find princesses locked away in bright rooms, garbed in colorful raiment, looking out into a green and bountifull countryside with bright eyes, awaiting for their hero to come and take them away. Yet the top of this tower there was no princess. Only a queen of gelid reserve seething in her darkness.
The room wasn't bright, but particularly cold considering the early summer sun that bathed Hyden Lyf. No torches were lit, no rugs or straw strewn on the wooden floor, not even a tapestry hung on the walls. Akane had the curtains hung over all the windows save for one porthole, which let out a sliver of light alighting her tall, slender figure peering out with red eyes. She saw the ships, she knew who they brought. They brought him. Into her domain, into her territory, and she cursed.
"...Fuck you"
Not very queen-like of course, but then again she didn't feel like a queen. Not with this sweltering heat making her sweat like an icicle in spring.
She rubbed away the sweat pooling on her brow with a long, sinewy arm. Ack! Damn these summer months. She knew wasn't as far south a jotunn would hate being, but Asaland was not Jotnar, and these rolling green forests of tall pines which hugged against the fjords were a far cry from the frosted sentinels of her homeland. Oh, what she wouldn't give to feel the ice sheets of The Outyards once more between her toes.
She sighed exasperatedly and walked away from the window back into her darkened chamber, thrall nombur 4 hovering just behind like a stalking spectre. She'd taken in so many maidens now, she forgot this one's name as soon as she brought her aboard. More a favor to her damned clan, but pandering to others was just another bit of her queenly duties.
Her movement caused the large black wolf sleeping at her bedside to pick up its head. He cocked his head inquisitively at her and she smiled. He was about the only thing that could do that nowadays. Took her years to convince her husband to let Fen in their bedchamber, even longer to get her maids in the same room with him again; was difficult since the whole "biting off the hand" incident with Thrall nombur 3. Or was it 2? She did warn her though he wasn't a pet.
She looked out past the window, past Thrall nombur 4 and out into the bright world she cursed. Her knuckles cracked, her long fingernails cut into her palm and she bared her teeth. She saw the ships, she knew whom they brought...
The murderer of her sons.
Akane loved her children - all THREE of her children. Kawarama... Itama...Tobirama was still her with, a consolation in of itself, but what a cruel reminder. She them in his face just as well, and it wrought a ruin upon her heart. Unlike what these Asalandaders thought, Hel was not a frozen wasteland where souls of the dead wandered ignobly for eternity. No. Hel was fire; Hel was seeing your children burn to ash upon pyres of burning ships, songs of lamentation easing their passing to the halls of Slainrest. Gods, she could still feel that heat upon her face. How she hated fire.
And now she was soon to be called Firkvan. Oh, the irony. A frost giantess being called "Fire Queen".
To hell with silver crowns and maids and all the prissy things a queen needed worry about, she was a mother in pain. Akane was going to have blood whether it was "queenly" or not, and now that her prey was here in Hyden Lyf, dormant memories of being a hunter resurfaced. Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, blood for blood. Piss on her husband's peace. As far as she was concerned there can be no peace between a hunter and the when she skinned him, pelted him, and hung him on her wall will she be finished. Blood for blood...And now that he was in Hyden Lyf, his fate was fixed. And she vowed he was going to pay for all the pain he caused her.
Akane bit the inside of her cheek, tasted the copper she drew, and licked her lips in anticipation. When you wish to conduct in vengeance there's no better creature to consult with than a snake, and Hvitslanga has much work he needs doing. Besides, he owed her anyway.
Sure as shit he was no friend of fate.
The roads were packed, the people were loud, his headache was damn near threatening to split his head open, and to top it all off the entire gods damned city seemed to be built atop a hill. Fuck hills, fuck walking, fuck all these annoying faces who saw fit to scream praises to a man who didn't look to give a fuck. Was he swearing too much? Fuckin' hell, always happens to him when he drinks. Why the wife always minded him whenever he took to the horn.
Butsuma walked ahead and talked with the scarred one all the way, not once glancing to acknowledge the people as his procession passed. Weregild had the sudden urge to make a snarky comment on what a colossal prick the Fyrking was, but he thought against that. Figured no one assumes a position of power without a bit of cock showing, he guessed. It was just as true with politics as it was with sex. And like fucking, in the game of king-making, manners weren't all that important.
Weregild had a hard time navigating the uneven cobblestones paved in a haphazard manner. Seemed like a job done by a fucking amateur than a decent architect. Then again, there weren't many skilled architects in the Northlands for the cobblestones to be even. But Butsuma was impatient for his kingdom and wanted paved roads just like the walkways of Ruskiev, and thought what he got was a cheap imitation of the real thing, Weregild gave him credit. It was a start. A misshapen, uncoordinated, uncomfortable start, but heading in the right direction.
The little Jarlings seemed to be taking in the sights in the customary Uchiha fashion: in abject silence and disinterest. Course he knew the Uchiha clan weren't known for gross displays of emotion, but live long enough with these people, and they become pretty easy to read. The smallest twitch of a mouth or raised eye brow might as well have been a cry of "Great-Modr's cunt, did you see that!", and of those two the little Jarling were doing plenty. Hard not to as stories of Hden Lyf were passed around the islands for a time. "A village hidden in leaves, coated with amber," they said. "Built on the underside of a blue mountain, with their ancestors looking down on them," they said. But in actuality it wasn't really all that - you could fucking see the village through the trees and it certainly wasn't made from amber. The mountain wasn't anything special, and no dead spirits seemed to be floating over it. It was like any other place Weregild had seen while he went off on raiding, just a bit bigger.
Itachi looked to be getting hammy with the Senju Kindling, being regaled on this sight and that stall or that person in the crowd by that fucking loud-mouth Hashirama - All-Fodr's arse, does the bastard never shut up. Not like his brother. With the pale-blue skin, all glares and stares. Must be a thing with little brothers and bad tempers. As lil' Sasuke kept to himself too, much to the displeasure of Hashirama's wife-man's maidens. But while they enjoyed such resplendent company of noble blood and pretty women, Weregild was stuck with his two baby-sitters from the boat and a shitload of snot-nosed runts too young to even lift an oar blade it looked. Wasn't too bad, he supposed. Least he wouldn't feel like an arseling if he hurled over one of them as opposed to someone actually important.
As they walked the road got narrower until they hit a fork in the street, where i a massive oak with a few rough-hewn runes giving directions stood in the center. To the side a small street connected an alley, a small rivulet for the run-off from the market to flow. A few booths and stalls of lesser known goods were plied here by seedier looking merchants. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Until a stop, a sudden crash of creaking wood and terrified screams, and the sight of a scrawny, blonde haired young'un ran into their midst. He jumped a stall at full sprint, rolled and screamed out a warning as his bright cerulean eyes flashed with fear. "The Hel you all standing for?! He's gone berserk!" He shouted. Suddenly Weregild felt his balance go as as his baby-sitters decided to go baby-sit the king and treat him like chopped liver. Six of the king's huskarls instinctively formed a ring around Butsuma, while his sons moved to clear people away, as the squirrel seemed to bring a lumbering bear with him.
He was half-crazed, half-naked, and in desperate need of a shave. Plus, he smelled like he needed a cold shower. His eyes were red and his mouth frothed, tell-tale signs of a man gone berserk. He didn't need to punch that woman in the face, or slice at the man's foot with his sword, but he knew all too well a berserker needed very little reason to commit any violence.
Hashirama pulled out his sword and called out to blondie. "Ack, Naruto! The hell'd you do to piss Beorn off this time?"
"Nothing, I swear!" Blondie was cut off from his escape because of the shieldwall the huskarls threw up.
"Ief...*huff*...Skr-Skrealing thief... *huff*...Aw, fuckin Hel - He-He stole from Rolf!" A voice suddenly yelled from the alley. One man had an axe drawn with tunic plastered to his skin, while the other followed close behind but looked ready to have a heart-attack. Barge guards if Weregild could bet any money, hired bullies set to some weapons and told to watch over a merchant captain's ship. Running was a bitch to'em, because spend too long on a boat and you're legs turn to jelly.
"He's a thief!", one yelled between sucking down air.
"I didn't steal anything this time!" Blondie was cut off as another crash from a stall showed the berserker cutting a booth to kindling with his heavy sword. All attention was drawn to him.
If the little squirrel were any smart, he'd use this opportunity to high-tail it out of here. Rightly he did, vanishing into the crowd as quickly as his skrealing name inferred. Smart lad. Distractions always beget opportunity. As he moved, though, it caught the attention of the bullies. They moved to give chase. But their sudden movement caught the attention of the berserker, who chopped one down in a blind fit running a red ruin on his chest.
"Beorn!" Yelled one with the axe. "Fucks a matter with ya?! Tha's fuckin' Sven!" The fellow paled at how nonchalantly Beorn cut down his comrade, but friends and foes mattered little to berserkers. Getting lost in the blood was all that mattered to them; knew this better than anyone. Grew up on the Wyrm's Eye Islands didn't he?
With the cautionary steps, Chin-Strap moved to calm the man down with a couple of his arm-ringed warriors. He slowly inched his sword from its sheath and motioned for the two others to go around the crazed animal. "Beorn," he coaxed the berserker's attention towards him. Blood-red eyes darted, absolutely livid anyone would get in the way of his anger. "Easy, settle down. Everything's all right."
Piss on that. One look at the man and you knew he wasn't going to calm down. Wouldn't make a difference even if the nicest pair of tits bent over and presented themselves. A man this angry is like a fire, you can't blow hot air on him or he's just going to get worse. Best thing to do is either douse the flames and pray to All-Fodr the embers die out fast.
Or get the hell away from him.
Beorn needed no invitation. Like a cornered animal sensing danger, he lashed out at the closest thing he saw. A black haired man whom Weregild had nicknamed "Spikey", vainly tried bringing up his wooden cudgel to stay the blow. Beorn was too strong. Sword bit through the wood and sliced off Spikey's nose. Beorn then cut a wide arc, dragging his sword through the air. It whistled at Spikey's pretty looking comrade; Weregild ever so wittily dubbed him "Pretty Boy". "Pretty Boy" did well enough to get his axe up in time, but the berserker was smart. Axes were good as long as you kept a nice distance. Up close though, swords eat them. Running his blade along the axe's haft, he caught the underside of the axe's beard and drove up. The slice cut Pretty Boy's right eye and caused him to fall on the ground and scream in pain.
"Rargh!" Chin-strap pressed his attack, driving Beorn back. Weregild could tell he was a skilled swordsman, delivering powerful strikes as he pressed one hand over the wrist of his sword-hand; puts more power into attack and defense, but most don't use it because it hinders maneuverability. Chin-strap's sword was unrelenting in its hammering, drawing a few cuts along the berserker's shoulders even, but they only sufficed to make him more irate. Lunging forward with the battering ram he calls a head, he banged it against Chin-strap causing him to fall back.
"Hashirama," Ice-Skin called to his brother. The elder Kindling needed no prodding, ripping free his seax with the studded handle and charged. He ducked underneath a sword swipe and plunged the seax into the man's stomach - damning wound, the stomach will bleed and bleed if not tended to properly. Although, he's seen men fight on with their stomachs skewered before, and the big bear's hide was tough, and being right and proper drunk always makes big warriors a bitch to bring down. A backhanded fist knocked Hashirama away, but Ice-Skin covered his brother with a spear into Beorn's shoulder. Waste of a move, should've finished this right here and now. Man's stomach is basically uncovered and begging to be pricked.
But with that being said, the princes were good fighters, warrior gods who worked well in tandem. One was fitted to the ground like a tree, every blow from his sword resounding with strength coming from his deep rooted stance, the other working around him like water, spear rippling through the air twisting to put more cuts onto the berserker. But Weregild noticed a fatal flaw in their attack which would only spell trouble for them
They're not trying to kill him...
Couldn't tell if it was pity, remorse, or maybe because they just weren't good enough to land a killing shot (though Weregild doubted that), but he sensed a damning affliction which hurts many warriors: mercy. Wergild knew if the brothers clung to their insipid pity it was only going to drag out an already bloody process. You don't hunt a bear in its cave then to relent in dealing the final blow. Animals can't comprehend mercy, all they understood is pain and the intense struggle to live. The inch the Kindlings were giving this man can be the one either between their death or his if they're not careful.
Hm, would the Crone weave it so another Senju Kindling would die on the eve of peace? Who's to say, fate is inexorable. As so is the warrior who profits himself alive after a fight.
Beorn roared and charged - one good thing big men were notorious for in a fight. Ice-Skin crashed away from him like water driven against rock, and Hashirama was torn from his spot and thrown down into the cobblestones. Beorn was fast, faster than Chin-Strap or any of the huskarls could move to protect their Kindling, all the while his Fyrking father stared with only mild interst.
Beorn picked up his sword arm. Bad choice. Leaves a big opening. If Hashirama had the wherewithal, should drive his sword into the man's ribs. Then suddenly he noticed movement and a flash of red, a slight hint of perfume in the air, and a gaggle of gasps. Hashirama's wife-man broke from her maidens and stepped in front of the stinking bear's blade. Brave act, but foolish. This is what mercy gets you, Weregild thought, only complicates bloodier situations. Beorn's red eyes were aflame with bloodlust, the red all there was for the berserker to see as hatred fueled his actions.
Courage need only take a moment, where as cowardice can stay with a man forever. Those were the words All-Fodr spoke whilst he hung on the ash to gain his wisdom. But piss on that. Weregild was drunk and he had half a mind to believe All-Fodr was drunk too if he went hanging about a tree to gain knowledge. No, this wasn't his fight he reasoned, these weren't his people; he was no friend of fate and he most certainly wasn't going to chance his wyrd-threads protecting a foolish woman who put herself where she shouldn't belong.
He was no hero, never wanted to be, never needed to be. A sentiment the Uchiha jarling didn't share with him apparently.
Itachi overtook Beorn's attack and glared out with a calm, cold expression etched upon his pure Vanir features. Beorn was frozen in his tracks, his red eyes looking confused, stupid, unsure as he tipped his head to the side. He stared out at a black undulating serpent writhing against a red field, turning to eat its own tail. His sword faltered and stopped, a hushed silence breathed anxiously over all, as the marvel of Itachi's Sharingan worked its magic over the berserker. Reckon not many Asalanders ever saw one up close without it being fixed on an Uchiha reaver before, probably not many knew how it worked. There were many stories about it steeped in superstition and myth, so many who knew which ones were true. Alls he knew were those eyes could make anyone do terrible things, see whatever they wanted to see...
And in a still, calculated turn of his head, Beorn stared straight at Weregild.
...You fuck
Beorn was fast and swung wildly. Weregild narrowly avoided 37 inches of high carbon steel polished to a sheen, which had a wide fuller tapering to a sleek point, aiming to gut him from balls to brain and end this bullshit of a day he was having. A fist collided with Weregild's face causing him to taste blood and sent him flying against the wall of a house. One giant paw then latched onto Weregild's neck and began to squeeze. Blood pooled around his eyeballs threatening to burst forth from their sockets, and he felt his neck crushing under his god-like grip. A quick succession of shots peppered the berserker's sides, but a lot good that did. He was too weak, too sickly. Too many days in the watering hole and not nearly enough mead to make him strong. He needed a weapon, gods dammi.
And in the moment of clarity only the prospect of death can sometimes incur, he noticed the handle of Hashirama's seax invitingly poking from the man's side. The All-Fodr smiled on him, or the Crone perhaps weaved it so he wouldn't die this day. Tomorrow, maybe, but not today. Fate had far worse plans for him.
Weregild gripped Hashirama's seax with a desperate grip and tugged. At first the blade wouldn't budge, caught on bone or muscle or some twisted organ. A sick, gurgling laughter dripping with blood came from the Beorn's mouth. Fuck, that's right, berserker's can't feel pain. Only laughed at it. But then he started sawing and the seax began moving, and soon the laughing drowned in an ocean of blood spilling from his mouth. The seax ran slowly across the man's stomach, bringing the giant down to a knee, but his grip never slackened. All-Fodr's prick, was he a tough son of a whore! Then Weregild plunged his fist into the gaping wound carved into the berserker's stomach. He felt the muscles moving, the blood gushing, the warm sensation of his innards pressing around his fingers.
Never been inside a man up until this moment before, and Weregild had to admit the feeling was quite...odd. Speckles of red were spat into Weregild's face as the man screamed, and he could hear gasps from the crowd around him. No, please, no need to step in at any moment. Stand back and enjoy the show. It was only his life on the line. He could handle this. And he did, literally, as his hand clutched onto the thing he was looking for. Learned this from all those years hunting and skinning lynxes near his farm on Seltkirk. This is why every warrior should invest in a good chain mail shirt; saved themselves the discomfort of a bad belly-ache. In one motion, he pushed the blade clean through the man and pulled.
Entrails spilled forth in a bloody mess of tangled purple rope onto the stone. Beorn fell down in a heap at Weregild's feet with a sick thud, squishing the pile of his intestines in a sick manner. The other barge guard stood with his axe drawn, motionless and incredulous at the barbarity he was seldom accustomed to whilst protecting boats. But he wasn't the only one. Weregild felt their stares, heard the crowd milling about with terrified expressions and murmurings. Butsuma looked on with disinterest past his shieldwall, along with Scarface and the other two elders. The ladies in waiting kept their long sleeves held over their eyes and noses (entrails have a tendency to stink), not meeting his gaze as they went to collect Mito and Hashirama.
Guarantee they never heard this in the songs, but gods, he was no hero. Never wanted to be. He simply lived by a set code of rules which got him from one place to the next. Call the unfortunate series of events he seems to fall into fate, misfortune, or bad decision making, it didn't matter. So long as he lived afterwards, he had a way of coping. But he was cold, felt cold, couldn't feel any colder. The mead didn't warm him, the blood didn't warm him...Because they were gone...They weren't coming back...And he was alone. Alone with all these fucking faces stinking of fear. And those eyes, those fucking imperious, cold, red eyes which stared at him like some damned thrall dispenser who prides himself in dealing meat. Wonder what Itachi made the berserker see to make him turn his attention at him?
Everything then went still and suffocating, his head swam in the red and the heat of the day. Fuck he was feeling ill. He keeled over and wretched whatever spirits were left in him. Sure, wasn't the hero thing to do, but then again he was no hero. Never needed to be, never wanted to be. Better men than him have gone off to play the hero and died for a flighty song, sung by skalds like Shisui. From the Wyrm's Eye Islands to the frozen barriers of Jotnar, from the Aesir's warm halls to the rocky crags of Harlock in the west, from the mists of Drengr to the windy plains of Folkvang, and then to the Island Kingdoms, they sing.
Even though all he wanted was the peace and quiet of home.
His head starting spinning, his world fading to black, and soon the slippery cobblestones underneath his feet gave way - shoddy workmanship, he noted. His head collapsed hard and he began to see shooting stars, as the drunken stupor slipped him into unconsciousness.
First note of going a viking: People are your friends, so use them. Let them do what you can't do yourself first, then take advantage. Distractions beget opportunity. Throwing Udon over the side of Red Belly was a good way to get Beorn's focus, who in turn drew Sven's and Karli's attention away from Meogi, leaving Konhamaru with Rolf and he was sure as shit Rolf wouldn't have the heart or legs to chase after him. Perfect. Make them see one thing, so they don't see anything else. The vikingr way, the raider way.
Which is why he didn't think twice spurning his legs forward in a mad dash away from the royal company, as all eyes were on the vicious Beorn bear coming to crash their party. S'fine, no one got hurt, they could handle one Beorn no problem. 'Course Naruto didn't quite like the way Hashirama glared at him. Forget Tobirama. Never did like Naruto's antics, probably gets his sense of humor from his mother, that one. But in the end it was for a good cause, Naruto got away from Beorn and would now continue his pursuit in getting his first copper.
Admirable, right?
Besides, not like he actually stole anything from Rolf in the first place. There was nothing the chest worth stealing. By All-Fodr's beard, treasure chests are meant for treasure Rolf! Not for pieces of paper with nothing on them but scribbles of letters and nomburs on it. Didn't Rolf learn anything from the sagas? Naruto reached into the woolen pocket of his pants and tugged out the blueprint. It crinkled and cracked and was covered in dried snot, and he didn't really know why he snagged this. Hmph, maybe because walking away with something was better than nothing.
But shit-fyr, the gang wasn't gonna be happy about this. They took a whole day off from picking so as to see Rolf's massive hoard, for all the gold and shiny things hidden aboard his ship, but this is all they had to show for? A picture for a bridge leading to All-Fodr's arse for all he knew.
Soon the noise of the market place faded away, the smell of hot tar, greasy fish and other grilled meats subsiding like the afternoon sun setting behind Weyland's Forge. Hyden Lyf was cast into a cooling shadow and Naruto decided to bask in it as he eased his burning legs to an easy pace. As he walked soon the houses grew a little shorter, a little cheaper, where hovels leaned in closer to one another like friends trying to whisper secrets. Soon the cobblestone fell away to blackened dirt, and the air had a smokey scent of firewood wafting about. The skald songs of the crickets flitted through the air as they began their serenading for the night, to keep company the few old faces on his street who loved playing talf into the wee hours of the morning.
Doubtless better sounding to them than the constant hammering from their forge.
The little soot-covered, ash-begotten smithy with a sign that read (well, to anyone who could read as Naruto couldn't) in both Frankish and Runic Hero's Hearth, nestled into the trunk of an overgrown ash was seen not far odd thing to Naruto, who never quite figured out if the forge was built into the tree or if the tree simply grew around the forge. If it were for the previous reason, you'd imagine the idea to be quite insane; fire and wood weren't exactly the fondest of bed-fellows. But a flue rising from inside the pine's hollow interior did well enough filtering smoke out. There was always a bit of haze inside though, and it was a damn near sweltering come summer time (which Naruto was now dreading), but it was home.
And gods did he feel like he outgrew the damn place.
Much like how this ash tree couldn't be contained by the forge, so too did Naruto feel the same sprouting sense of rebellion root inside him. He would push further and grow from the confines of Iruka's damn near annoying lessons, because he wasn't a piece of metal to be beaten and honed. Hammered down to a suitable shape that fits certain expectations of what he should be, when every fiber of his being told him he could be something more. More than a blacksmith, more than a pickpocket, more than skraeling. Why should the world expect him to stay the same all the while it changes around him.
As he walked to a door, which was really flimsy band of planks nailed together which couldn't even keep out a mouse, the face of their dørmanden stared from atop his pole. Ræv bared his teeth and snarled with his lupine face, his nine tails flaring up as a warning to all those guests who'd bring ill-will into the forge, but he was just another thing to this forge which he'd outrgrown. Stories of the fox god were superstition and myth meant scare children to bed. Though Iruka never ceased to give disdainful glances whenever he could to Ræv perched beside their door.
No matter. Naruto's story will be better than Ræv's ever could be, and perhaps he too will be immortalized over a doorstep as a dørmanden himself. Because one day he will be a hero, the greatest hero, whose songs will be sung all over the Northlands. By even the crickets too.
Believe that, because he sure as hell did.
Sooooo, yeah... Really this is the second part to Ch. 2 :P
Why last chapter tapered off at a weird part, so sorry about that. I just introduced too many POV's in this Hyden Lyf section, but now we're done. All-Fodr be praised.
Also shout out to those who followed me. Always a pleasure having good men and women to stand with in the shieldwall, 'specially my readers in Indonesia. Surprising amount there. Didn't think the viking thing could appeal, but awesome. Amazing how tales have a way of weaving people of many different lengths and colors together. Even mediocre ones like mine. So thank you, and continue reading.
Now it's Saturday and there aint no better time to go a viking everyone. So 'till the next chapter. Skol!
*Oh, and because I guess there's nothing official for Hashirama's & Tobirama's mother (still new to Naruto :S), I got inspiration for Akane from a picture by FireEagleSpirit (the most bad-ass name an artist can have) on deviantart. Very cool.
