Hello lovelies. I've written a couple of Finan imagines over on tumblr but this is the first time I'm posting anything of him or even TLK on here, so please be gentle with me. Just wanted to point out a trigger warning that this chapter contains descriptions of both rape and death. Also the italics are meant to be spoken in Irish.

Orla glanced down at the ground, wishing away the tears in her eyes as her master's hand crept beneath her the skirt of her dress. No longer did she try to fight him off; it was futile anyway. He was bigger and stronger than she, and he only hurt her worse when she tried to refute him. Neither did she cry as he rutted against her or as his stale breath hissed loudly upon her cheek or neck with the exertion of his movements. She refused to let even a single drop spill; refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing cry. She would save that for when he had gone; for when she was cleaning up his mess from in between her thighs and praying to God that the bastard would continue not to plant his child within her womb. Sometimes she sought comfort in the knowledge that after thirty years of marriage, he had never given his wife a child. Of course, he would say that it was because his wife was barren, but according to one of the other slaves; ones who he had used before he had bought Orla, he was the barren one because none of them had ever fallen pregnant either. But then she would remind herself that God had betrayed her forgotten about her. God would feel no remorse if he foisted a child upon her that was borne of brutality and cruelty.

Orla wished she could close her eyes to make it easier to let her mind wander somewhere else; some place where she was free from this daily torture and some place where she was happy. But he would not allow her to do so. He would grip her tightly by the face, forcing her to open her eyes and look at him as he spilled himself inside of her. So now she stared into his hazel eyes, desperately trying to make her brain think about the place that had once been her home and how her master's eyes were the same colour as the fields she used to tend with her father. Before he was… before they came and killed him and everyone else. Before they took her and thrust her into this hell that now called life.

With a grunt and a brush of wet lips against her neck, Orla swallowed down the bile in her throat as she felt his seed dripping down her thighs. Her master rolled over onto his back with a sigh of both exhaustion and satisfaction, his rounded belly heaving up and down as he tried to catch his breath.

"Ale," he demanded.

But his demand was not to be fulfilled.

A sound from outside; shouts and cries made him sit up and reach for his sword. As naked as the day he was born, he strolled through the humble dwelling without shame. Upon the sound of more shouting and the clanging of metal against metal, Orla felt as though she could not breathe. Her body urged her to find a weapon; anything at all to defend herself and to run away from the ever nearing sounds of fighting. But without warning, her mind could only think of the last time she had heard such sounds. Sinking to the floor, she covered her ears and squeezed tears out of her eyes as she closed them, wishing she couldn't smell the scent of the blood flow she tried to staunch from the wound in her mother's chest; wishing she couldn't hear the gurgle as the Danish sword was plunged through her father's neck. Her entire body trembled with the force of her waking nightmare, and she pushed so hard against her ears that it was a surprise she didn't crush her own skull.

Suddenly, she felt something. A hand. It touched her gently on her own hand and she let out a scream as her eyes flew open to see a man crouched down before her. Scrambling back like a cornered animal, she glanced around desperately, looking for an escape but with a cry she realised that she was trapped. Lowering his sword, the man with dark hair and even darker eyes, held up his hands to show her he meant no harm but he made no move to come closer. His mouth was moving; forming words that she understood yet was unable to comprehend. She blinked. He continued speaking in a gentle tone that one might use to calm a horse or a small child.

"Please don't hurt me," she begged, her voice croaky. She hadn't even realised that her muddled brain used her mother tongue instead of the English tongue of her masters.

The man's eyes widened slightly and a frown of confusion and curiosity appeared between his brows.

"I won't hurt you," he said in that same gentle tone, and in that same language of her own. A language she had not heard in almost two years. "You must trust me. I will not hurt you. No one will hurt you anymore."

"You're Irish?" Orla eyed him warily, and it didn't go unnoticed by the man that she started to edge back slightly once again.

"I am," he nodded. "I am Finan, lady. And you are?"

"O-Orla," she murmured, deciding that it would do no harm to tell him her name. "My name is Orla."

"Although it is not better circumstances, I am pleased to meet you, Orla," Finan smiled, his eyes creasing at the corners. "Will you come with me? I promise I mean you no harm but if you come with us, my Lord and my fellow warriors, my friends, we will bring you back to our home. There is a woman there, a nun, Hild she is called, and she will tend to your injuries."

Orla frowned slightly, wondering what injuries he was referring to. Finan's ebony eyes fell upon her face that was when she remembered her swollen cheek and split lip. Her master's wife had struck her only hours before her husband came and…

"I cannot go," Orla shook her head, a strand of her greasy and unkempt chestnut hair falling across her face. "My master. H-he would not… I cannot go."

"By your master, I take it you're referring to the fat, naked bastard? He is no longer your master. He is lying outside with a sword through his stomach. You belong to no one anymore, Orla. You belong only to yourself."

Orla blinked. Big fat tears dripped from her aquamarine eyes and onto her pale cheeks. Was it true? Truly? She looked at Finan, trying to deduce if he was speaking the truth or not. As though sensing her inner turmoil, he reached out slowly, very slowly, and when she flinched when his hand touched hers gently. She looked down at where their two hands met and when she realised it was the first time she had been touched with kindness since she was taken from her home, a sob tore from her throat. Her bottom lip trembled and when she glanced up to meet Finan's eyes once more, she could not explain the pain she saw in them. It was as though he truly understood how she felt.

"I'm truly free?" she whispered, almost terrified to utter the words in case the tiny frisson of hope inside of her was taken suddenly.

"Yes," Finan nodded and smiled kindly, the pressure of his hand upon hers increasing slightly as he squeezed reassuringly. "You're free."