The Viking was still in him, but not quite. Hvitserk did not strike to kill, he made sure to miss Ceowulf's vital organs, stabbing him in the side.

Hvitserk stood up from the floor where the body of Lord Ceowulf lay and cleaned his blade with the hem of his tunic. His year spent as a Christian in a Christian land has mellowed his fighting spirit as there simply was less need here, save for the occasional band of highwaymen and raiders. Since Ivar's death, as well as that of Björn and King Harald on the fields of Wessex, there haven't been that many raids from his fellow Northmen.

He proceeded to call for Lady Agnes to ready themselves and their daughters to move out the next day. The following morning, he called a council meeting with the barons of the land and addressed the townsfolk of Dunwich, now his people.

"Good people of Dunwich, I am Athelstan, your new lord. By King Alfred's decree, I was sent here to rid you of your former Lord Ceowulf, to free you from his corrupt grip. I know many of you are aware that I am a Northman. I was once, in another life altogether. Having since embraced Christ our lord and savior, I now call these lands my own, not just for the title the King so generously bestowed upon me, but because like you I have no other home than this."

He looked over the crowd, scanned the faces of the people--his people now. This poor folk. There were children in rags, some he saw looked emaciated. He measured their stares with his own stern expression that held a tenderness to it. The first thing he will do is go to the next town over to replenish supplies and grain, perhaps purchase some livestock.

"And because of that, by my honour I will defend Dunwich and you, its people with my life. I will ensure our town, our villages prosper henceforth. With your blessing, I should like to be your leader."

There was a thick cloud of silence weighing over the town square that seemed to linger more than it should. Until suddenly, the crowd erupted in cheers, shouting their hurrahs and praises to their new lord. Looking out into the crowd, Athelstan, though his face set in a somber line, wondered if his father Ragnar was looking down at him in between fighting and feasting in the great halls of Valhalla. He wondered, if not while Ragnar lived, then maybe in death could he make his father proud.

Seconds later, his eyes landed on her.

'Rhiannon'

She looked back at him, her face half-shielded by the shadow of her hood. Those eyes were still brilliant from where he stood, but they were tainted by something unsettling--something like fear, and dare he say, interest?

--

A week passed since the departure of the former Lord Ceowulf and his family. His last words to Hvitserk, though cliche, still rang in his ear, hissing, "This isn't the last of me you'll be seeing, heathen."

He thought nothing more of it. And if the gods willed it so, he would be ready to protect his folk.

--

Rhiannon blinked. The sting of the onions was particularly sharp that day. They say that if you stick your tongue out while you peel or cut an onion, you'll reduce the sting. She thought it just made people look like dogs. She scooped up the onions and placed the slices in the pot before her.

Throughout the day she tended to her chores, all the while she could feel the watchful eyes of Lord Athelstan on her whenever their paths crossed. When their eyes would meet, he always had a sort of secret smile for her, one he'd flash for a small eternity before looking away and passing through. One day, when she was walking through the corridor and out into the villa garden, she stumbled into the lord approaching from there. She studied him as if he was a bowl of tea leaves, or runes. She found his figure to be quite pleasing, he was muscular and strong with a broad chest and arms balanced out by the slenderness of his waist and hips. He was just shy of a foot taller than her, thereabouts. His hands were large, rough and calloused, but held a gentleness to them. Her gaze traversed from to his face. He was quite a handsome man, she thought to herself. Though marked with scars from battle, he retained a boyish allure, accentuated with dancing green eyes that were framed by the beginnings of crow's feet--though he hardly looked older than thirty. His sun-kissed blonde locks were tied back in a neat knot. His beard was a darker shade of blonde, nearly a reddish brown. She should not be so open with her gazes, especially not to a lord. She quickly shifted and looked askance, curtseying, "My lord."

He bowed slightly, his secret smile playing on his lips. "Lady Rhiannon." His dancing eyes still for a moment.

"I am no lady, my lord." She quipped.

"To me, you are." His eyes continued to burn into her very core. There was a long silence between them, Rhiannon puzzled over his words, looking at him as though he were making a joke of her. Hvitserk had to dispel this.

"I was actually looking for you. There is something I would like to talk with you about." He held out his arm, signalling to her to take it. She did and they together walked into the garden where Athelstand came from.

They passed by a line of rose bushes, and then Rhiannon slowed the pair's pace to survey the carnations. She reached a hand out to touch the flowers, bending over allowing Hvitserk's arm to slip away from hers. He bent over beside her, "I am--" he cleared his throat and resumed what he was about to say. "I am told I should start looking for a suitable match--for marriage."

Rhiannon paused in between sniffing the flowers before her, to look Hvitserk in the eye. "As is your right, my lord." She let her eyes linger on him a while longer before returning to admire the greenery around them.

Hvitserk continued, "I think I have decided.." he paused and shook his head a little, the man looked as if he was genuinely struggling to formulate his thoughts and turn them into conversation. "I wanted to ask you, if you would do me the honour of being my wife." He shot a glance at her, gulping his words as if he too was trying to swallow what had just passed his lips.

Rhiannon stood up gently from where she knelt and addressed Hvitserk with her full height, saying, "I am just a slave, lord. You cannot marry someone as lowly as I." Though her gaze was confident and sure, there was a slight tremble that went through her--gone as soon as it appeared.

Hvitserk stood to meet her at eye level, "What if I told you, that you are now a free woman?", he stepped closer to her, not breaking eye contact, while his right hand nimbly plucked a single carnation.

Rhiannon looked at him, confusion coloring her face.

"As of yesterday, you are no longer a slave. I have spoken to my advisor as well as gained the King's permission to free all the slaves under Ceowulf's reign. You are all free to choose where you go henceforth. I deliver this news to you first before the rest, because of my intentions." He was so close to her now that she could feel his warm breath against her temple, she tilted her head up to meet his eyes--they were a dazzling shade of forest green, intermingled with tiny flecks of golden brown.

She had not known a desire like this in aeons, perhaps never even in this life. She had only known the cruel, harsh touch of men who only wish to possess her body, to enslave her mind. But in this instant, she felt as if she could trust this person. She felt as though she knew him from some distant past or future, a cosmic connection, timeless and indestructible, renewed in their meeting here in Dunwich--a Viking and a Celt--two entirely different beings, rooted in similar ancestries.

He reached for her hand and pressed the flower he was holding into it. Large and comforting, his hands engulfed hers, it felt like her whole being was enveloped by this man's warmth.

"Rhiannon, will you be my woman?"

She let go of his hands as soon as they heard the tapping of approaching footsteps, serving men carrying the week's grain out into the town. She used this distraction to make her exit. She turned on her heel and walked away, leaving Hvitserk in a strange stupor. She turned around abruptly, flower still in hand, "Yes."

And without another word, she was gone from his sight.

--

Rhiannon stared down into her plate, fine slices of spit-roasted stag. But she had no appetite nor any desire to feast on such a majestic, gentle beast. Her husband on her right, Athelstan, appeared merry, bantering with Leofric his right hand man and the rest of the men of Wessex, Dunwich and Dereham over jugs of mead.

She surprised herself at how quickly she accepted his proposal, it was as though she was being controlled by another force entirely. Perhaps there was some wisdom behind this. Perhaps Brigid, The Exalted One, has plans for her. Perhaps Athelstan is her destiny. Despite being converted into Christianity almost a decade ago and hence domesticated, she still held fast to the beliefs of her people, of the Tuatha Dé Dannan.

'For the only place I can truly be free is in mine own heart', she thought.

She was unsure what the future would hold for her and her new husband, and the uncertainty scared her. She could only hope that this man would not break her.

'But you can't break what is already broken."

--

Rhiannon stood in front of the large marriage bed that she would share with her new husband. She was glad that Athelstan had dismissed the priest and wedding party from their quarters--she did not want to have to consummate her marriage before the entire Dunwich house of lords. Althelstan was standing beside her now.

"Rhiannon," he whispered her name. She liked listening to the way he pronounced it, still retaining his Northman inflections. He placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him. She could not deny the rush of emotions brewing within her--a mix of caution, excitement. She dared to look up at him only to see his eyes were fixed on her figure. He reached for her ceremonial robe and tugged at the belt, pulling it free. The robe fell open to reveal the luscious curve of her breasts, supple, ample. His face was clouded with desire, unmistakably. Rhiannon's mind still rushing with the thoughts that plague her each time Lord Ceowulf laid his rough hands on her.

She tried to shift her focus back to her husband and the act that they were about to commit. He reached out to gently graze the top of her bosom, letting the robe slip further to the side, her dark pink nipple jutting forward. In that instant she felt herself flinch. Athelstan noticed and quickly retracted his hand.

"I'm sorry, my lady." She had forgotten she gained this new title. "Perhaps we shall endeavour another night. For now, let us rest."

Rhiannon nodded and gathered her robe together, securing the belt around her waist again. Meanwhile, Athelstand had removed his undershirt, leaving his trousers on, and jumped onto the bed and under the covers. "Goodnight, wife." He said. She could not detect his mood quite as easily as she could with others, but he seemed neither insulted nor upset--more contemplative.

She was still standing by the foot of the bed, staring intently at the man laying atop it. He smiled at her and beckoned her over, patting the empty side of the bed next to him.

"Don't worry, I shall not touch you without your consent." He grinned ruefully but his smile faded slightly as he said, "I won't hurt you, I swear. I know what it's like to be afraid."

"I am not afraid." She quipped, biting her own tongue immediately after.

Athelstan chuckled, "I didn't mean that. I mean, I know what it's like to be afraid, not of people necessarily, but of the lack of freedom, of control of your circumstances. Feeling trapped."

This piqued her interest, it sounded like he was speaking of things that have passed, dark things. A sudden storm appeared to be hovering above him now. He was lost in his own cloud of fear.

"If anyone is afraid, it is I." he ruminated, "I have fallen into the lap of fear several times over in my life, I've let it overcome me, consume me." He turned to face her then, she had walked over to the opposite side of the bed and was now seated on its edge.

"I cannot begin to understand or know what you have been through, but I assure you, you have nothing to fear. I will make sure your life as my woman will be a comfortable one. I will shower you with affection, if you will allow it. I will love you and be faithful only to you."

"I am glad, husband. I too wish only to serve you well and bear you children." She allowed herself to say, "Though you have freed me from enslavement, for which I am ever indebted, I know I am bound to you and therefore can never truly be free. None of us really can be free, in this new world." She bowed her head in rumination, her eyes taking on that faraway look he had seen when she played her harp.

Hvitserk turned to his side to face her, "That is the most I've heard you speak since we met." His smile was melancholy as he reached his hand closer to hers. "It is true what you say. Ever since I became a Christian, I too have felt the binds on me. I have had to make sacrifices, disown my people, forsake my gods. Though the gods have reached their twilight years, I still keep them in my heart, my memory."

In this, he showed her a glimpse of the son of Ragnar he once was. Her heart swelled in something she could only recognize as admiration.

'He feels it too.'

She laid down beside him, their hands that were just barely touching a moment ago, were now entwined. Sometimes there are no words in reply.

She could feel him smiling from his side of the bed as he gripped her hand a little tighter.