Marco did not know what his plan was.
He could only stare at the Viking sitting haplessly atop a rotting log, thumb digging between the ropes that bound her wrists together to scratch at the itching raw skin caused by the rough hemp.
He did not mean to take her. The orders were clear; mandatory leave of absence, rest and relax and shake off the melancholy.
Doubtful that the commander believed Marco would even travel to the gifted estate, the Warden had packed his belongings that entire day with the help of Marizia. In his room, she brought up her concerns regarding the man being alone with a Viking.
"It's stupid. You just got back from duty, how can he expect you to take a damned heathen along into Ashfeld?" Marizia spat along as she watched Marco fold his clothes into a bag. She hadn't touched a thing.
Marco was dressed in all his iron, sans his helm and his gloves, grateful for the momentary distraction from his thoughts that had been substituted by the anxious sensation that accompanied not knowing what in God's name he was to do alone with a woman he had every right to hate.
He supposed it was the same feeling he got looking at Marizia. For all intents and purposes… he disliked her greatly, but she made so much sense in the darkness, her hands wielding him like a longsword, and he was a tool she was so familiar with.
Maybe that was why he stopped packing for the moment and kissed her. Just to shut her up, to get a moment of fucking silence and to think on what he was to do as she groaned lustfully above him while he sucked at her neck.
His hand swam across her dirty blonde composure, pushing harmlessly against the stray knots of her hair until she went on the offensive, wordlessly exhaling while tenderly guiding him down to his knees, his back against the bed.
Her efforts to undo the belt that held her pants up took a moment. Marco was sure she'd been an expert at the motion, but now he was only sure she could only operate in the darkness, ruthless and instinctual, moon-driven lover that faltered in the sunlight pouring from the window.
The two were meant to be friends, long ago, centuries maybe, till he said something that came out wrong and she screamed his name before he stifled her throat with his tongue, metaphorically. In truth, his tongue hardly could even reach her uvula, but he certainly tried.
Now she was by his side, or atop him, looking down at Marco's uncomfortable gaze while his tongue tasted of her body and her knees rested at either end of his head.
Their armor scraped together, leather catching against itself in the motion of their lovemaking, the woman huffing desperately as Marco filled her hungrily and kissed sweetly at her lips.
She wanted to tell him to stop so she could take it all off, but here and now, so close to the end, she would rather burn across the finish line than risk coming in second.
But at least it shut her up.
Marco couldn't just let the girl go. She was a Viking, a killer, a monster that would wreak its havoc on the next village over, taking the shape of a dark-haired five foot odd pale woman struggling to push her second and last raggedy boot from one foot without the leverage of the other.
He could kill her. He had the blade, blades, his fists and even a seven pound silver-drummed helmet that could bludgeon the girl to death…
Just kill her and bury the body out in these woods. Wouldn't even need to bury her. She was technically property at this point, and killing her wouldn't be murder as much as carving a cock on his own armor wouldn't be vandalism.
But then he'd be just like her, irredeemable, Godless and lost.
His fist loosened, finally realizing he'd been incredibly tense thinking these terrible thoughts about the Viking. Her boot finally came off, and she breathed a sigh of relief as her tortured soles basked in the freedom of rest, her eyes landing on his, mouth closing shut and expression becoming stoic as it had every time she looked at the Warden.
He knew he should kill her, at least before she killed him. One wrong move, one small misstep in tying her binds, he'd be at the mercy of her while he slept or while he walked. She hadn't spoken a word since they'd left the fort on the singular horse Marco was allowed to take with him, a brown mare named Tinny by the stableman.
"I am hungry." Her words came as the Warden swam in his thoughts, a raft of her prose to rescue him just as he had begun to think of Valkenheim and what he'd lost.
Yes, she was hungry. She had to be, for no food had been given to her since the sun rose, and now the sun was falling, already a stranger behind the encompassing forest line.
He, too, had foregone feeding himself. Too much had been on his mind on the ride this far out, the droning gallop of the horse under him and the Viking pushing his mind adrift once more until the beast neighed its concern. The sound was calm, pushing through the mare's teeth, and her namesake came to be known in that tin tone, like a Conqueror thinking their voice could ever be heard behind their echoing helmet.
This hadn't been the first time they stopped. As the sun lingered high above them, the Viking had slid down the horse when it slowed its pace going uphill, falling the five feet onto her rump and kicking up a wind of dirt and rolling pebbles before desperately rising to run as Marco climbed down the stirrups.
He could've let her go then. He knew what awaited for someone like her in these plains, dressed as she was in that burlap clothing and distasteful runic tattoos, this far away from any civilization that hadn't been ravaged by Viking war parties in recent memory.
Die in the woods, or die in a town, lynched for her people's crimes.
She walked the next fifty miles at the horse's own pace, tied to the jug handle at the front of the saddle, shamed from how easily Marco had caught her and dragged her back by the torn hair on her scalp.
The Warden had brought provisions for the trip, however short it should be, in the form of dried fish and carrots, and offered one of each to the Viking before she glared at him and gestured to the bound wrists at her lap.
"I'm not going to untie you." He spoke to her plainly, still offering the meal out to her.
"I cannot eat comfortably." She replied immediately, never breaking the glare.
"Then eat uncomfortably." Marco retorted, leaning over to place the dried fish on her lap before returning to stoking the fire he'd started.
The Viking was not happy with that decision, but resigned to eat, the crunch of the flesh in her mouth drawing a single glance from Marco as she picked the meat from the fish.
It was rather surprising, actually, now that he thought about it, that the Viking could speak the Latin tongue so easily. Her pronunciations were near perfect, with only a marked accent to denote her foreign origin. If he hadn't been so consumed with his own thoughts, he might've brought it up then.
Seemed the Viking had other plans, however, taking a break from eating to look back at Marco and speak to him.
"I'm your slave." She began, and the outline of her jaw became visible, more visible than before, as she tightened her mouth closed within her lips.
Maybe it should not have taken Marco so long to reply, but he didn't know what to say. Confirm it, deny it… Ignore it?
"You're my property." He spoke, staring at the fire as it caught with a rage on the dried logs.
"You're going to fuck me? Make me bear you some whelps and make them slaves, too?" The questions were aggressive, and it brought Marco's gaze back to hers, where he saw the subtle glint of fear behind her anger. His eyes could hardly stay on her, looking at the blurry forest behind her, then at her, then at the fire once more.
"I'm not going to make you do anything you don't want to." Marco muttered out to her, shifting uncomfortably. Children were the last thing on his mind, especially with a partner he hardly knew.
"I don't want to be your slave. How about that? I want to go free. I want to go back to Valkenheim." She had caught him in his words.
Marco glanced at her again, and shook his head.
"I can't let you go."
"So which is it? You won't make me do anything I don't want to, or you will, and you're just working up to fucking me?" The Viking asked again, still aggressively, pushing some of the Knight's buttons.
So he leaned in from his seated position, almost hunched over.
"I'm not going to fuck you. I just can't let you go."
"What in Hel do you want from me? I'm not some work slave, look at me. You know what I did in Valkenheim?" She asked, waiting for him to reply.
The Warden shook his head and shrugged his shoulders disinterested in her story, slowly, looking back to the fire.
"... I was a shaman for my village. I was not a warrior. I'd never killed a Knight until the day your kind razed my people." She recounted vaguely, waiting again for his reaction.
"But you did kill a Knight." Marco replied, still as disinterested as before, trying to keep his emotions in check, to keep the fire in his mind and all else out.
"They were raping a girl… Three men. Three gallant Knights were tearing the clothes from the smith's daughter, and I drove my blade into one's neck before th-" The Shaman choked up, and she stopped, and that drew Marco's attention back to her.
The Warden believed her. He believed her as she bowed her head down onto her lap, refreshed the dry fish her eyes had fallen atop of, and he thought of the bruises on her face and her arms and the back of her neck from where her dignity had been forcefully robbed from her in her own village.
He was never good at comforting. He'd never had much cause to comfort. Marizia was a force of nature, tears and emotion were distant concepts to that woman, unless they were tears caused by his hand tugging at her ponytail in the late nights they spent together.
Jonathon was the only person he'd held during their sobbing, when news of his father's passing came through with the supply line, a letter from his mother like the one that Marco had received.
So, he replicated that now, sitting beside the Viking, the beaten woman, and held her closely as she battled those demons for the moment.
When she quieted down, the Warden retreated back into his stoicism, back to trying to separate himself from her grief amidst his own. He did not leave her side, only moved his hand to her bound wrists and held the rope.
"I can't let you go. It would be… a grave shunning of my duties." Marco started to speak to the Shaman, and she seemed worse for wear when she heard him.
"But I can promise you I don't seek to hurt you…"
The Shaman closed her mouth again, looking down at his hand, then at him.
"What do you want from me then?" Her words came quietly, a whisper.
"There is a place. A house I've never been to, that I'll be at tomorrow… I want you to see it, live there for a moment, and when the time is right, when this war ends and trade continues, return home." The Warden answered calmly, his other hand drawing a dagger, coming down to slice at the rope.
She was free, and she rubbed her wrists, cautiously looking to Marco all the while before timidly nodding at his request.
"You are not like the others…" The Viking muttered to the man, freely dragging her feet on the ground under her to push away the dried leaves and rocks that populated it.
"On the contrary, I'm too much like the others…" He responded, getting up from the log as he sheathed his blade, walking the short steps back to his seat. She might not understand it now, but he had been through the same horror that those men that hurt her had, the same trauma that dehumanized her kind had infected him.
If she only knew what he'd thought of moments before they spoke, how he'd imagined killing her…
"What do I call you? Master?"
"... Marco."
"Marco… I am Tove Falkenberg." The Shaman introduced herself quietly again, watching the Warden nod sternly at her before lying down on his wooden lengthy seat, and she continued to eat.
Marco swallowed his anxiousness at having the Viking free, and looked at her, looking at how she ate and used a clawed hand to comb at her dark hair. She stuck a finger into her own mouth to feel at her teeth, one chipped in particular beside her front ones. He even watched her as she rested her face in her hands once more and sniffled, raising her head up to look at the sky and begin to mutter a prayer.
Sleep came without announcement, his thoughts occupied long enough with the Shaman to drift into unconsciousness before too long, at the mercy of whatever came next.