In just three days, I had witnessed more uncircumcised penises than I ever thought possible in a lifetime. Probably more than a Urologist would see in a year.
They just… pissed right out in the open, on full display. Thankfully, when they did the deed, it usually was outside of walkways, near trees, or the back of houses, but it happened all the time. Every time I tore my gaze away from my cooking, some random guy was mid-stream. Apparently, I had delicate sensibilities because it disturbed me greatly, but I couldn't show that it did.
Since I was playing the part of a guy, it shouldn't bother me. Just had to do better than Amanda Bynes did in 'She's The Man'. Not like that benchmark was hard to achieve…
And this wasn't a romance comedy.
But…it was still gross. And their thingies were so…ugly.
When nature called for myself, I ventured into the woods, seeking seclusion amidst the distant trees, where I would find a high tree I could climb up, embracing the awkwardness of the situation with a grimace and a swear. The risk of being stumbled upon while attending to my needs necessitated this solitary retreat among the branches, where the foliage provided a reassuring veil of privacy. During one of my excursions, I opted to replace my poncho with my brown cloak and facemask. While I favored the comfort of my poncho, its conspicuousness in the camp attracted unwanted attention. Moreover, I was already being teased, and I didn't want any more focus on me than there already was.
Frode, too, persistently grumbled whenever I walked by his clique, attracting unwanted attention to me. His wrapped wrist where his hand used to be always drawing my attention.
More importantly, when I was up in the trees, I always brought a wet cloth with me. The last thing I needed was for someone to notice any odor coming from a certain part of my body, especially since I couldn't risk washing up anytime soon. Hygiene was key to keeping my secret safe.
During the three days I spent cooking for the pirates, Thorfinn remained infuriatingly absent, much to my frustration. Perhaps I made a mistake staying within the pirates, with doubts rearing their ugly head as I wondered if I should have been searching for Throfinn these last three days instead of entertaining these pirates with my cooking.
Torgrim and Atli found solace in my meals, while others eagerly partook whenever opportunity came about, usually when Atli asked them to join to whomever just so happened to be walking past when we first start eating. Despite their pirate raping and pillaging way of living, witnessing even the faintest glimmer of satisfaction dance across their typically stern, dirt covered faces as they savored my dishes stirred within me an odd sense of delight. It appeared that my peculiar passion for cooking held no prejudice, extending its enchantment even to the most unlikely of recipients. Even if those recipients were one of the worst humans in existence.
Despite my best attempts at friendliness, the majority of the pirates preferred to keep their distance, likely regarding me as an annoyance they couldn't shake off fast enough. The feeling was mutual. For those who chose to ignore or avoid me, I returned the favor with equal disinterest.
Then there was Bjorn, the berserker pirate.
On the second day, after Atli made a show of the stew I made him and his brother, exclaiming rather loudly how fantastic he thought it was, Bjorn made his presence known, much to my dismay. I hadn't quite forgiven him for the punches he dealt to me. He didn't instantly join in on the conversations Atli, the chatterbox, forced me to partake in, opting instead to stand off to the side, his arms crossed, staring at me intently.
To be frank, it sent shivers down my spine. I vividly recall the sensation of his fists striking my face and stomach, leaving behind large lingering bruises. He may have even cracked a rib.
After finishing my cooking duties that second day, I had grown increasingly annoyed by his persistent gaze. So, I'd ladled a portion of the stew I had prepared into a small bowl and approached him. His eyes had tracked my every step as I'd approached, yet when I'd extended the bowl to him, he'd remained transfixed only on me, offering no response.
"All you had to do was ask, you know," I'd told him.
He'd stared at me, reminiscent of Askeladd's look, sans the smirk, back when I had told them I had nothing to hide…
He'd taken the bowl from my hand, and while still maintaining eye contact, had taken a spoonful and shoveled the food into his mouth. Surprise had flickered across his face, breaking our gaze as he'd focused on the meal.
"It's good," he'd mumbled with a mouthful before taking another bite. I'd grinned at him, knowing he'd sense the satisfaction reflected in my eyes.
The day after, he joined us as I wrapped up preparing the next day's meal—a New England Fish Chowder-style dish crafted with clams I'd gathered near the shore while searching for Thorfinn later yesterday evening. To them, though, it was simply Fish Chowder. Fortunately, these barbarians hadn't yet depleted the sheep population entirely for their meat, so I managed to procure fresh sheep milk as well.
Earlier, I discovered hard cheese nestled amongst wholegrain flour and eggs and I couldn't help but ponder how these pirates might respond to a creamy Alfredo sauce. Perhaps I would whip up a small batch tomorrow and gauge Atli's reaction to it.
As Bjorn eagerly devoured his bowl of fish chowder, his expression radiated satisfaction, which in turn gave me an odd sense of delight to see such a man like Bjorn enjoying what I cooked. Once finished, he abruptly stood, grabbing another serving before striding away from the fire. I watched him intently, spooning chowder from beneath my loose mask that hung loosely around my face as I ate, curious about his intentions. It came as no surprise when I saw who he approached with the extra serving.
Askeladd came stooling from wherever he was in the encampment wearing a short dark capelet over his usual light, cowl-neck gambeson with detailing on the sleeve fringes, yawning as Bjorn approached him. They exchanged words before Bjorn handed him the chowder. Askeladd took it with a raised eyebrow, looking down at it with disinterest and boredom, but when his hand came up to take hold of the spoon, my own spoon suspended near my mouth as I froze, watching as he opened his mouth and sampled a generous portion of my chowder.
I told myself not to get excited. Not to feel any sort of satisfaction at his reaction if he just so happened to enjoy it. He didn't deserve that from me. Only thing he deserved was my ire and…
His heavy eyelids shot open, perhaps from disbelief or surprise, or both, as he chewed and then swallowed, returning the spoon to the bowl. After another exchange of words, Bjorn gestured in my direction. Eager to avoid appearing like I was staring, amd not knowing what my eyes were betraying as my heart galloped faster than a race horse, I hurriedly shoveled the spoon into my mouth and looked away. However, in my attempt to maintain composure while observing Askeladd's reaction, I failed to realize I hadn't been breathing, and I found myself in desperate need of air. So, instead of swallowing the food, I unintentionally inhaled it. Literally.
I sputtered and coughed, carefully placing my bowl on the ground to avoid spilling the remaining chowder. Hunching over, I struggled to catch my breath.
"What the hell's wrong with you?" Atli asked, patting my back hard, understanding I was choking.
Coughing, I managed, "Got stuck—" more coughing, "—down my Sunday pipe." Slowly regaining composure, I signaled the end of my coughing fit with a wave of my hand, prompting Atli to stop pounding on my back and resume eating.
"You come up with the weirdest phrases," Atli remarked, but I paid him no mind.
I picked up my bowl, taking a cautious sip of chowder. When I heard footsteps approaching, I glanced up and noticed Bjorn had returned to our circle, arms crossed as he sat on the ground across from me, watching me intently.
"What is it now?" I asked in-between bites.
"Nothing at all," he replied, then abruptly added, "We're leaving early tomorrow morning." With a slight upturn of his nose and a furrowed brow, he finally asked, "Will you be joining us?"
His odd behavior left me wondering if this was typical for him around newcomers. "Once Thorfinn reappears, I'll be departing with him."
"What, really?" Atli's tone was unexpectedly dejected. "Why not come along for a bit?"
"Atli," Torgrim inserted from his place beside his brother in our circle, "he'll only get in the way."
Atli faced his brother. "Oh, come on, you really think so? After how he handled Frode? He may be small with a girly voice, but he's certainly clever." Then, he turned to me with a sincere smile. "I'm sure you'd manage just fine traveling with us."
I stared at him. "You're only saying that because you want me to keep cooking for you."
He flashed a sly smirk. "Now, that's uncalled for! Of course not! We're friends now, aren't we? Stick with us, and you'll strike it rich. There's something about Askeladd, luck seems to favor him. Hang around, and you'll see it for yourself."
Luck? No. He was just clever. Clever than the average man.
I set down my now-empty bowl and readjusted my mask over my face. Leaning on my knee, I rested my chin in my hand. "Do you really think your friends will want to share their wealth with someone like me?"
"They'll come around. Just prove your worth, and they won't care," Atli remarked, nonchalantly shrugging. "Or, you could always win another duel. That'll silence them."
I suppressed a grimace. "Thanks, but piracy isn't my style. Plus, I have places to go, people to see - a kid that needs a good beating."
"Why are you so invested in that kid, what was his name again?" Atli scratched his chin, pondering. "Thorfinn, right? It's been three days, and rumor has it a lone wolf was spotted a couple of days ago. He's probably dead."
I did my best not to show how that affected me. "He's resilient. He'll make it through. Stubbornness seems to be one of his strengths."
"He's alive," Bjorn added suddenly, his gaze still fixed on me. "I spotted him yesterday in the woods, training."
Once more, I attempted to mask my emotions. "There you go. Stubborn little eejit, isn't he?"
"E-j-eit?" Atli asked.
"Means fool."
"Huh. What language was that?"
"Irish."
"And how many languages do you know? You said something else in English before, too."
"...just three."
"And your a Norsemen?"
"Does it matter?" From what I could recall from my previous life, Vikings comprised various nationalities. Some even suggest that individuals with dark skin, possibly of African descent, became Vikings, but the majority were of Scandinavian descent. Did it matter to them where I came from? If they knew I was Irish, would they label me as a slave?
Atli shrugged. "Not really. Just curious." He paused, leaning in to examine me closely. I instinctively leaned back, uncertain of his intentions. "You're not English, are you?"
Kinda, yeah. I am, or was, a white American. "I'm Irish," I admitted, unsure if I should have revealed that.
"Huh. You speak Norse pretty good. You could probably pass as a Norseman easily."
"My family lived near Dublin, so my father made sure I learned Norse at a very young age. It came to a point that Irish, my native language, became my second language," I explained, stealing a glance at Bjorn, who was watching me intently. He would likely share this with Askeladd. Did it bother me? Not really. Unless Askeladd made it an issue that I wasn't Norse or Danish.
Despite that, I couldn't help but crack a smile as I remembered how perplexed my father was by my accent. My mother would reassure him that I'd grow out of it, and while I did improve my pronunciation, it still amused me to think of my father scratching his head, puzzled by why I sounded like a dog barking in reverse while trying to speak Norse. Getting rid of my American accent was a challenge.
"Your family lives near Dublin?" Bjorn inquired, looking up as he pondered. "I heard something about Dublin recently. Can't recall what it was though," he drawled.
"There's always something going on with Dublin," I remarked but didn't elaborate. It was a Norsemen settlement, probably some fight broke out that made its rounds around the rumor mill. These Norsemen had a penchant for gossip. Or Brian Boru was up to something again.
Bjorn, again, was staring at me, and I wasn't the only one who noticed. "What's wrong with you, Bjorn? You've been staring at Thorben for two days," Atli asked as he shoveled the last of the chowder into his bowl. "Don't tell me little Thorben here pissed you off recently? Or is his girly voice getting to ya? Getting some weird ideas, eh?" He mocked.
Bjorn's eyes shifted to Atli, devoid of amusement. "I've been wondering," he began, then redirected his gaze towards me. I tensed at his words. What exactly was he wondering? "What's beneath the mask."
That startled me, and I immediately tried to conceal my surprise. I began to open my mouth to give the same explanation I'd given to others who had asked, but Atli beat me to it.
"Apparently, when poor Thorben was young, there was a house fire, and most of his body, including the lower part of his face and neck, got heavily scarred," Atli explained, his tone mocking. He even went as far as to coo at me as if talking to a baby, but I paid it no mind. I merely gave a small display of ire by narrowing my eyes at Atli without commenting. "Poor Thorben here is self conscious about it." Both Atli and his quiet brother laughed at that.
When I glanced back at Bjorn, he was no longer meeting my gaze but rather focused on my bare hands. Instinctively, I tucked them into my cloak, realizing the flaw in my story.
Considering someone who had been in a house fire and endured serious burns, my hands were surprisingly unblemished. When he glanced back up at me, a hint of amusement played in his eyes, and I knew I had been caught. I braced myself for his comment, but instead, he simply looked back down at the empty soup cauldron.
"Did you just finish off the last of the chowder?" Bjorn's voice held a touch of irritation.
Atli only smiled slyly at him. "You're just now noticing?" He shoveled a spoonful in his mouth, making a show of how he enjoyed it.
I watched them exchange words, Bjorn clearly irritated and Atli clearly enjoying mocking him over it. Again, despite who these three men were, I couldn't help but feel that satisfaction at seeing how much they enjoyed my cooking.
However, that satisfaction quickly turned into concern as I pondered silently where Bjorn was leading to with his comment. Why hadn't he called out my deception about the fire? Why was he staring at me as if trying to unravel something? It felt like he possessed some secret knowledge about me and was seeking some sort of confirmation.
Like he knew I was…
No. That was impossible, right?
As I considered the possibility, a persistent unease began to creep over me, a sense that something wasn't quite right, that things were out of place.
It felt like I was being watched.
My gaze shot upward, and I immediately regretted it. The moment I locked eyes with those piercing blue eyes, I couldn't help but flinch. Askeladd sat casually on a log stool across the camp, leisurely spooning the last of my chowder into his mouth. That infuriating smirk played on his lips when they wrapped around his wooden spoon as he savored the bite.
How long had he been studying me while I remained oblivious? What was the reason behind his gaze? And why did it resemble Bjorn's, albeit with a charismatic edge that I was growing to hate with each passing second.
Then, in a sudden moment of clarity, it dawned on me.
"I must ask," Askeladd started, his hand falling to in-between his legs joining his other hand, his eyes regarding me shrewdly, "why'd you and the whelp stay behind? Understand the pup, but you?" He leaned forward, his eyes sparkling like he knew some hidden detail about me. "What's your reasoning? Surely you didn't think we wouldn't find out?"
Askeladd straightened, his response casual yet laden with a hint of cruelty. "By all means," he waved indifferently. Then, his smirk returned in full force as he added, "But do remember to remove his hat before the deed. It's only polite."
He knew I was a girl. He knew all along.
It was as if he sensed my realization, his smug expression revealing his self-assurance. It was as if he believed he had emerged victorious in some unspoken contest. Unaware that a game was at play, I decided to match his, what I presumed, game of predictability with my own unpredictable action, likely an action I was going to regret at a later date.
With a subtle stare infused with seduction, imperceptible to any casual observer but unmistakable to someone as astute as Askeladd, I caught his attention. In the midst of sipping his mead, he paused, his cup frozen halfway to his lips, his expression turning blank. Then, with a wink, I rested my head on my hand, propped on my knee, before delivering a small gesture of defiance: I gave him my middle finger.
I didn't watch for his reaction, showing I didn't care. And at this moment I simply couldn't bring myself to care anymore about anything involving Askeladd. Once Thorfinn made his appearance, I was going to drag him away kicking and screaming if I had to.
I was done, and tired. And wondering why I had even decided to partake in a game with a murdering, raping, unpredictable, cunning, clever, and ruthless pirate.