Author's Note: Well if anyone has a craving for Rolisla after missing out on it last night here is a chapter to help you. This chapter also contains some freeform!geography.

Chapter 3

The ships were shoved off, and after drifting in the water for some time her captor reached over and cut her hands free from her bonds. Gisla froze waiting to see what his would do to her next, but he did not seem to be interested in her any longer. He turned away from her and sat down with the other men at the rowing benches.

Gisla ran to the stern of the ship and looked back on her Paris. They were taking her away. She looked down at the churning water beneath her. The shoreline was still close, only a short span of water away. She could jump and try and escape.

Gisla screwed up her courage and readied herself to take the plunge into the murky water, but then she hesitated. She could not swim and she did not know how shallow the water would be. The ship gave a great heave as the men began to row. She watched as the shoreline moved away with each stroke the men took.

"How fast these boats move." Gisla thought in dismay. It was too far for her to try and swim now. To jump would be suicidal. Would that be required of her? Surely not. She was the princess. The whole court had seen her abduction. Rescuers must be on their way for her now. It was only a matter of time before Roland would arrive with a band of men to kill these heathens and take her safely home.

She gave a smug smile as she thought of the victory feast she would throw for the men who would save her. Then another thought crossed her mind and she shuddered. Who would send the men to rescue her? She thought back to the last time she saw her father as the heathen dragged her away at knife point. Her father had fainted, or his heart failed. Was he dead? The idea of her father not even being alive anymore gave her the same choking feeling she felt when Ragnar pressed a knife against her neck.

With her father incapacitated who would be in charge of her rescue then? Odo. Would he send someone to save her? Gisla felt her heart drop inside her. He would not. She thought of how she had refused his proposals again and again. She had scorned him and she knew he was angry. This was his punishment for her, to have her kidnapped by heathens. To prove she was too proud in thinking that marrying him was beneath her. He would ensure she suffered a far worse fate than being his wife.

The boat was reaching the mouth of the Seine and her view of Paris was growing hazy from fog and distance. Would she ever look upon her beloved city again? She turned to see what lay before her in the direction they were going. It was nothing but miles of water. How vast the world seemed, as if it went on with no end. How many distant shores could they take her to? How many foreign lands? If anyone was ever going to save her they would have to come quickly, for if they did not she would never be found.

Her eyes darted back to Paris, it was hardly a speck in her line of vision now. Were there any other boats on the water? Was any ship coming to save her? There were none. A tear ran down her cheek and she locked her eyes on her beautiful city. Her beautiful Paris.

The boat pulled out farther into the ocean and faithfully she watched as her homeland disappeared. She did not move her eyes from the spot where she had last seen it. And did not move her gaze even as heavy sobs racked her body. To look away was to give up all hope of going back.

A storm started to brew and Gisla's tears were soon mingled with the rain water. Lightning crackled through the sky and the ship started to toss and turn on the open water. A wave rose up and soaked her clothes all the way through, but she would not leave her spot. She knew she must stay vigilant for the ship that was coming to save her.

Shivers ran through her body and her heart felt faint from grief. Gisla felt a firm hand press against the small of her back and turned to see the man that had taken her from the slave line.

"It is not safe to be by the edge of the boat during a storm," Rollo yelled to Gisla over the sound of the wind and the waves. "Come with me." He offered her his hand.

She shook her head in dismay and confusion. Another wave rose up and drenched them both in water. Rollo was losing his patience she did not seem to understand the danger she was in. He grabbed her wrist and dragged her towards the middle of the ship. Sounds of pain and protest escaped her, but Rollo did not care. A sore wrist was better than a drowned body.

Near the mast of the ship he released her and watched as she looked up at him with fear and disgust. She lifted her wrist to examine it and he realized that perhaps he had been too harsh with her. He would have to learn to be more patient with her if he wanted what the seer had told him to come true.

"I am sorry," he told her.

She drew back from him, disgust written on her face.

Rollo remembered that she did not understand his words. He reached for her wrist again planning to take her hand, this time more gently so that she would understand. His hand brushed her fingers and she drew back as if she had been burned. She screamed something at him in her own language and started shaking. She crossed her arms and her teeth rattled as she shivered. He worried that she was getting too cold.

"Your fine clothes are not warm enough for you to be out here," he opened his fur coat, "Come near me so that you may be warm."

She stood stock still, her eyes darting up and down him in confusion of what he was doing and what he what he was saying.

Rollo took a step closer to her and attempted to wrap her up in his coat. She jumped back in surprise and yelled again. He stepped closer and she drew a knife hidden in the folds of her skirt. Her face twisting into a snarl. She held the weapon awkwardly, like someone who had never used it before. He grabbed her hand and wrenched the knife from her grasp. The snarl left her lips and her eyes grew wide with fright. Rollo laughed at how shocked she was that he had taken her weapon. Why would she take it out if she didn't know how to use it? He took the knife and tossed it to the opposite side of the ship. What was her reason to be so afraid of him? Had he not already saved her twice?

Petrified with fear she stood still as Rollo tucked her into his side and wrapped part of his coat around her, joining the two of them together inside. He was glad she was sealed away from the weather. She would have surely grown ill if he had not. Even through his shirt her hands felt like ice against his chest. He led her over to the mast and sat down, dragging her down with him.

Rollo used one hand to pinch the open sides of his coat together and his other to draw her closer to his side so that she could share his warmth. He could see her face through the stretched collar of his coat. She was very beautiful, but her eyes were red from weeping and her mouth twisted into a scowl. Rollo thought he would see her smile soon, though, she was only cold and he could soon make her warm. He looked to the sky and thought that the rain would stop soon.

Gisla felt like she was being smothered alive by the thick fur he had trapped her in. The stench of him was everywhere inside. It was in the fur, it was in the air, it was coming from his body that she was now pressed against. Who was he to hold her in such a way? She was a princess of the blood, a daughter of Charlemagne. And he was holding her close as if she was a child. As if he had some claim to her. Worst of all with the coat in front of her eyes she could not even see a ship coming to rescue her. Tears filled her eyes. She knew there was no ship. No one was coming for her.

Gisla rested her head against his chest and started to sob. She hated being so near to him, but there was nowhere else to turn. She was sure he would not let her move away. He had already blocked any escape by wrapping one of his heavy arms around her. The whole of her frame shook against him, and Gisla felt like she had never cried more bitterly in her entire life. This was a grave and hopeless situation indeed.

To her great surprise, Gisla felt a warm hand against her cheek, and a steady thumb brushed away one of her tears. She looked up to find the heathen leering down at her.

No, he was not leering exactly, there was something soft in his eye, but how could that be? Was this not the man who had killed countless Parisians? The one who had taken her? The one they referred to as the crazed bear? Had she not seen with her own eyes how ruthless he could be when she stood on the wall when she had seen man after man die by his hand? As surely as she lived she knew the brutality he was capable of committing. And yet, it was his hand that was now drying her tears and his mouth that was murmuring soft words to her.

"Shh, it will be alright," Rollo whispered down to her. "The voyage will not be long, soon we will be in Kattegat."

He watched as many more tears streamed down her face and he moved his hand to brush them away. "You will be alright. I will let no harm come to you. Hush now." If his words did anything to soothe her she did not show it, but he continued to speak anyway. He was not truly talking to her, instead, he was saying the small comforting phrases one says to soothe a frightened child or calm a scared horse. It did not matter what he said she would not understand him anyway, but he still wanted her to know that he would not hurt her.

The wind died down and the harsh rain turned into a gentle mist. Rollo gestured for her to look up at the sky as it lightened to a chalky gray. "Look the storm is clearing off and the rain will not last."

She moved the bearskin out of her line of vision. Her brown eyes drifted up and she seemed to understand. Rollo smiled down at her hoping she would be pleased that she would soon see the sun.

A voice interrupted them, breaking any chance for Rollo to make the connection he wanted.

"Uncle why is she on this ship and not on the one with the rest of the slaves?" Bjorn, his oldest nephew, asked him.

Rollo considered his words carefully, he could tell the boy was angry about something, but he was not sure about what. "She is here because I want her to be."

"And why is that," Bjorn asked as he walked in a circle as lazily as a raven drifting overhead.

"I think she is valuable and wish to make sure no harm comes to her."

Bjorn's lip twitched with annoyance, "And what harm would come to her on that ship? She is only a slave. They would not have killed her."

"Maybe I wished to make sure no one rapes her as well."

A glint passed through Bjorn's eyes and for a moment they looked just like Ragnar's. In fact, Rollo had noticed that Bjorn had gone to great lengths recently with his hair and style of dress to appear more like his father and Rollo hated it. He wished his nephew would learn to stand as his own man and not a frail imitation of someone else.

"The rowing is hard; most men would not have energy for such things. She would be safe enough." Bjorn then looked away and moved to the edge of the boat to watch the waves, "Besides, I do not see why you think she is so valuable. She has lived a privileged life and will not be accustom to hard work."

Rollo's blood began to run hot at the questions of the younger man. Was he not his elder?

"Perhaps I do not wish to make her work hard. Perhaps I wish for her to be my wife." Rollo answered.

Bjorn's eyes darted away from the water and towards Rollo, "Then you would be a hypocrite," he spat.

Rollo blinked in confusion. Since Bjorn had returned as a man to Kattegat he had always been more of a friend than a kinsman and it was seldom that he saw such rage from him.

"And why is that?" He asked.

Bjorn's face flushed red with anger, "You are a hypocrite because not two summers ago you told me to take Thorunn as a concubine because she was only a slave. And look at you now," his eyes moved to the shivering girl next to him in accusation.

Rollo closed his eyes and tipped his head against the mast behind him. This felt like a morning when he needed to make an apology for the things he had done after having too much mead. He did not wish to show weakness though and turned to face his nephew.

"After being a slave to become your concubine would have been an improvement. You could have married someone else and received lands and a dowry. I stand by my advice. It is not my fault for understanding the ways of the world."

"And is she not also a slave," Bjorn said pointing.

Rollo tried to hide a smile. When Bjorn was angry he looked like he did when he was a small boy, "No she is not a slave, she is a princess. Things are not the same between me and her, and you and Thorunn."

Bjorn's face fell blank and he turned back to the water.

"No, they are not," he answered his uncle before his words were carried off in the wind.

Later that night when the evening ration was handed out Rollo took two shares of dried meat and offered it to Gisla. When she saw the dried flesh she turned up her nose and looked away in disgust. He tore off a piece of his own meat with his mouth and then said between bites, "See, look it's good. Well, not good, but food."

He held out his hand to offer her some more, but she still would not accept it.

"I do not know why you waste your time with her. She cannot even understand you," Bjorn called to him in annoyance.

"Bjorn I wish you would keep your thoughts to yourself until the time you can grow a full beard," Rollo called back. "Besides she can understand me. Watch."

Rollo drew Gisla's attention to him by snapping his fingers in front of her. He then pointed to himself and slowly said his name 'Rollo'. He then repeated it twice and placed the same hand on her.

Her eyes followed his hand down to where it was resting on her. A deep frown covering her face. She shook his hand off and sharply said some angry Frankish words to him.

He was still determined and Rollo tried again.

"Rollo." He said as he pointed to himself. He then pointed to her.

A look of understanding crossed her face. "Gisla," she whispered.

"Gisla," Rollo repeated louder.

She gave him a hesitant nod.

"Ah, Gisla," Rollo said loud enough for others to hear. "Good." He then looked to Bjorn to show him they could indeed understand each other.

Historical Notes: The Viking's ships were notoriously fast. One of their ships could make it from Norway to Scottland or Ireland in three days if the weather was favorable. This is part of the reason they were so fearsome because the same group of people could potentially raid you multiple times a year without warning.

"Daughter of Charlemagne"- It was common practice for people who were related to important figures to reference themselves as a 'son' or 'daughter' even if they were a few generations removed.

Author's Note: The Rolisla Christmas challenge is approaching at a rapid pace and I have so much work to do. I will not post another chapter of this until the challenge is over (so check back in January).

Reviews are always appreciated.