Askeladd

"Did you truly not have a plan, Askeladd?" Bjorn inquired, crouched beside him as they surveyed the clearing near the fortress, both men perched up on a forested hill that overlooked the fortress surrounded by a canal in the cover of the night.

Askeladd, one knee in the dirt and an arm resting on his bent leg, glanced at Bjorn who mirrored his stance. With a smirk, he replied, "Not a concrete plan, at least not yet. But I had a few ideas about how we might have breached the fortress."

"Did any of those ideas involve posing as the enemy to catch them off guard?"

Askeladd's smirk deepened as he looked back at the clearing below, where his men, and Fiadh, would soon appear. Concealed within the shadows of the trees, the rest of his men and two other Viking regiments awaited. He didn't mind involving others into his plan. After all, his true objective lay beyond the fortress, in the lands of neighboring lords, rich and ripe for pillaging. But first they needed to conquer the fortress before they could pass through.

"It had crossed my mind," Askeladd offered.

"So why didn't you mention it before?"

"Too risky. Too much could go wrong at any given moment."

Bjorn's eyes narrowed in confusion. "And now? What's changed?"

"Curiosity, mainly. When our new comrade brought it up, I couldn't help myself. I had to see how she'd handle a mess like this. Just to see just how useful she can be."

And it was mostly true. Askeladd had already found a use for her already. Her exceptional skill with the bow surpassed that of any of his men, a fact he had to begrudgingly admit. She was eager to wield that skill at his command, an eagerness that caught him off guard. It irked him, this unpredictability of hers, this ability to surprise him time and again.

He didn't like that one bit about her character. There were facets of her he couldn't foresee.

Yet, some parts of her were as transparent as an open book. Her care for Thorfinn was one such aspect. He had been certain that once she's witnessed Thorfinn's ruthless killing, she'd abandon him. But when she'd taken that shot at the bandit leader, hitting him straight in the eye, Askeladd knew she wasn't going anywhere. Even during Yule, when she'd approached him, he'd doubted her capability to meet the demands of joining his band, of staying close to Thorfinn. Words, afterall, held little sway over action. Even if her words had intrigued him that night. But the day they annihilated the bandit camp, his perspective on her had irrevocably changed.

Her actions with Thorfinn had made her somewhat predictable. At the very least, Thorfinn was a catalyst to her loyalty. As long as he had control over Thorfinn, her unpredictable actions would be limited.

And if he was to be saddled with her, it would be far better to hold the reins himself.

But Askeladd's curiosity often led him down dangerous paths. He hadn't lied to Bjorn about the risks; the operation was indeed perilous. His men lacked the subtlety needed to deceive the English convincingly. Askeladd himself could probably manage it, but such a role was ill-fitting for a Viking chieftain.

The game of manipulation was one he played with a deft hand, but he was a god's damned Viking chieftain, not a mere performer in the eyes of his men. However, the thought of seeing her true mettle in action was too enticing to pass up.

She too was capable of manipulation, a talent he was keen to measure and dissect.

And, of course, exploit to his own advantage.

As long as Thorfinn remained his loyal dog, Fiadh would follow, her unpredictable nature tethered by some moral code Askeladd had every intent and purpose to take advantage of.

"So the woman changed your mind, Askeladd? Or is it because she isn't a Dane?"

Bjorn's words made Askeladd pause, turning to scrutinize his comrade, his expression no doubt echoing the puzzlement he felt. Bjorn's question lacked malice or ill intent; it was a genuine query, one born of confusion significant enough for him to voice such an absurd notion.

Fiadh hadn't changed his mind; what sort of question was that? Whether she truly lacked Norse blood remained a matter of debate in his eyes.

Before Askeladd could retort, The Ear, who squatted to their right, interjected, "They're emerging," he said, hands cupped around his ears as he listened intently to the clearing below.

Bjorn and Askeladd's eyes shifted to the clearing below, momentarily forgetting Bjorn's question, but it would remain in the back of Askeladd mind, festering.

Emerging from the clearing, Fiadh limped partially, looking disheveled and exhausted, clutching her side. Others followed her, equally worn, putting on a convincing show of wounded enemy soldiers. Wounded English soldiers.

None looked up as they approached the fortress, but Fiadh raised her arms when the English soldiers atop the fortress took notice, their bows now drawn.

What came out of Fiadh's mouth next left both Bjorn and Askeladd blanching.

"You fucking halfwits! Don't shoot!" she yelled in a heavy Scots accent when she stopped near the canal closest to the fortress. "I'm not a Dane, you blubbering idiots!"

Bjorn let out a huff, sounding both exasperated and amused. "I have no idea what she just said, but if I had to wager, she just handed them their deaths."

Askeladd looked down, his eyes wide with surprise and dissatisfaction. What in the Gods names was she thinking?

Fiadh

The job was straightforward: disguise ourselves as the enemy, gain their trust, coax them into lowering their drawbridge, and let the Danes storm in.

Straightforward...

Very straightforward...

We even roped in other Viking bands, which was a shock. I had pegged Askeladd as the type to hog all the glory and storm the fortress solo. Sure, it would cost a good number of lives, but Askeladd wouldn't have cared. In fact, he'd likely have celebrated.

He despised his men, after all—for a reason I still didn't understand, or care to understand.

Then again, if he lost too many, we'd be short on rowers for our ships. Maybe that was why he masterminded the alliance with the other Viking factions.

The only hitch? I was the one tasked with earning the English soldiers' trust.

Me.

A non-Dane. A woman masquerading as a man, no less.

The plan had me posing as the leader of the reinforcements. Me. With my marginally boyish voice that could barely command a tavern brawl, let alone an army.

So, as I approached the fortress as the sun was just beginning to rise from the cover of the trees into an opening near the canal, across from the fortress drawbridge, with English archers squinting down their arrows at me from atop the fortress, and raised my hands in what I prayed looked like a calming, non-threatening gesture…

I knew this charade wasn't going to cut it.

So, I concocted an entirely new plan on the spot.

"You fucking halfwits! Don't shoot!" I yelled in a heavy Irish accent. "I'm not a Dane, you blubbering idiots!"

"What the hell are you doing!?" One of the Danes whispered yelled behind me and I hoped to whatever God, or God's, out there that the English soldiers didn't hear the Norsemen language.

The English soldiers exchanged bewildered glances, each man clearly hoping the other would take the lead. Should they fire? Should they wait? The confusion among them was palpable, almost amusingly so.

Perfect.

"I'm not your enemy!" I called out, layering my voice with a hint of desperation and irritation—a tone any Irishman or Scot worth his salt would adopt in my situation. "Your reinforcements got ambushed by the enemy! What you see before you is all that's left! For the love of God, lower your drawbridge before more of them show up, you daft bastards!"

"Where's Barnett? Where do you hail from?" boomed a voice from above. A man with a helmet more ornate than the others emerged from atop the fortress wall, his gaze sharp and scrutinizing. His wrinkles carried the weight of a lifetime, etched deep like the lines of a well-worn map, charting years of service and hard-earned wisdom. And his brown eyes mirrored every story his face had to tell.

Ah, so this must be their leader. But who the hell was Barnett? The reinforcement commander, perhaps? Either way, it was a damn good thing I had pivoted my plan at the last moment.

I had to bluff—big time.

His well-worn appearance made it clear he wasn't one to be easily deceived. Yet, he wasn't cutting us down on the spot. He was offering us a chance, though it was his Christian nature that would surely be his undoing.

He was destined to meet his end tonight, with or without my assistance. That much was inevitable.

Say that ten more times, and I just might start to believe it.

"Dead! Barnett's dead! We're all that's left!" I shouted back.

The man didn't even blink. "And who are you? You're no English soldier."

"I was just passing through! They promised me a hefty sum if I lent a hand—said it'd be easy work! If I'd known you idiots were up against the Danes, I wouldn't have touched this war with a barge pole!"

"And where do you hail from?" The man's voice was as cold as his eyes, which now bore into me with unsettling intensity. A real piece of work, this one. Just let it go already and lower your drawbridge!

Let it go…and die…

Damn…

"The west! What does it matter? We'd be safe inside by now if you weren't interrogating me like this!" I gestured dramatically to the men behind me, who, credit to them, were doing an admirable job of feigning heavy injuries. Hopefully too heavy a look to make this leader start questioning them when he couldn't get what he wanted out of me. "We're dying out here! For God's sake, let us in before more of the enemy finds us!"

"What lord do you serve?" He pressed on, clearly not convinced.

"How the hell should I know? I was just passing through! Please, sir! We Scots don't beg, but—" I dropped to one knee, hands clasped together as though in prayer, head bowed low. "I'm begging you, sir! I don't want to die out here! My sister would be lost without me!"

A Dane wouldn't stoop to such desperate pleas. They wouldn't degrade themselves with this kind of drivel. He had to see that. I just hoped I wasn't losing favor with Askeladd's men—or with Askeladd himself. I could feel his piercing gaze on me the entire time. There was no doubt my sudden deviation from his plan, without his knowledge, would cost me later. But if this gamble worked in our favor, he wouldn't have much room to complain.

Eventually, he'd have to get over it.

There was a pause. Then, the drawbridge began to lower. My heart twisted as I watched it descend, still crouched with my arms up in prayer, with the gnawing guilt I had kept at bay starting to creep in.

These men weren't just going to die anymore. I couldn't use that lie again.

They were going to die because of me.

As the drawbridge touched down with a thud, I looked up at their leader. Our eyes locked, and whatever he saw in my eyes made his widen in sudden realization, but before he could order the bridge to be raised again, an arrow pierced the space between his eyes, and he tumbled over the wall. Dead. Two more arrows swiftly followed, taking down the soldiers manning the ropes inside the now open fortress, their bodies crumpling lifelessly.

The drawbridge was ours.

And the English soldiers inside were as good as dead.

The Vikings stormed past me, their shouts of glee and excitement filling the air as they rushed into the fray, eager for bloodshed and chaos. I remained crouched on the ground, my hands resting on my knees, unnoticed in their frenzy.

But the moment I heard Askeladd's voice ring out behind me, I shot to my feet.

"Well, I'll be damned!" His hand slapped my shoulder as he stepped beside me, his sword resting casually on his shoulder. "I thought you'd ruined everything with that little stunt, changing the plan like you did." I glanced at him from the corner of my eye, catching the wicked grin on his face as we listened to the screams from within the fortress—the sounds of Vikings slaughtering the English without mercy. His smile only deepened, every tooth gleaming. "But somehow, you pulled it off. Gotta admit, I'm impressed."

Then he turned his sharp gaze on me, his delight still dancing in his eyes. "Keep it up—you might just survive this yet."

And so, he strode onto the drawbridge, Bjorn close at his heels, plunging headfirst into the madness and slaughter.

I watched them for a breath, ready to turn away—but then I hesitated. My gaze dragged back to the fray.

Had Thorfinn thrown himself into this madness too? I couldn't remember if he ran past me or not…

Of course, he had.

That damn kid.

Always knee-deep in blood, probably itching for Askeladd to dangle some twisted promise of a duel as a reward. What a sick game they played.

But this time, this bloodshed was on me. My doing.

And it was still my fault Thorfinn was even here. A fault I needed to right.

So, I turned back, steeling myself, letting myself feel that familiar deadly numbness I hated, and walked into the chaos.

Good thing I had my bow with me—and not just any bow, but my mother's.

Once inside the fortress, I slipped off my gloves so I could shoot my bow easier and ducked behind a pillar supporting the rampart. My eyes swept over the chaos, searching for a tan gambeson on a shorter figure, but the bloodshed and mayhem blurred everything beyond recognition. From my vantage point, I spotted a ladder not too far off. When a band of Vikings made quick work of the Englishmen guarding it, I seized the moment, sprinting for the ladder and scrambling up.

From up high, I should be able to pick out Thorfinn.

At the top, I found an Englishman crouched behind a half-wall with a bow and arrow in hand, his gaze fixed on the chaos below. His shock at my sudden appearance left him wide open. I grabbed his collar and yanked hard. He toppled over the wall, my green eyes locked onto his dark blues, and he plummeted toward the carnage, his scream cut short by the thud below. But before gravity took him, I deftly slipped the quiver of arrows from his back.

The more arrows, the better.

Bow in hand, I knocked an arrow from the quiver I'd just pilfered, crouched and took aim at a man not far from where I crouched, he too was more focused on the chaos below than what was going on next to him. The arrow flew true, embedding itself in his eye before he even knew I was there. His body crumpled forward, but I couldn't be bothered to see where or on whom it landed.

I repeated the process, dropping the next archer and the next on the rampart with similar precision. Then I turned to target those across from me, only to lower my bow when I saw the chaos. The Vikings had already dealt with the men on the opposite side, quickly taking their places and raining arrows down on the remaining Englishmen.

Efficient, I had to give them that.

One Viking could likely tear through three to five of these Englishmen without breaking a sweat. And with three Viking factions united, the odds were deadly. Even if you knew nothing about the Vikings or their foes, it was clear as day: the English didn't stand a chance. Not against the raw fury of the Northmen.

Crouched behind the half-wall, I spotted Thorfinn near a cluster of buildings that were probably used as barracks. He was already in the thick of it, dispatching five Englishmen with terrifying ease and speed.

I nocked three arrows in quick succession, each one finding its mark—an eye, a temple, another eye. Thorfinn glanced up at me, his expression as unimpressed as ever. From my position, I could see the slight curl of his lip before he turned away and vanished behind the buildings.

What a brat.

Of course, he'd hide from me. He didn't want my help—never did. And here I was, overstepping again. I needed to back off.

But this was war. We were killing, and we were targets too. They wanted to protect what we were taking—what I was helping to take.

It was almost laughable, the irony. I'd run from Ireland to escape this very life, and now here I was, knee-deep in it again.

But this was my choice. I knew what I was getting into. Telling myself that these Englishmen would die whether I was here or not was a half-truth at best. Their deaths were inevitable, but how quickly they met their end—that was up to us.

And if I could help Thorfinn…

Damn it, Thorfinn. This isn't a game. In battle, let me help you…

I spotted Bjorn below, sword in hand and a grin that could only be described as gleeful. He skewered an Englishman's stomach with evident delight, then used his foot to wrench the blade free from the collapsing soldier. With a satisfied twinkle in his eye, he turned to find his next victim.

This was the rare occasion you'd see Bjorn looking so happy—when he was in the thick of killing. Among Askeladd's men, Bjorn had always seemed the most level-headed, but on the battlefield, he transformed into just another Viking: ruthless and insatiable for blood. At least he wasn't in full berserker mode. Maybe he'd forgotten his mushrooms.

Not far from Bjorn, Askeladd stood with a grin that was distinctly different from the others. While the others' smiles were fueled by the thrill of slaughter, his had a quality I couldn't quite place.

I drew an arrow and let it fly, piercing an Englishman's eye near Askeladd. The moment the arrow struck, Askeladd's attention shifted to me. He seemed to recognize me even before our eyes met, his self-satisfied smirk giving way to something else as he glanced to my right and gestured with his thumb.

I looked just in time to see a blade arcing toward my head. I barely managed to dodge, feeling the whoosh of the blade as it passed inches from my face. The English soldier's two brown eyes locked onto mine, and as I fell back, I knocked another arrow and took aim, and when my back hit the planks below, I let my arrow fly. Then I only saw one wide brown eye before the light faded from it as he slumped forward, dead, falling head first onto the planks below.

"Bastard!" I heard someone yell in English behind me. I sat up and rolled forward, snatching another arrow from my quiver. As I pivoted on my shoulder while rolling to face the source of the shout, I drew my arrow back.

But the next attacker was already on me. I had to drop back again, narrowly avoiding a swipe that nearly took my face off. I heard fabric tearing but focused on the knife I had pulled from its sheath at my side, driving it into his chest, into his heart and lung like I'd done many times before, while grabbing his sword hand to prevent another swing.

Our gazes locked in those final moments. His eyes widened in shock as he gurgled blood, collapsing to the ground dead.

But there was no time to rest. I heard more voices behind me—Englishmen were regrouping to reclaim the rampart. With me as the only obstacle on this side, I needed to hold them off.

I knocked another arrow, turned toward the voices, and released it as soon as I saw one of them. Pain flared in my right leg as the Englishman I'd just killed toppled backward, revealing a bow. Another Englishman stood nearby, who also had a bow in hand, no arrow knocked, eyes wide in shock at his fallen comrade, probably a friend.

I took him out too, his hesitation proving fatal.

And then another…

…and another.

I was beginning to lose count…

Finally, when the last Englishman who made it back onto the rampart fell with my arrow embedded into his eye, I glanced down at my leg, finding two arrows lodged above my knee. Luckily, they were only in the flesh, not bone. I yanked one out, gritting my teeth against the familiar pain, and resumed aiming at the dwindling Englishmen below. Victory was close, but the sooner we secured it, the better. The longer the fight dragged on, the more likely Thorfinn would get hurt.

I aimed at an Englishman near Bjorn and struck him in the temple. Bjorn looked up mid swing, his smile freezing into shock, his eyes widening, his mouth slightly agape.

I ignored the look and pulled out the other arrow from my leg, but this one came out too easy. When I looked down, I noticed it was missing its arrowhead. Great. I dropped the now unless stick and reached behind me for more arrows.

I took down three more English soldiers, and I had to search for a fourth one.

The battle was starting to ease...

Most of the Englishmen had fallen…

Blood, entrails, body parts painted the ground below in a macabre display. If any English soldiers remained, they were likely paralyzed with shock after the horrors they just witnessed.

And who could blame them? The scene was nothing short of grotesque.

The Viking that wasn't part of our group started to mill about the dead bodies, checking to see if there were any among them that were playing dead, all the while rummaging through their clothes and taking off their shoes.

Askeladd men, however, were looking up toward where I stood, all bearing similar looks of shock on their faces.

Strange, but perhaps they were just astonished that I could fell so many soldiers with nothing but a bow?

I killed so many…

My pulse started to slow, and I took in a deep breath of air, then stood up. It took a little effort to not show the pain on my face. The last thing I wanted was for one of the men to try and take advantage of me while they thought I was wounded. Easy pickings.

"You idiot!" I heard from my left. I looked over and a flood of relief flashed through me as I saw Thorfinn sprinting toward me on the rampart. He had small blood splatters on his clothing, but it looked like none of it was his. That was a relief.

When he was close enough, I said, "Thorfinn! Glad to see--" but stopped when I noticed the alarm on his face. His eyes were so wide, his mouth set in a grimace…

That was a new look.

When he was close enough, he grabbed my arm and started to pull.

"What's going on, Thorfinn? Is something wrong?" I asked, alarm bells ringing in my head as he tried to pull me away. I let him, of course.

"Are you fucking stupid!" He yelled, still pulling me along, now with both of his hands grasping my forearm. "Your face!"

My free hand reached up toward my face. "My fa--" I stopped again, because when my fingers reached up, instead of feeling fabric, all I felt was skin.

And more skin.

My face was uncovered.

…My face was uncovered!

"It's Freya herself!" I heard one of Askeladd's men exclaim from below.

My face deadpanned, and slowly I turned to look down at the men gawking at me. They all had mixed emotions of surprise on their faces. Some with wonder surprise, another with surprised disbelief, and a smaller section of disgruntled surprise.

I could suddenly hear Bjorn laughing from where he stood. Strange.

"Well," I said to Thorfinn who started to pull me away by my elbow. "Guess the cat is out of the bag."

"You're so fucking stupid," he yelled at me, again, and I couldn't agree with him more.

I needed to brace myself. What lay ahead was a riddle wrapped in a mystery, sprinkled with a dash of "I probably should've seen this coming a lot sooner than I did." Even I couldn't predict all the upcoming shenanigans—though if it involved clowns or poorly timed puns, I'd start placing bets.

Askeladd

It was as if a tempest of awe swept over Askeladd's men. When her mask was ripped away, revealing the warrior woman beneath, she unleashed a relentless barrage of arrows. One by one, they noticed her, and one by one, a maelstrom of emotions churned the air around them as the English soldiers fell to her arrows.

Bjorn, too, was caught in the swell, struck silent by the sight.

Her curly hair, a blaze of fire, shimmered in the rising sun, cascading over her shoulders like a lion's mane. But it was her eyes that burned with a fury fiercer than any flame, as she loosed arrow after arrow with deadly precision. Her white teeth gleamed, clenched in fierce determination, framed by a slender, unmistakably feminine face.

Her small nose wrinkled with intensity as she sought out her next target, and as the enemy fell, a cold, steely calm settled over her features. Her eyes scanned the battlefield, taking in every detail with a predator's focus.

To some of Askeladd's men, she must have appeared as a Valkyrie reborn, sent from Odin's hall to claim the souls of the fallen.

Then Thorfinn caught her attention, his frantic concern breaking through her focus as he sprinted toward her. A wave of relief softened her features, if only for a heartbeat.

But then she noticed—her face was revealed. Her eyes widened ever so slightly before they hardened, masking her emotions from any who dared to look.

And that's when the murmurs began.

"It's Freya herself!" one of the duller men gasped, pointing at her with a mix of wonder and fear.

"Thorben has been a woman this entire time!"

"She's so…beautiful…"

The look she shot back at them, brimming with disgust and loathing, had Bjorn laughing from his post in the middle of the battlefield, dead bodies surrounding him.

"Looks like we've been robbed of some entertainment. I've never seen a woman glare at someone with such venom," Bjorn chuckled, stroking his braided beard as he watched her walk off, Thorfinn dragging her along the rampart. "Who knew she looked like that underneath?" Bjorn's gaze drifted to Askeladd, who stood behind him, arms crossed, deep in thought. "What do you think, Askeladd? Think the men will be able to keep their wits about them?"

Askeladd hadn't anticipated that at all. The way she carried herself, he never would have imagined just how... soft, almost fragile, she looked beneath her mask.

How easily breakable she looked.

But, in the end, it wasn't his concern. Whatever fate awaited her now was of her own making. She knew exactly the game she was playing.

"Wits?" Askeladd replied, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "These fools lost them the moment they saw what was under the mask."

"Should we do something about it? Nip it in the bud before it gets out of hand?"

Askeladd, with his sword now back in its sheath after he cleaned the blood off it, crossed his arms and regarded Bjorn with a look. "Why, Bjorn, don't tell me you actually care for the woman?"

"Caring ain't the word I'd use," Bjorn replied, a hint of amusement in his voice. "But we've seen what happens when men start thinking with the wrong head. Could turn into a problem sooner rather than later. And I'd rather not have to kill one of our own because he got too stupid around her."

He glanced back at the men, his expression hardening as he crossed his arms, watching as they murmured to one another. "But if she can handle herself, maybe it'll weed out the weak ones. Still, if it does get messy, better to clean it up before it stains the whole lot."

Askeladd was surprised by Bjorn's insightfulness…

"Very well," Askeladd said with a thoughtful nod, his smirk falling from his face. "If it comes to that, we'll handle it. But let's not overcomplicate things just yet. Sometimes a bit of chaos is the best way to test the mettle of the men." He uncrossed his arms and let them fall to his side, one hand gripping his waste. "We'll keep an eye on it. If it becomes a big enough problem, we'll deal with it, as always."

If they hoped for a triumphant Viking season, they couldn't afford the constant distraction of curbing his men's chaos over a single woman. Askeladd also knew that Fiadh wasn't the type to surrender quietly, either.

Moreover, her archery skills were peerless. Today alone, she demonstrated an extraordinary precision even amid the tumult of battle. Should she manage to endure, she could prove invaluable. If her fate was to be sealed, Askeladd would prefer it to be by the enemy's hand, rather than his own men's.

Moreover, she wasn't a Dane—at least, not by any measure he could discern. Her features betrayed no hint of Danish heritage. Yet, her ruthlessness had cast a shadow of doubt up until today. He couldn't…afford to treat her as if she were one of his own.

Now he was almost certain she didn't have norsemen blood in her.

Almost.

"Where are you off to?" Bjorn inquired as Askeladd walked past him, heading toward the rampart where Thorfinn and Fiadh had vanished, bypassing bodies as he walked.

Askeladd cast a sly grin over his shoulder, but did not slow his pace. "To track down our newly revealed companion, naturally. Extracting that arrowhead won't be a simple task. I have my doubts about Thorfinn being much help in that regard."

(Author's note: Uh-oh. Fiadh is in trouble!

Maybe...

I had more planned out for this chapter, but it was starting to get long... like a Fiadh and Askeladd interaction hhehehhahhaheh

What do you think? Did you think Fiadh's reveal would happen so soon? What are your predictions of what is going to come next? Will Askeladd and Bjorn help, or let chaos reign?

Also, I've been meaning to ask... what exactly are your wishes for Askeladd and Fiadh?

What I mean is, for example, how fast do you want their "relationship" to manifest? Do you like the drama between Askeladd and Fiadh? Do you think it's going too hard on the drama, or not hard enough? Let me know your thoughts. Yes, I'm mostly writing this story for myself as most fanfic author's should do, but your input is important to me, too. This story IS an Askeladd/OC fanfic...so that has to happen eventually.

Do you want smut? Do you think it'll take away from the story? The original goal was to have smut...but like I said, your input is important to me. Let me know your wishes!

With much love,

Quidell)