Fiadh

No matter how many arrows had found their mark in me, the sting of their bite was something I could never quite adjust to. As a distance fighter, arrow wounds ranked high on my list of most frequent injuries, with slashes trailing behind in a close second.

Stab wounds? I'd only been on the receiving end five times, all in soft spots—typically somewhere on my right side, as if fate itself had a favorite target.

But there was only one time before when an arrowhead had snapped off inside me. The memory of having it pried out by skilled hands was a special kind of agony.

And when those hands weren't so skilled…

"Damn it! I can't get a grip under it!" Thorfinn snarled, his voice muffled through gritted teeth as he clumsily tried to wedge my knife beneath the arrowhead. It was like watching a bear try to thread a needle—frustrating, painful, and probably a little too amusing for my own good.

If I weren't drowning in a sea of agony, I'd be chuckling along at Thorfinn's clumsy antics.

However, I was halfway through some alcohol I had on hand, pretending it was a magical elixir that could numb both my body and the embarrassment of letting this happen in the first place. The more I drank, the more convinced I became that if I downed enough, I might forget Thorfinn was currently digging into my flesh like a toddler with a spoon in a sandbox. I wasn't about to let him see how much pain he was causing; that would only encourage him to give up and leave me to dissect my leg myself.

This mess was entirely my fault. I'd gotten sloppy, let my guard down, and now I was paying the price—one arrow and one inexperienced hand at a time. The damn arrowhead needed to come out before it decided to put down roots, but Thorfinn's approach was more likely to leave me with an unwanted souvenir.

An unwanted, larger souvenir.

Bjorn would've been the better choice for this extraction—cooler head, steadier hands. Not that I had any illusions about where his loyalties lay. Sure, he might stand by if one of the men tried to take advantage of me now that my little secret was out, but when it came to something like this? He'd probably pull the arrowhead out with a smile and maybe even throw in a sarcastic comment for good measure.

And that would be that.

But I couldn't ask him. Not yet. Not until things cooled off between me and the men, and I had a chance to reassert myself—preferably with a few well-placed blows to some skulls. Or balls.

First things first, though. I had to survive Thorfinn's amateur surgery.

Given the situation, Thorfinn offering to help was about the best I could hope for, even if his brand of help came with a side of frustration.

The first problem before I'd asked Thorfinn to extract this arrowhead was, Thorfinn had no clue where he was dragging me. As we stumbled down the rampart, dodging the glares and wondering eyes of every Viking we passed, it became painfully clear that his plan was as half-baked as his knife extraction work. Once we were outside the fortress walls, I put on the brakes and asked him point-blank what he thought he was doing.

Turns out, his grand idea was for me to leave—just walk away and never look back. When I didn't jump at the chance to run, he got angry. Really angry.

But with a bit of quick thinking and a lot of persistence, I managed to talk him down from his rage. I convinced him to help me dig out the arrowhead first, so I'd at least stand a chance if things went south.

And, more importantly, I made him promise not to get involved when it all hit the fan.

We slipped into the cover of the forest, well away from any paths…

…and I dropped my pants so Thorfinn could get to the wound.

His reaction was priceless—a mix of shock and panic—until he realized I had shorts on underneath. Handmade, by the way. Once his mini-meltdown was over, he got down to business, but not before I made sure he doused both the wound and his knife with some alcohol from my bag. A little cleanliness never hurt anyone, especially when someone like Thorfinn was about to play surgeon.

His left hand clamped down just above the wound when I settled back against a large tree, my bag settled next to me to my left, pinning me in place while prying it open slightly. The knife he wielded was small, but it felt like a crowbar as he tried to work its tip beneath the stubborn arrowhead lodged in my leg. Each time he pressed, the blade refused to go deep enough, as if my pathetic attempts to mask the agony were thwarting his efforts. Truth be told, my poker face was a crumbling facade; I was on the verge of passing out, each jolt of pain nearly dragging me into darkness.

When the knife slipped for the fifth time, sending a fresh spray of blood onto my knee, I brought the bottle to my lips, my hand shaking as I took a swig of the rough liquor, my face no doubt grimacing from the pain. "Fuck!" Thorfinn cursed, his frustration mounting as he shook his head in defeat. His eyes darted between my face and the wound.

I let my bottle-bearing hand drop to the ground, while my other reached up to grasp Thorfinn's shoulder with a gentle grip. "Thorfinn, you're doing fine," I murmured, my voice steady despite the storm of pain inside me. "Take a deep breath and try again. You've got this. I know you can do this."

He seemed to ease up, if only a fraction. "Take a deep breath," I instructed, my voice steady. To my surprise, he actually complied, inhaling deeply. "And breathe out," I added, watching as he exhaled, his hand tightening on my leg just above the embedded arrowhead.

With more calm, he eased the knife back into the wound. I fought against every instinct to tense, especially when he maneuvered the blade under the arrowhead, probing deeper into the flesh. But the slight wince that betrayed me when the tip of the knife dug into uncut flesh didn't go unnoticed—he yanked the knife out, eyes locking onto mine with a fiery glare.

He didn't want to hurt me.

"Don't you dare pass out on me!" he barked, gripping my small knife like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to sanity.

I exhaled a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding and forced myself to stay composed, closing my eyes. Losing my temper wouldn't solve anything—not with an arrowhead still lodged in my leg and certainly not with Thorfinn wound tighter than a spring. But, damn, the urge to smack some sense into him was almost unbearable.

I opened my eyes and gave him what I hoped passed for a gentle, reassuring look. "I'm okay, Thorfinn. Really. I've been through worse." And in a twisted way, that was true.

"Worse, you say?" came the voice I least wanted to hear, dripping with that familiar mix of amusement and malice.

I closed my eyes, once again, trying to summon calm from somewhere deep inside.

Because the last person I wanted to see had just arrived to the right of us. Looking smug as ever…

Askeladd was here...

Of all the rotten luck, why the hell was he here now?

Thorfinn spun around so fast that my hand slipped from his shoulder. He stood, seething, with my knife clutched tightly in his fist. With a fiery glare latched onto Askeladd, who stood a little ways away, arms crossed and his signature smirk plastered on his lightly blood sprayed face. With clenched teeth, Thorfinn snarled, "Why the fuck are you here, baldy?"

It must've been a sight when Askeladd sauntered into view: me, lounging like a drunken poet, pants around my ankles, back against a tree as if nature had betrayed me, and Thorfinn, hunched over my lap, his back to Askeladd, like he was searching for treasure.

We probably looked like a lewd tavern joke come to life.

Not that a Viking would lose sleep over decorum, though.

But if Askeladd had been Cillian… well, Thorfinn would've already been reintroduced to the sharp side of a blade, and I'd be explaining that 'it's not what it looks like' with a lot more urgency.

However, despite the pain—or maybe because of it—I couldn't help but let out a small, almost delirious laugh at Thorfinn's choice of words.

He wasn't even bald!

Askeladd's smirk deepened when I looked to my side at them, his voice dripping with that familiar blend of mockery and detachment, his hand now on hip as he didn't regard me in the slightest. The bastard. "I've come to offer my aid, of course," he said, as though gracing us with his presence was some grand, benevolent act.

Thorfinn's eyes narrowed, or I guessed they did like they always did when Askeladd was speaking as Thorfinn had his back to me, the anger in his glare probably sharpening like the edge of a blade. Like they always did. "I don't need your help, old man," he spat, his voice low and dangerous. The tension between them was palpable, like a fuse ready to ignite. "Just stay out of my way."

Askeladd's smirk widened, a glint of amusement in his eyes, his eyes never leaving Thorfinn. "Ah, the pride of youth," he mused, almost to himself, shaking his head then crossing his arms. "But you should know by now, Thorfinn, that what you need and what you want are rarely the same." He leaned in slightly, his tone taking on a more serious edge. "And if you want Fiadh to live a long plentiful life, you may need to reconsider."

Thorfinn's grip tightened on his dagger, his knuckles turning white. For a moment, it seemed like he might just leap at Askeladd then and there…

But if Askeladd inclined to lend a hand, it might actually serve us well, given the situation.

Just this once.

"Thorfinn," I called out, feeling the warmth of the alcohol finally creeping up my neck, turning my cheeks a rosy hue. Askeladd's blue eyes flicked to me, sharp and dangerous, but I wasn't about to let him rattle me. "We don't have time for this back-and-forth. If the bastard's offering to help, let him. We'll sort out the heroics later."

Even though that back-and-forth gave me a bit more insight into their relationship, Askeladd surprisingly offered some good advice. Not that it made up for anything.

Thorfinn shot me a look, his eyes simmering with barely restrained frustration. The idea of accepting Askeladd's help clearly grated on him, like swallowing shards of ice. "You think we can trust him?" he muttered, his voice laced with disbelief, as if the words themselves tasted bitter. "He's always got some angle."

Askeladd, ever the opportunist, took a leisurely step forward, his smirk widening as if he relished the tension. "Now, now, Thorfinn," he purred, his tone dripping with false sincerity, "let's not waste time on trust. We both know that's a luxury neither of us can afford."

He glanced over at me, a sly glint in his eyes. "Fiadh here has the right idea. We've got bigger problems to worry about than old grudges." His gaze shifted back to Thorfinn, his expression turning mockingly solemn. "But if you'd rather let pride steer the ship, who am I to stand in the way? Just don't come crying to me when it runs aground."

Thorfinn's jaw tightened, a muscle in his temple twitching as he grappled with the infuriating logic in Askeladd's words. After a moment of strained silence, he finally let out a sharp sigh, clearly unwilling to argue further. "Fine," he snapped, stepping to the side, fully revealing me to Askeladd's scrutiny.

Askeladd's blue eyes zeroed in on my bare thighs with the sort of self-satisfied smirk that made me wish a stray lightning bolt would magically conjure up and strike him down. He let his gaze drift slowly back up to my face, and it took every ounce of restraint not to either flip him off or make a face that could curdle milk. With a theatrical grace, he waltzed over to Thorfinn, slipping into position beside him like he was taking his place at a grand performance. Without even glancing at Thorfinn, he extended a hand toward him, palm up, keeping his eyes locked on me as though daring me to react.

Thorfinn, clearly still seething, slapped his knife with a muttered swear. He stormed off to a nearby tree, planting himself against it with all the subtlety of a storm about to break.

Then Askeladd took that final step and kneeled beside me. Right next to me. Planting a knee near my thigh, said knee touching my thigh. His eyes scanned the wound, and he made an unsatisfactory tsking noise.

Askeladd's eyes narrowed as he examined the wound, not yet touching it as his hands dangled between his legs, his expression a blend of disdain and curiosity. "Honestly, boy," he said, his tone dripping with a mix of irritation and dark amusement, "it's almost impressive how you managed to make a bad situation even worse. Were you trying to kill Fiadh, or is this some twisted form of entertainment?"

He shook his head, a sardonic smile tugging at his lips. "Either way, I'll have to fix this mess before she bleeds out and turn this into an even bigger disaster."

Looking down at my leg, he wasn't entirely wrong. What started as a small slit from the arrow had turned into a gaping wound, ragged and gnawed at the edges like something had burrowed into my flesh. It was gruesome, but I'd seen enough Saw movies to handle it.

Without missing a beat, I shot Askeladd a look of mock exasperation. "Oh, don't mind me," I couldn't help but quip, my voice dripping with dry sarcasm. "Just the one bleeding out here, but by all means, keep pretending I'm not in the room. It's very reassuring."

Lay off Thorfinn, asshole.

Yet, despite it all, their interaction revealed a lot more than I expected. I always thought Thorfinn only spoke to Askeladd when demanding a duel or accepting some twisted deal leading to one. But here he was, being almost civil with him.

Then again, after more than seven years of living like a lone wolf, even Thorfinn, however unknowingly and begrudgingly, would start craving some form of human interaction. And who else would he gravitate toward but the closest thing he had to company? Askeladd.

This…was more complicated than I initially thought.

And the worst part about all this? Askeladd was self aware of it all.

To try and take Thorfinn away from this life—a life he'd lived longer than the one he left behind in Iceland…

Askeladd shot me a sidelong glance before his hand moved, settling on my thigh. The motion caught my attention, and I couldn't help but watch as his larger hand, warm and firm, rested exactly where Thorfinn's had been.

But Askeladd's hand was bigger, his fingers longer…

It took every ounce of willpower not to react. Despite Askeladd being… well, Askeladd, he was still a man.

A man who was now touching my bare thigh—a thigh that hadn't felt the touch of another man in this lifetime.

The goosebumps that rose under his hot hand didn't escape his notice, I was sure of that.

The way his hand curled around my thigh, fingertips brushing dangerously close to my inner thigh, didn't escape me. His thumb, resting just beneath the wound, tugged at it with an oddly gentle touch, examining it. I couldn't help but notice every deliberate move.

It was all becoming too much—he was too much. He'd done too much. My instincts screamed at me not to let him get this close, not to trust him. But I had no choice. If he could pull this arrowhead from my thigh, trust him I must.

Just this once.

But focusing on every touch, every subtle shift of his thumb and fingers against my bare skin, was overwhelming. So, I let my eyes wander back to his face.

For his age and the rough times we lived in, Askeladd's face was remarkably unmarked by deep wrinkles. Sure, there were fine lines around his eyes, but nothing too pronounced. Even his heavily lidded eyes were smooth. For a man who spent most of his life under the harsh sun, he was aging impressively well.

If it weren't for his receding hairline, I might have pegged him as someone in his early thirties, not on the cusp of forty.

But that didn't mean I wouldn't tease him about his age.

And his hair—not a single gray or white strand. He had enviable genetics.

I might even admit he was rather handsome—a thought that immediately made my stomach churn in revolt.

Desperate to escape that line of thinking, I blurted out, "Who do you get your hair color from, Askeladd? Your mother or father?"

And then it all changed…

He stiffened, his mouth setting into a deep frown. Even Thorfinn perked up at the sudden change, his eyes locking onto Askeladd's face.

So, apparently, I'd just crossed into taboo territory.

Askeladd's gaze sliced toward me, his hand tightening on my thigh, causing a sharp pinch around the wound.

"My apologies, I didn't mean to pry," I blurted, again, wincing at my own formality. Clearly, I'd had too much to drink. This was Askeladd, not one of Cillian's men—or Cillian himself.

And he was too close for comfort. I could actually smell his breath…

And it smelt like…

No. I wasn't going there.

Askeladd's eyes narrowed as he glanced at me. "Why are you apologizing?" he asked, irritation creeping into his voice. "It's not like you've crossed some line. Did you really think you'd offended me?"

Hadn't I? That look he shot me earlier said otherwise.

But he probably thought I was reading him again, and he clearly wasn't enjoying it.

I wanted to say, "If I didn't offend you, then answer the question." However, I wasn't keen on irritating a man who was towering over me, one hand resting possessively on my bare thigh while the other wielded a knife. That would be a recipe for disaster.

So, I shut my eyes and muttered, "Forget I said anything."

I had more to say, but not with Thorfinn around. I didn't want him thinking I was familiar with Askeladd.

When I opened my eyes again, Askeladd was still fixed on me. Eyes hot on mine, but then he glanced down at my wound, his grip loosening. Then, his thumb began to trace the skin just below the injury, his expression morphing into one of puzzlement. "Did you shave your legs?" he asked, frowning in confusion.

The tension from our earlier exchange evaporated instantly, and I let out an amused laugh.

Of all the questions to ask…

"I did," I confessed, still chuckling. Of course, he'd find it odd. It wasn't until World War I that leg shaving became a widespread fashion trend, thanks to shifts in culture and advertising. "I prefer smooth legs. It makes me feel cleaner."

And it was true. Perhaps it was a vestige from my past life's ingrained routines, but freshly shaved legs made me feel less grimy. In these times, any edge in hygiene was a win worth savoring.

He brought the knife up near the wound and I tensed, but instead of using it to get the arrowhead out again, his eyes flicked back to me, a sly grin appearing on his lips as his thumb continued their lazy circling.

"Well, aren't you full of surprises?" he murmured, his voice low and smooth, his gaze shifting back to his circling thumb. "Cleanliness is a rare luxury in this world, but I can't say I mind the result."

Wait…what?

His eyes flicked back up to meet mine, a glint of mischief in them, his eyes drinking in my stunned face. "Though, I must admit, you make it rather difficult to keep my thoughts... clean." He lingered on that last word, letting its meaning settle between us…

…then the pain suddenly hit me.

The blade in Askeladd's hand plunged into the wound with practiced precision, and before I could stop myself, my right hand flew up, clutching his bicep as he pinned my leg down. With a deft flick, the arrowhead sprang free, arcing through the air before landing with a dull thud in the dirt between my legs.

I stared at it, momentarily stunned—not just by how effortlessly he removed the arrowhead, but by the way his words still echoed in my mind.

I knew exactly what game he was playing.

My gaze snapped back to Askeladd, who was now wearing that infuriating smirk of his. "That was low, even for you," I muttered, glaring at him as I shifted the bottle in my other hand over the wound. Slowly, I poured a thin stream of alcohol over the wound, gritting my teeth against the sting, but not breaking eye contact with him. Some even splashed on his hand that still gripped my leg.

"Just returning the…enthusiasm." His words dripped with a sly reminder of my earlier, accidental flirtation back in Yule. Did he think I was playing games with him? Likely. "Besides," he continued, his knife hand sliding down my leg, stopping just below my knee. His fingers curled around the blade, resting lightly against my skin, while his thumb, still glistening with a bead of blood, traced a line across my knee. "I meant it when I said I didn't mind the results."

I let go of Askeladd's bicep I hadn't realized I was still gripping like a lifeline and capped the alcohol, setting it aside, then smacked Askeladd's hand off my thigh with a quick slap. Without missing a beat, I batted away his other hand and grabbed my pants from around my ankles. A wicked grin spread across Askeladd's face, his hands rising in mock surrender, flashing a mouthful of teeth before he got to his feet, eyes locked on me as I pulled my pants back on.

Thorfinn stepped forward, and as I hitched my pants up, lifting my hips, I caught a strange look on his face. He was glaring at Askeladd, the anger still there but tinged with something wry. "You're a fucking bastard and a pervert." Then his eyes shifted to something closer to disdain and disgust.

Askeladd's grin widened as he locked eyes with Thorfinn. "Ah, Thorfinn," he began, voice dripping with mockery. "Still the same old insults. You think calling me a bastard makes you any different from me? You've been chasing me for years, but what have you really learned?"

He didn't acknowledge the pervert comment…

I stood up as the two boys butted heads with one another and walked a couple of paces away and sat down, my back to them. As they were preoccupied, I began to take off my dark blue gambeson.

"I've learned enough to know I'll never be like you. You're nothing but a coward, hiding behind manipulation and lies," was Thorfinn's tense reply.

Once my gambeson was off, I began slipping off my shirt underneath, until I revealed the bindings that covered my entire torso and stomach.

Askeladd laughed, a short, sharp sound. "Coward? Perhaps. But I'm alive, aren't I? In this world, survival takes more than swinging a sword around in a blind rage. You're too young to understand that."

There conversation, probably a different variation of one they've had countless times in the past was totally devoid of any mentioning of me. It was like they forgot about me.

Good.

Slowly, I began unwrapping the bindings around my torso, letting the layers of clothing and padding I had suppressing my curves and boobs falling to the ground.

"I understand more than you think. I understand that men like you deserve what's coming to them. And when it does, I'll be there to make sure you feel every bit of it."

"Oh, I've no doubt you'll try, Thorfinn," Askeladd's voice was taking on a more serious tone, and I almost stopped what I was doing when I heard it. "But remember this: every step you take toward me, you're stepping further into my world. The question is, how far are you willing to go before you lose yourself completely?"

"I'm nothing like you!"

Once again, Askeladd offered Thorfinn some surprisingly solid advice, as if he were trying to make the boy confront his own actions—past and present. But it didn't add up. Askeladd's words never matched his deeds. He used Thorfinn without a second thought, indifferent to whether he lived or died. And yet, here he was, dispensing wisdom like an old mentor.

But Thorfinn, as usual, acted deaf to it all.

As the last piece of cloth slipped from my torso, leaving me bare from the waist up, the silence from Askeladd was almost unsettling.

"What the hell are you staring—" Thorfinn's voice faltered before it turned into a shout. "What the fuck are you doing, Fiadh!?"

I glanced over my shoulder, catching sight of Thorfinn's wide-eyed shock and Askeladd's slightly surprised expression, though he kept his arms crossed and his gaze cool, with just a hint of curiosity in his widened eyes.

"Relax, Thorfinn. Just getting a bit more comfortable." I grabbed my black shirt and quickly slipped it back on. As the fabric settled over me, I couldn't resist rubbing my breasts, a wave of relief washing over me. Those bindings were killing me—never seemed to get any easier.

I stood up, tucking my shirt into my gray pants, then picked up my gambeson from the ground. Facing the two of them, I leaned on my good leg, tilting my head to the side with a relaxed grin. "What's the matter? Never seen a woman get dressed before?"

Then I thought better and looked directly at Thorfinn with a frown. "Don't answer that."

"How's the leg?" Askeladd's voice took on an unexpected seriousness, making me blink in surprise, though I quickly masked it.

"I still need to wrap it, but I'll manage."

"Good. Wrap it up and report to Bjorn when you're done. We move as soon as the canal barricades are lifted."

He handed the knife back to Thorfinn, who snatched it from him with a sneer.

Askeladd's gaze shifted to me again, a hint of something unreadable in his eyes. "You'd best keep your wits sharp when we make landfall," he said, his voice low and serious. "Now that the men know what you've been hiding, things could get… complicated. You won't have the luxury of hiding behind a mask anymore." He paused, letting the words sink in before continuing with a slight head tilt. "Stick close, prove your worth, and don't give them a reason to question your place among us." With that, he turned away, the unspoken warning hanging in the air.

I blinked after his retreating figure, once again surprised that he'd bothered to toss even me some solid advice. Advice I already knew, sure—but still. He made the effort.

What game was he playing? Did he actually mean it?

There had to be something driving him to dish out advice like that. There just had to be.

Only time would tell.

I sighed, knowing better than to waste energy trying to unravel Askeladd's mind. It was a puzzle that would only eat away at the moments I couldn't afford to lose.

I turned to Thorfinn, who was still staring after Askeladd, and said, "Head back. I'll be right behind you."

Kneeling by my pack, I picked up my alcohol from the ground and began searching for clean bindings in my bag, pushing thoughts of Askeladd to the back of my mind.

"And do you honestly believe you can handle Askeladd's men by yourself?"

"I'm fresh out of options," I admitted, my hands still digging through my bag. "It's a bitter pill to swallow, erm, I mean a bitter… drought? But Askeladd's right—can you believe it? I've got to stay sharp, stick close, and show my worth. I'm under no illusion that some will try to exploit me. I'll just have to make it clear that they're in for a tough ride. To put it bluntly, I'll need to bust some balls."

"Do you really think you can handle this on your own?" Thorfinn asked.

"I have to," I replied, trying to sound confident as I unwrapped a fresh set of bandages. "I need to prove I can manage without help, so they don't get any ideas when I'm on my own. I can't expect you to be my shadow, and I doubt you'd want to be."

With a small, encouraging smile, I looked at him from over my shoulder. "Trust me, Thorfinn?"

He closed his eyes and exhaled with resignation, his arms now crossed. "Do what you must. I won't stand in your way."

Turning away, he walked off toward the fortress. I watched him go, then settled back on the ground to tend to my leg.

Dead eyes staring up at me, from my past as well as new ones, flashed in my mind's eye, but I blinked them away. Far away, like I always did.

The next few days promised to be quite…interesting.