Askeladd

Fiadh's hands worked the man's bare skin with a skillful touch, fingers digging in with just the right amount of pressure to have the fool groaning like he'd never felt a woman's touch before. Askeladd watched from his seat at the front of the boat, his gaze half-lidded but keen, the way a wolf might observe a rabbit squirm. He could see what she was up to—what game she was playing—every calculated movement of those hands of hers.

"Ah, gods… that's good," the man sighed, voice thick with relief.

Fiadh's smile slid into place, slow and deliberate, as if she were savoring each syllable. "Isn't it?" she replied, her tone sugary enough to rot teeth. There was a hint of something else there too, a soft edge that made it sound like more than just idle chatter. It was all part of the act, of course; she knew exactly how to wield touch like a blade, it would seem.

The poor bastard let out another groan as she quickened her pace, her fingers working it loose with a practiced touch. She'd learned to play this kind of game well—too well, Askeladd thought. But then, wasn't that what made her useful?

When her thumb pressed into a tender spot, the man jolted slightly. "Fucking hell, that hurts."

Fiadh didn't miss a beat. "Aye, it does," she said, her voice like velvet, "but it'll feel better soon."

And just as promised, the man's grimace melted away, his expression easing back into something near bliss. She didn't bother rubbing it in; she didn't have to. The silence told Askeladd everything. The man was too far gone to notice anything but the sweet relief washing over him.

Fiadh was good at this sort of thing—too good, perhaps. But it was always the useful tools that had the sharpest edges.

Fiadh's thumb found a knot in the man's forearm, and he winced as she kneaded it out with just enough force to draw a pained hiss. "There, that should do it," she said, letting his arm drop like a discarded rag before turning to grab the real one beside her. Without so much as a glance at the man as he got up and walked off, she wiped her hands clean, quick and thorough, as if scrubbing away the very touch of him.

Askeladd didn't miss the subtle disdain in that little ritual of hers. She always did it—never could stomach the feel of his men on her skin for long, even a slight graze of an arm in passing. Her nose would wrinkle up whenever one of them leaned too close, like she could smell the stink of the battlefield still clinging to them.

A sharp nose, that girl. Or maybe just a sharper sense of superiority. It wasn't just dirt she was wiping away; it was the trace of the world she thought herself too fine for. And Askeladd found it all too amusing—how she could play at being useful, while keeping herself just distant enough to remind him that she was never quite one of them, no matter how hard she tried.

Most of his men fell for her games, every last one of them dancing to her tune without even knowing it. Fiadh had a way of wrapping them around her little finger, spinning their heads with a smile that never quite reached her eyes. She'd play the part well enough—touch here, a kind word there, a promise of something more but wording it in a way that benefitted only her—but it was all just a game to her, and they were too blind to see it.

Askeladd, though, he saw through the act. He always had. It wasn't that she fooled them because she was particularly clever—though she was, he'd admit—but because they were fools who wanted to believe it. That was her real trick, wasn't it? To give them just enough of what they wanted to see, and they'd fill in the rest with their own wishful thinking.

He watched her with the same amusement one had for a fox sneaking into the henhouse—let her play her games. So long as it served him, he'd let her keep at it. But he kept a sharp eye on that fox all the same.

He had to admit though, there was something about Fiadh that intrigued him—though he'd be damned before he'd show it. The girl had a knack for slipping past the usual armor men wore, wriggling her way into places where weapons couldn't reach. She knew how to twist a word, soften a glance, and make you wonder if there was something more behind that smile of hers. It wasn't quite charm, not in the way most thought of it, but a kind of quiet audacity. She played her part like she had nothing to lose, yet always held something back, as if the real game was one only she knew the rules to.

Askeladd wasn't fooled by the act, but he couldn't deny it fascinated him all the same. She wasn't like the rest of them—didn't have the same hunger or the same fears. She toyed with his men like they were pieces on a game board, but there were moments—just brief flickers—when he saw something sharper in her eyes, a depth she kept hidden behind all that coyness.

He watched her not because he trusted her, but because he wanted to see what she'd do next. There was always that little bit of unpredictability, a flash of defiance even when she pretended to submit. It was that edge of hers, that hint of something just out of reach, that made him keep looking a second longer than he'd intended.

Even now, with her offering massages, as she called them, in exchange for a few bronze coins, it was all just another game to her. A calculated show of usefulness, something to keep the men guessing, keep them on edge. She knew exactly what she was doing—playing the part of the helpful woman with hands that could ease the strain of war. It kept his men coming back, and kept them wondering if there wasn't more to it, to her, than just a bit of muscle work.

Askeladd knew better, of course. He could see the sly calculation in every touch, hear the hidden mockery behind every soft-spoken word. It wasn't generosity or goodwill that drove her, but the subtle power she held in making even the smallest service feel like a privilege. And she wielded it well, keeping his men wrapped around her little finger with nothing more than a press of her thumb or a low murmur of reassurance.

But still, there was a part of him, just this once, that wanted to play along. To see what she'd do if he joined the game himself. What would she make of it if he laid down a coin or two, let her hands work over his muscles, let her think for a moment that she had him at her mercy? He couldn't help but wonder how she'd react if he pretended to be one of the fools who fell for her act.

So, he decided to indulge that curiosity. To give her the satisfaction of thinking she'd pulled him into her little show. And then, when the moment came, he'd show her just who was playing whom.

And then maybe she'd leave them for good. Leave the war behind, and death…

He placed the silver coin on her coffer, the one she leaned against as they rode the restless waves, waiting for their next destination to come into sight. They'd just set sail after their last raid, a job well paid by the King's orders. The crew was in high spirits, all except her—always set apart somehow, even when she was right in their midst.

Her gaze flicked to the coin as his hand drew back, then rose to meet his eyes. He towered over her, hands on his hips and a grin tugging at his lips, the kind that dared her to refuse him. He liked the way she stiffened, just barely, whenever he cast his attention her way. It was there—a small thing—but there all the same, and he took some quiet satisfaction in it.

But she didn't flinch. No, instead, she tilted her head and let that coy little smile of hers creep up, her lips curling just enough to suggest a hundred things and promise none. Her fingers closed over the coin, tucking it away into the pouch at her side, and then she gestured to the spot before her as though she owned it. "Your sword hand troubling you too, Askeladd?" she asked, voice soft, smooth—a tone that could almost be mistaken for something seductive if you were fool enough to believe it.

But he wasn't fooled. This was all part of her game, a calculated move to keep the upper hand even as she appeared to submit. She knew how to twist a favor into a trap, how to turn service into a subtle kind of power. And if she thought to draw him into her little charade, well, he was more than willing to play along. Just this once. He wanted to see what she'd make of it, what cards she'd show when she thought he was under her spell.

So he lowered himself to the ground, legs crossed, still grinning as he offered up his arm. "Let's see if you've got a cure for what ails me, then." He'd let her play her game, but it was his move next, and he'd make sure she felt it.

Her left hand slid beneath his, cupping the back of it with a grip that was firmer than he expected. Askeladd felt the contrast in her touch—the softness that still clung to the pads of her fingers, and the roughened edges along her palms. She'd always worn gloves when they rowed, and he'd often seen her rubbing some white salve into her hands during the quiet moments. It did surprise him, though, that her hands hadn't turned entirely to callus after all the labor they'd endured. Was it that thick paste she used, he wondered, that kept a trace of gentleness in her touch?

Her right hand set to work untying the leather string at his wrist, nimble fingers making quick work of the knot. When the string came free, she placed it neatly on his knee, then began to roll up his sleeve. Her fingertips brushed lightly against his skin as she worked, leaving behind a faint, fleeting sensation that wasn't entirely unpleasant.

He watched her closely, not bothering to disguise the scrutiny in his gaze. There was no shame in his stare, no pretense of subtlety. He wanted to see if she'd falter under his eyes, if his open observation would unsettle that careful composure she wore like a mask.

It had in the past.

Askeladd's gaze swept over Fiadh's wild mane of orange fire, the strands rebelling against the high ponytail she'd attempted to tame them with. Today, she'd forgone the usual braid, and he could already see knots forming where the hair tangled easily with each turn of her head. It was a curious choice, leaving her hair long like that. He would have thought she'd see the sense in cutting it short—less trouble, less for an enemy to grab hold of.

He didn't take her for the vain sort, not one to fuss over appearances or cling to something as impractical as long hair. In fact, he'd half-expected she'd hack it off herself one day, a knife to the locks without a second thought. And yet, there it was, still hanging down her back like a wild thing that refused to be subdued. It made him wonder if there was a reason she kept it—a stubborn streak, perhaps, or some other motive that lay hidden beneath the fiery strands.

But Fiadh didn't flinch from his scrutiny. She kept her focus on the task at hand, her expression calm and untroubled, as though the weight of his gaze was nothing more than a passing breeze. This wasn't new to him. He'd long since gathered that she was well-practiced at ignoring the eyes of men. She had a way of seeming untouched by the weight of their stares, as if she'd been born knowing how to let their gazes slide off her like rain off a roof. Even his own scrutiny—intentional, lingering—seemed to trouble her less and less. She'd grown used to it, or at least had learned how to appear so. And Askeladd found himself intrigued, once again, by how much she managed to conceal, even when it seemed like she was laying herself bare.

But with him, she'd always faltered, just a flicker, a brief crack in that practiced composure. It wasn't much, but it was there, and he suspected it had everything to do with the disdain she held for him. That thinly veiled contempt she couldn't quite hide, no matter how steady she tried to keep her gaze. It was his supposed crime against Thorfinn, he guessed, that gnawed at her—what she believed he'd done, and what she'd never forgive him for.

And that, more than anything, amused Askeladd greatly. There was a certain satisfaction in knowing he could still unnerve her, make her mask slip just a little when he drew too close or held her in his gaze a moment too long. It was almost endearing, really, the way she struggled to hide it, as if she thought she could keep her disdain from reaching his notice. But he saw it clearly, and he welcomed it. In a world of feigned loyalty and guarded faces, even her scorn was a form of honesty—and one he found far more entertaining than any empty courtesy.

Her right thumb pressed into the muscle near his wrist, gliding upward with a firm, steady pressure that made him pause. It was an odd sensation, the way she traced along the length of his muscle, working her way up his arm. He'd never felt anything quite like it before—a strange mixture of discomfort and relief that left him wondering if she wasn't playing some trick on him. She called it a massage, some foreign practice she'd introduced one night after noticing Atli rubbing his sword arm in pain.

After Atli's loud boasting that her touch had left his arm feeling stronger than ever, the rest of the men had flocked to her like hungry seagulls to scraps. That was when she started demanding coin for her work—a familiar kind of selfishness, one he expected from anyone who knew how to take advantage of an opportunity. But even then, there was something about it that felt like another one of her little games.

As if the coin was just a front, a way to mask whatever her true intentions were. For all he knew, it was just another ploy—another layer to the act she wore like a second skin. And that only made him more curious to see what lay beneath it all.

"This might sting a bit," Fiadh murmured, her voice low and unhurried as her thumb dug a little deeper into the tense muscle. "But give it a moment. It'll feel better after."

There was a hint of challenge in her tone, just the slightest edge as if daring him to flinch, to admit that even he wasn't immune to a touch of discomfort. Her gaze flicked up to meet his, steady and unblinking. "Trust me," she added, with a faint curl of her lips, "you'll thank me once it's done."

It was almost as though she was speaking of more than just the ache in his arm—though, as always, she left just enough unsaid to keep him guessing.

Askeladd's grin deepened, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "Hurt a bit, you say? Well, I've survived worse than a pair of soft hands," he drawled, his tone laced with a playful challenge. "But if you're planning to make me suffer first, I'd expect nothing less from you, Fiadh. I'd almost be disappointed if you didn't."

He let his gaze linger on her, voice dropping to a low murmur. "Just don't get too gentle on me now," he added, the corner of his mouth curling into a sly smirk. "I'd hate to think you were going easy on me, even for a silver coin."

The words hung in the air between them, teasing at the edge of something unspoken, as if daring her to rise to the occasion.

He wondered if she'd answer with the same flirtation she used on the others—especially those too cautious or too wise to act on it. Bjorn came to mind, a man she'd teased with a boldness that bordered on reckless. He remembered the day Bjorn had asked for a massage, and Fiadh, with that sly glint in her eye, had hinted at just how skilled her hands could be. She'd even gone so far as to suggest he might find her talents put to better use in bed.

But Bjorn, ever the pragmatic one, had only laughed, shrugging off her audacity with the ease of a man who kept business and pleasure well apart. The matter had died there, her flirtation deflected without a second thought.

There had been one time, though, when she'd let a flirtatious remark slip in his direction, back in Yule—an accident, really. As soon as the words left her lips, he'd seen the regret flash in her eyes, as though she'd stepped too close to the fire and felt its heat.

Did she still hold that same wariness, he wondered. Would she dare to play the game, or would she fall back on that guarded composure of hers? There was only one way to find out, and for now, he'd let her decide just how far she was willing to go.

Fiadh's eyes flickered with a knowing light, and a slow smile curled at her lips, deliberate and edged with a hint of mischief. "Oh, don't worry, Askeladd," she murmured, her voice dropping to a low purr as she pressed her thumb a touch deeper into his arm. "I wouldn't dream of going easy on you. After all, if I'm going to work my hands on a man like you, I'd best make it worth his while, wouldn't you say?"

She leaned in slightly, just enough to suggest a kind of intimacy without closing the distance. "Unless, of course," she added, her tone turning silkier, "you'd rather see just how good I can really get with my hands. But I'd hate to think you're the type to back down from a little pain."

Her gaze met his, steady and unyielding, daring him to take the bait she'd laid out so neatly.

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "Careful, lass," he said, his gaze sharp, amusement dancing in his eyes. "If you're going to talk like that, you'd best be ready to back it up. I wouldn't want you making promises you can't keep."

He held her gaze, the grin never fading, daring her to keep playing along. "Or are you just hoping I'll test your limits for you?"

Fiadh's smile didn't vanish entirely, but it shifted—became something more guarded, like she'd caught the glint of a knife just before it struck. Her hands lightened their touch on his arm, as if giving herself an easy out. "Now, now," she said, voice soft but laced with a hint of irony, "no need to take my words so literally, Askeladd. I'm just here to mend sore muscles, not go proving myself."

Her eyes flicked up to meet him again, a spark of her earlier boldness returning as she added, "Besides, if I was making promises, you'd know it. I tend to be more… convincing when I want to be." She let the remark hang there, ambiguous enough to keep her distance while still holding onto a shred of wit.

She resumed the pressure on his arm, her focus returning to the task, but there was a new wariness in the set of her jaw. "But let's not get too tangled in our own words," she murmured, almost as if to herself. "I'd hate for a bit of banter to turn into something you'd regret."

Fiadh's fingers pressed back into his arm, her touch firmer now, more deliberate. She worked along the muscle with an expert rhythm, tracing out the knots with a precision that seemed almost too practiced. Her thumbs dug in deeper, finding that perfect spot that sent a shiver of relief up through his shoulder. It was the kind of pressure that bordered on pain but melted away the moment she moved on, leaving behind a wave of soothing warmth.

Askeladd's breath hitched, a low sound escaping his throat before he could swallow it back. Her lips curved, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corners. "There it is," she murmured, her voice as smooth as her hands. "Just a bit of discomfort to make the relief worth it, wouldn't you say?"

She let her fingers glide up the length of his arm, working with a care that felt almost too indulgent for someone like him, her thumb pressing in just enough to coax another sharp exhale from his lips. "Still think I'm going easy on you?" she added, her tone teasing but edged with a quiet confidence as she watched him closely, as if daring him to admit just how good it felt.

He let out a slow breath, the faintest chuckle rumbling in his chest. "You keep this up, and I might just start thinking you're trying to win me over." He tilted his head slightly, as if weighing his next words, then let his grin widen. "But if that's the game you're playing, you'll have to do better than a bit of skilled hands."

The challenge hung in the air, half-serious, half-teasing, daring her to keep pushing the limits she had so carefully set.

Fiadh's hands stilled for a moment, a flicker of something unmistakable—defiance—flashing in her eyes as she met Askeladd's gaze head-on. For a heartbeat, there was a tension between them, a silent challenge in the way she held his stare. He saw something shift in her expression then, a subtle change, like a door swinging open just enough for him to glimpse what lay beyond. It was as though she was weighing her options, coming to a decision.

Her lips curved into a slow, knowing smile as she resumed her work, her fingers pressing into his arm with a touch that felt deliberately indulgent. "Win you over?" she echoed, her voice lilting with playful defiance. "Now why would I waste my efforts on that, when I could just make you wonder what I'm really after?"

She let her words linger, her gaze steady and unflinching as she leaned back, putting a bit more distance between them without breaking eye contact. "Some mysteries," she added, her tone dropping to a soft murmur, "are best left unsolved, don't you think?"

With that, she returned her focus to his arm, her expression betraying nothing more. But the hint of amusement remained in her eyes, leaving Askeladd to wonder whether she'd just dodged his challenge—or set a new one altogether.

Askeladd's grin lingered, but his eyes sharpened, a silent acceptance. He didn't bother with a retort; there was no need. Her words had left the game open, and he was more than willing to play along. If she thought she could keep him guessing, then let her try. He welcomed the intrigue, the chase, and the promise of whatever lay hidden behind that coy smile of hers.

He settled back slightly, letting her continue with the massage, but his attention never wavered. There was an electricity in the air now, a subtle thrill.

No, this was far from over, and Askeladd couldn't wait to see how far she'd take it. He'd watch and wait, let her think she was holding the reins. But when the time came, he'd be ready to see just how well she could play the game she'd started.

Fiadh

I'll admit, I didn't expect Askeladd of all people to sidle up to me, plunking his coin down and requesting one of those massages I'd dangled in front of the men like bait on a hook. An indulgence I wielded shamelessly, milking it for every advantage I could get—and oh, did it work. They flocked to me in droves, eager for a moment's relief from sore muscles from the grueling march. In a place like this, you learned to make yourself indispensable at every turn, or else someone would make sure you weren't needed at all.

Case in point: last camp, a few of them got it in their heads to corner me when I went off to wash up after dinner. Not the brightest bunch—they didn't even bother hiding their intentions, rising from their fireside spots the moment I passed.

I led them a merry chase into the woods before scrambling up a tree, crouched in the branches, waiting. When they stumbled beneath me, three in all, I dropped down like an avenging spirit.

By the time they staggered back to camp in the early hours, it was anyone's guess whether they'd been unconscious that long or just nursing their bruised pride, trying to dull the sting before they faced the laughter that would surely greet them. Those swollen faces told the tale well enough.

And Thorfinn… well, I preferred not to think about him. The boy had been dodging me like I carried the plague, yet somehow always managed to linger nearby whenever a group of men got a little too familiar for my liking during rest stops.

He cared, at least. Or maybe he just had a habit of brooding at a distance. Either way, it was progress. A reluctant, grumpy sort of progress, but I'd take what I could get.

When Askeladd plopped himself down in front of me, flashing that sly, infuriatingly smug grin, I didn't expect him to start flirting as I worked the knots out of his arm.

The nerve. The audacity. Askeladd, flirting with me? What was this bastard's angle? What was he trying to weasel out of me, and what was he after in the end?

But that glint in his eye—like he knew I'd never take the bait—was getting under my skin. I shouldn't have let it. I knew better; he was practically begging me to fire back. Why? Who knew. The man was an enigma wrapped in a headache.

And, like the fool I was, I took the bait.

I flirted right back.

With Askeladd.

Of all people, he was the last man in the world I should be bantering with, and yet here I was, playing along. Someone should've just slapped me upside the head then and there.

As I flirted back, I racked my brain for some way to twist this exchange to my advantage. The problem? I was painfully aware that Askeladd was a fox in this game—cunning, slippery, and leagues ahead of me in the art of verbal sleight of hand. Sure, I could hold my own when it came to manipulation, but Askeladd didn't operate like the other men I'd tangled with. His game was a different breed entirely.

Which, of course, only made me want to watch him crash and burn all the more.

If Askeladd wanted to play this little game, I'd have to think a few steps ahead. Plan my moves carefully. For now, that meant pulling back and leaving things open-ended until I got a better grip on the situation.

"Let's not get too tangled in our own words," I murmured, easing the conversation away. "I'd hate for a bit of banter to turn into something you'd come to regret."

As I worked my thumbs into the sweet spot on his forearm, hitting a particularly gnarly knot, I heard a low groan slip from him. So, naturally, I couldn't resist a bit of teasing.

And, true to form, he went right back to flirting, trying to draw me in again.

Not this time, you bastard. I didn't take the bait. But I didn't shut the door on him, either. I left it just open enough for us to pick this up later, after I'd had time to think.

Because at the end of the day, Askeladd was still a man—a man with desires, and that was something I could work with.

But just how far was I willing to wade into those murky waters of Askeladd's desire…I wondered.