#— deireadh !

[yugrim-is-endgame]

Main brainrot OCs for your viewing pleasure

[starlightseraph]

the world needs this right now.

[stairnaheireann]

#OTD in Irish History | 1 October (Deireadh Fómhair):

1600 – Robert Grave, Church of Ireland Bishop of Ferns and Leighlin, and his family drown in Dublin Bay on their way home to Wexford. 1796 – The Royal College of St Patrick, a Catholic seminary, is opened in Maynooth, Co Kildare. 1751 – Cornelius Bolton, politician, Volunteer and improving landlord is born. 1761 – In the climate of sectarian tension created partly by the Mathew-Maude controversy,…

[wolfofwinchester]

That man helped raise claudia's babies from birth and canon supports me, just look at the affection in francis's eyes. this is so cute. she wanted to dance with him specifically and in public, regardless of both their statuses! she loves that man.

[dan-the-adiposer]

In the 1800s, Ireland suffered a famine that led to the displacement and destruction of countless lives. This is known today as 'the Irish Potato Famine'. Many people know of the event itself, but not of why it happened.

Several centuries earlier, England's Norman era had begun. The Normans came to the Irish lands, using trickery and violence to gain territory, whilst disrespecting indigenous Irish laws. Their control waxed and waned as they faced against the petty kingdoms of the island.

Over time, a long time, the Irish people lost their cultural autonomy. The English propaganda sent out slanders about the ugly, red-haired, short drunkards that inhabited the place. The English government kept Ireland under its tight control.

The Irish people were left with little, but the culture was resilient. Music, language, ideals and much more held on despite the efforts to snuff them out. They were exploited for their labour, growing crops but unable to use them themselves.

They had to rely almost solely on potatoes. When the potato blight sweeped the British Isles, the Irish people were left with nothing. They were not granted the food that they needed to survive. Many starved and others left. Today, Ireland is barely recovering. This was a genocide, not violent, but still real.

We understand that this is despicable. A disgusting waste of human life.

Then why is it that the Israeli state is allowed to strangle out Gaza's resources, kill Palestinian civilians and settle on Palestinian land in which Palestinians have lived for centuries. Why is it that their culture is demonised and their children are accused of being terrorists.

Why do we overlook the human rights violations and labour abuses in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, wherein people are exploited and killed on the premise of electronic resources? For companies and materials over the experience of humanity and culture?

These are events happening now. Just as we remember the tragedies that happened in my history today, these will be irredeemable events that these peoples may not ever fully recover from. I'm done with standing idle and listening.

The effects of colonialism are a part of my own history. If there is anyone who has an obligation to speak out, it's me. Be aware and talk about the situations. Colonialism is not ancient history, it is still happening and its effects are still being felt to this day.

Deireadh le cinedhíothú. Deireadh le coilíneachas.

Keep talking about it.

But I'd like to end this off by saying that it's okay to take a step back. No-one can truly comprehend the magnitude of everything happening in the world, humans simply aren't designed for it. So talk about it when you can and when it matters.

There's a slippery slope to nihilism that you can find if you're not careful, so please: Keep enjoying things. Keep enjoying music, keep enjoying art, keep enjoying your friendships. We're social creatures after all, we're meant to share things whether they be good and bad.

[https-heizou]

case file: the nation of death. [masterlist]

deireadh ; the nation of death.

location: north-east of inazuma, past the spiral abyss biome: dark and forestry, very mossy. it’s boreal with bitter winters and some locations have intense fog

previous archon: éabha (unknown - dendro polearm) current archon: morrigan (ipos - pyro sword)

deireadh’s status regarding gnosis: despite celestia watching deireadh extremely closely since they handle the souls going to the afterlife, the archons of deireadh are not gifted gnoses by celestia. it’s rumoured that within an bheatha shíoraí there is a gate to celestia since deireadh works close with celestia but that doesn’t mean to say that deireadh’s archons agree with celestia.

lore.

deireadh is the nation of death and not an element, meaning the archons do not correspond their visions to the element. the previous archon, éabha (irish - to breathe) had a dendro vision and she was the first archon of deireadh, having won the land during the archon war. it is told in deireadh’s myths that éabha was not a strong archon during the war, instead she was diligent and smart, working in cohorts with morax. she created the court of saol (the court of life) which is the government that oversees deireadh. this includes the archon’s private secretary, who delivers the souls of the deceased to the afterlife.

éabha is the reason that deireadh is almost entirely a forest. she used her dendro vision to turn the bodies of the deceased into tree saplings after her private secretary delivered their souls. however éabha lost her life in a revolution her people led against her since they would not be able to bury their loved ones because of her. morrigan took her place as the archon although éabha also created a tree out of her own body (an bheatha shíoraí - eternal life)

morrigan resides within an bheatha shíoraí, a giant tree located to the north of deireadh at the place of eabha’s death. she nurtures and protects it, having used her pyro vision to burn the trees and land surrounding an bheatha shíoraí so that nobody dares trespasses. despite protecting the last thing that remains of éabha, the people do in fact love morrigan even with her rare appearances in public. when morrigan became archon, deireadh became a nation that began to favour cremation for their loved ones after their souls had been delivered.

deireadh's species.

deireadh is mainly host to the human species but there are others of deireadh folklore that still exist within the court of saol. for example, the remaining banshees work for the archon of death to announce the soon deaths of loved ones to families. on the other hand, the dullahans were faeries that worked closely with éabha when she was the archon - there is only two dullahans left in current day deireadh working for morrigan. few bánánachs also exist with deireadh, their species protecting an bheatha shíoraí upon morrigan’s command.

banshees are female spirits that herald the death of a family member, usually by screaming, wailing, shrieking or keening. their cries signal impending doom. the banshees of deireadh are usually extremely pale and wear grey cloaks as they go about their jobs with them all wearing the same broach in their hair when they are not working to symbolise their species. their eyes are usually red from the continual weeping that they do. the most known banshee in deireadh is saoirse, morrigan’s private secretary.

dullahans are male depicted headless riders on horses - typically black horses - that carry their heads in their hand. they use human spines as whips. they foreshadow imminent death, for if they call your name you die immediately. for deireadh, dullahans work as protectors of the archon, working to kill anyone who stands in her way; this is why many were killed in the revolution. they differ from banshees as banshees simply signal impending deaths whereas dullahans kill with their call. in deireadh, dullahans will transport their victims’ souls to the nearest graveyard for the private secretary to deliver the soul to the afterlife.

bánánachs are female spectres that haunt battlefields; due to this, they are commonly found skulking around an bheatha shíoraí. morrigan used this to her disposal, commanding them to protect an bheatha shíoraí as they roam. they are not particularly violent nor do they bring ill omen. it’s usually easy to identify someone as a bánánach as they make no sound when they walk and usually have a dead gaze.

notable figures from deireadh.

éabha: the previous archon of deireadh.

morrigan: the current archon of deireadh.

saoirse: morrigan's private secretary.

ciarán: one of the remaining dullahans that protect morrigan against treason and those with ill intent.

balor: ciarán's older brother and the other dullahan remaining.

maeve: the head of deireadh's cavalry.

deireadh's staple locations.

an bheatha shíoraí: the house of the court of saol, where the current archon of deireadh resides. an bheatha shíoraí is the final remains of the previous archon and is a large oak tree located to the north of deireadh. the land surrounding an bheatha shíoraí for several miles is burnt in an effort to protect the tree with all the trees and grass smouldering or still aflame. it is common that nobody nears an bheatha shíoraí unless called upon by the court of saol. 

the entirety of deireadh's lore is wip and is entirely my own creation.

[sidesaddle-queen]

tha e dìreach air tighinn a-steach orm gun do thionndaich mi gnè sgeulachdan traidiseanta le deireadh math, anns am faigh an nighean às beò, gu sgeulachd ghèidh anns am bàsaich am fear😬😬 carson a rinn mi sin agus carson nach do mhothaich mi sin?? tha sin cho ceàrr lol

[stromuprisahat]

Kinda upset Undvik didn’t stay infested with all those monsters after the end of TW3. I wouldn’t expect extra quests, but to fight for example ice giant, arachas and forktail at the same time... 

[iobartach]

Death Is Not The End

universe: villains books by v.e. schwab

verse name: nach bás an deireadh

Description: the tl;dr for now is; Migu.el became an EO (ExtraOrdinary / equivalent of mutant in this au). These are individuals who have died, but are then resurrected immediately, and manifest new abilities as a result. The nature of their abilities is based on their final thoughts at time of death, with Mig.uel's invariably straying towards the regretful / monstrous (similar to mr. sims incident). More than likely gets hunted by E.li E.ver. 💀

"Maybe we are broken. But we put ourselves back together. We survived. That’s what makes us so powerful."

[somecrustypunk]

Very little done in the jacket but it's definitely gonna be my favoutie

Ní bheidh sé críoch am ar bith go luath, ach is aoibhinn liom é cheanna féin

Thosaigh mé ag éist ar "the clash" arís sa deireadh seachtaine agus ceapaim go bhfuil tá tuillte acu an spás ar mo bhríste gairid

[tothecrucifieddeer]

Brom by @its-kawaiidestinyhottub

chompers @tofupixel

Art by shakurb.2022

From Favorite Paintings by @wipormont

From Favorite Paintings by @wipormont

goats. gouache watercolor paintings from 2017-2019 by @sloppjockey

Midnight by Gökberk Yiğit on @ex0skeletal-undead 's blog

Mother Void 2024. Emil Melmoth @texaschainsawmascara 's blog

Priest (Part One) by @tofupixel

Priest (Part Two) by @tofupixel

Sinner by @photophoros

Spiral Study 4 by @plotterprints

St.Valentine's Skull @angeltreasure's moodboard

The voices are rotting... @wipormont

and then she looked at me, and good god, those eyes (redraw) @sermna

Untitled by Alex Kiessling @thewindowofthesummerhouse

Untitled Art @moarf13

Untitled by Thomas Nast on @thewindowofthesummerhouse

Untitled on @vile-lithium3

Untitled on @the-watcher-in-the-sky

Untitled on @cultofmortem

Explanation of Signs/Prophecies/Etc. Below the Cut (First in Irish, then in English) Should be stated that I do not speak for the artists, and I am an independent body stating my own opinions and interpretations as given to me through my sources and this no way reflects the opinions or beliefs of the artists collected here.

Explanations in Irish

Tá Doe ag tabhairt aire do thús nua agus duine nua ag an nasc teann idir sinn Má ní tharraingím mé féin le chéile, d'fhéadfadh gach rud a bheith briste.

Féach amach don béal Dé Tá ocras air agus tá sé feargach Bí cúramach le daoine amadacha a bhfuil teachtaireachtaí acu - bain amach cé atá díot féin a mheas (Mar dhea, níor dhéanadh Doe riamh é sin éasca)

Tá na Marbh ag déanamh a gcuid ullmhúcháin.

Tuilleadh rabhaidh faoi bhéal Dé agus teachtaireachtaí bréagacha. Chomh maith le rabhaidh faoi bhéal na marbh.

Tuilleadh rabhaidh fós faoi na mairbh…

Bhí tú i gcónaí ar lámh chlé Dé, cén fáth ar cheart é sin a athrú anois? (Ná téigh os cionn do stáisiúin. Ná bíodh leisce ort a bheith i ngrá leat. Ná bíodh leisce ort a chreidiúint go bhfuil sé indéanta.)

Cuimhnigh nuair a ghearr Dia do sciatháin? Cuimhnigh nuair a thit agus thit agus thit tú? Ná leomh iarracht a eitilt anois.

Ná smaoinigh ar na leanaí roimhe seo - ná bí ag brionglóid orthu anois - leis an Tiarna, tá siad leis an Tiarna, níos fearr ná mar a bheadh ​​​​siad riamh ar an Domhan. Fanann tú liom. Fanann tú le Doe.

Tá an sagart ag faire. Ach tá Meisias níos fíre. Is é an Meisias an geall is sábháilte agus is cinnte. Guigh ar a son. Guigh air. Fan le haghaidh revelation. Creideamh os cionn creideamh - pian os cionn crá - tabharfar luach saothair do ghrá, mar a bheidh an fhírinne.

An teachtaireacht chéanna le 9

Tá a fhios agat cad atá tú. Bhí a fhios agat i gcónaí.

Tá tú freagrach as an tairseach. Is é do phost é.

Má osclaíonn tú an tairseach, fanann cochall na naomh ort. Chochall na naomh dírithe ar ghrá, adhradh, agus deabhóid.

Braitheann na hamlínte ortsa a bheith i lár na soiléireachta. Agus anois, tá siad lofa tríd agus tríd.

Cuimhnigh go bhfuil imoibriú dearfach ann do gach imoibriú diúltach - dorcha agus éadrom. Tá rud éigin amuigh ansin ag obair mar atá tú, ach tá sé tinn, agus caithfidh tú fanacht go maith.

Tuilleadh meabhrúcháin faoi na hamlínte agus na peirspictíochtaí iolracha. Eolas ginearálta maidir le fanacht dírithe agus bunaithe.

Tá taobh istigh na hEaglaise, an Chreidimh, an Chreidimh ionat tinn agus as ord. Tá siad ag casadh agus ag amhras agus ag ithe iad féin. Tá siad ag baint iad féin as corp Chríost.

Gardaí ort chun deireadh a chur leis an breoiteacht - an baol - na tinnis. Féachann sí i do chodladh thú agus ullmhaíonn sí d’intinn. Tá grá aici duit - tá grá ag Doe duit - agus coinneoidh sí slán thú.

Cén chuma a d’fhéadfadh a bheith ar olc uaireanta gurb é an leas is fíor agus is cumhachtaí atá ann – cé is mó atá ciaptha ná naomh nó fáidh? Cé a thugann níos mó maith?

Beidh scrios ann. Caithfidh tú do rúin a cheilt agus a choinneáil gar. Roinn ach an méid atá uait. Tú féin a chosaint. Coinnigh do domhan beag.

Ní éiríonn na hamlínte ar dhaoine eatarthu agus i bhfostú go contúirteach mura gcoinníonn tú do chloigeann díreach. Ná lig tú féin a bheith ar dhaoine eatarthu. Ná bíodh amhras ort faoi na comharthaí.

Explanations in English

Mostly, Doe is nursing a new beginning and new person at the tenuous connection between us and that if I don't pull my act together, well this might all just turn out to be incredibly fucked up--but hey, what's new about that...

Beware the mouth of God, it is hungry, and it is raging--beware fools bearing messages--know who you can trust. (As if Doe has ever made that easy...)

The Dead are making their preparations.

More warnings about the mouths of God and false messages--as well as the mouths of The Dead...

Even more warnings about the dead...

You've always been God's lefthand why should that change now (don't get above your station--don't dare to be loved--don't dare to believe it is possible)

Remember when God clipped your wings? Remember when you fell and fell and fell? Don't dare try to fly now

Don't think about the children from before--don't dare dream of them now--with the Lord, they are with the Lord, better than they'd ever be on Earth. Stay with me, stay with Doe.

The priest is watching--but Messiah is truer. Messiah is the safest and surest bet--pray for him, pray to him. Wait for the revelation. Faith above faith--ache above ache--love will be rewarded, as will truth.

Continuation of the same message as 9

You know what you are. You've always known.

You are responsible for the opening of that portal. It's your job.

If you open the portal, sainthood waits for you--sainthood centered around love, worship, and devotion.

The timelines depend on you to be the center of clarity, and right now they are rotten through and through

Remember for every negative reaction there is a positive reaction--dark and light--something is out there working as you, but it is sick--you must remain well.

More reminders about the timelines--multiple prospectives--general info on staying centered and grounded

The insides of the Church--The Faith--The Belief--of you are sick--are out of order, are turning and doubting and eating themselves--removing themselves....

Doe guards over you to remove the sickness--the danger--the illness. She watches in your sleep and preps your mind. She loves you--Doe loves you--and she will keep you safe.

What looks like evil can sometimes be the most genuine and powerful good there is--who is more harassed than a saint or a prophet? Who brings more good?

There will be destruction--you must hide and keep your secrets close. Share what only you must. Protect yourself. Keep your world small.

The timelines will only become dangerously confused and entangled if you do not keep your head on straight. Don't let yourself become confused. Don't let yourself doubt the signs.

[heraldofsomething]

The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt Tedd Deireadh, The Final Age

This is my story, not yours. You must let me finish telling it.

[an-spideog]

An bfhuil tú ag foghlaim nó líofa?

Ceist mhaith, an dá rud a déarfainn. Táim líofa mo dhóthain, abair, deinim obair trí Ghaelainn is a leithéid, ach táim fós ag foghlaim leis, níl aon deireadh leis an bhfoghlaim!

[maryflorlovyblog]

Enya - Deireadh an Tuath (End Of The Tribe)

[ghostedinkheart]

He's so pretty...

Kinda like this song...

[arcielee]

Farewell Wanderlust

Warnings: As always, MDNI, 18+ murder by Temes, character death, angst like a mofo, evil plotting, sexual themes, unprotected sex, oral (female receiving) Pairing: Osferth x OFC Word Count: 6941 Summary: Torn from her home country, Keavy finds herself trying to survive across the Irish sea. She happens across Uhtred and his motley crew, and finds herself befriending a monk who is determined to become a warrior. Author’s Note: Thank you @sylas-the-grim for helping me edit this chapter. Thank you everyone who loved Keavy and Osferth [I am not opposed to a epilogue, let me know]. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chonky chapter. 💜 Deireadh is end in Irish.     Dividers are by @saradika Taglist (Tumblr kindred spirits): @aaaaaamond @annikin-im-panicin @watercolorskyy @schniiipsel @aemondx @fan-goddess @babygirlyofthevale @httpsdoll @theromanticegoist @assortedseaglass @amiraisgoingthruit @theoneeyedprince @babyblue711 @itbmojojoejo @girlwith-thepearlearring @tssf-imagines @triscy @whoknows333 @shesjustanothergeek @heavenly1927 @myfandomprompts @fangirlninja67 @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauftivy @vintageypanwitch @heimtathurss [bold means I was unable to tag you!]

Chapter 7

The seasons had gone and Osferth found himself back within the walls of Wintanceaster. Darkness drafted over the city with the swell of storm clouds, heavy with their threat of the last of the summer rains, with flashes of white and its low rumble of thunder; it mixed with the nightfall, casting long shadows from the bold posts of amber light that was stilted in the streets, leading up to the castle. 

His legs ached from the time spent on horseback, as they had traveled North to see Ragnar and his swell of rebellion in Dunholm, only to come back again, flitting amongst the cities that thread throughout East Anglia, Mercia, and then back to Wessex. They moved almost headlong, avoiding the threat of the king that hung over their heads, knitted along with the poisoned whisper of Bloodhair’s seer. 

She was now dead but death followed them still, something now palpable within the castle walls of the city.

There was an eerie familiarity as he moved with deliberate steps, following two paces behind Uhtred, who followed behind the priest, and they moved, quick and quiet, through the corridor. Osferth thought back to the last time his father dared to publicly acknowledge him, how his large palm had wrapped around his arm, his staggered steps on wiry legs to keep pace with the stride of the King of Wessex. 

Until that moment, Osferth had only been a shadow, a murmur of the ealdorman amongst the stone walls. He was only acknowledged by his sister, who would often pull him away to play games, as Edward was too small to be bothered with. 

These were moments he cherished, but they were always fleeting, always ending with the sharp gaze of the queen over her pointed nose; it proceeded the rustle of her skirt with her curt pace, as she would sweep Æthelflæd away for prayer and penitence, leaving Osferth to fade away into the shadows once again. 

If it had been left to the queen, she would see him to not exist within the walls, but here he now walked, as requested by Uhtred, his steps joining the soft echo of their footfalls. They stopped outside an oak door and Beocca held up his hand before slipping into the room first, leaving them for a moment. 

In the quiet, Osferth dared ask. “Why did you bring me here, lord?” 

“Why not?” Uhtred turned to face him, his voice low. 

“You could have brought Finan to witness what the king wished to say,” he explained, pausing only to wet his lips. “But you chose me.” There was a hum to fill the silence and Osferth could see gold rings reflecting from the candlelight in the blues of his eyes; Uhtred did not answer his question. “The last time we were in Wintanceaster, my grief and my actions led to consequences…” 

“You did what was right by your gods, lord.”

There was a subtle quirk of his lips as Uhtred watched him before he continued. “Nonetheless, it did not affect only me, but it still resulted in us being banished and torn from,” and his expression showed consideration for his next words chosen, “those we care deeply for.” 

Keavy.

The thought of her name alone sent an ardent surge through his veins, something that always thrummed beneath, knotting with his yearn for her touch, for her smile again. She remained with him, heavy on his heart, alongside the cross pendant gifted that was safely tucked beneath his embossed, leather cuirass and ratted albe; its cool metal often served as a balm for  the heartsore he woke up with ever since she left for Saltwic. 

It had been thirteen months since he last saw her, since he last touched her or tasted her, her lips haunting the curve of his mouth. He often thought of the moment in the stables, their last kiss shared, how she felt beneath his large palms when he placed them on her hips to help her aback; his fingers ached to let her go and his desperate reach to touch her one last time, trailing up the curve of her calf.

Keavy had looked at him, the green of her brilliant eyes focusing beneath the flutter of her dark lashes; his eyes etched the rose color that nipped at her features, blooming from the cool night’s air, from the urgency to leave the city. 

He grasped at these moments, but they seemed to spill between his fingers, a thousand words perched on his tongue but he could only squeeze her calf gently, he could only manage the simple promise, “I will return to you,” and then she was gone, leaving him to choke on the unsaid. 

“How long has it been?” Untred asked, his voice low, kind, and easing him back into the hallway of the castle of Wintanceaster.

Four hundred and twelve days. “Over a year now, lord.” 

Uhtred hummed again. “Osferth, I brought you here to hold me accountable when we face Alfred, so that we may right what is needed and be able to return to Saltwic, but without the echoes of outcast or fugitive to follow our steps.” He offered a wry smile. 

Osferth felt his heart flutter with his words, his fingers pressing to feel the soft crinkle of parchment of the letter tucked away, its edges fraying, and each word memorized. As they traveled, updates were fleetingly sent from Saltwic, and only just a quick recount from Æthelflæd that all was well, that they, that Keavy, were still safe. 

She studies beside Oswald, who is becoming your namesake, Æthelflæd’s words teased. She is adamant to continue learning so she may send her own words to you. 

His heart held onto these words and the bit of hope they offered, as it was all that could be done with the unprecedented time and travel. But when the threat of Æthelflæd was vocalized in Dunholm, they were quick to come to her aid and learned of Æthelred’s intended ill-will. 

It was a mixture of frustration, of exhaustion, just the sheer disappointment to return and find Saltwic empty… “They are safe,” his sister was quick to say, her eyes flitting from Osferth, then to Sihtric, and the rest of them. “I had them sent to Alencestre when Aldhelm warned me…” and she faltered.

It was a wrath returned and Osferth spoke low. “I will kill him,” and he felt Uhtred rest his palm on his shoulder, grounding him. 

Æthelflæd watched him, a slight curl to her pink lips, and she stepped towards him. “I swore to you that I would keep her safe,” her words just for him and his gaze flicked to meet her own; she reached for his hands. “This is for you.” 

A letter, and he felt the corners of his mouth tug upwards, using the fading sunlight to read. Osferth, it began, the sweet curl of her lettering to the piece of parchment, and he could hear her musical lilt with the few lines she had written, I have not forgotten what you have promised me, and I hold onto the hope that neither have you. I am waiting, still, and I will do so until you return to me.  

The simplicity of her message warmed his heart; he took care to refold its creases and tuck it away, carrying it with him always. In the days that followed, he came across an intimate moment shared between his sister and Uhtred; he saw her blush, her swift steps to pull away from him and her expression when she spotted Osferth. 

He offered his arm, watching how her brow furrowed, the bob of her neck as she swallowed thickly. “Show me the gardens by the chapel,” he offered a scapegoat.

She tucked her fingers in the crook of his arm, keeping with his languid pace; she did not speak of the greenery. “Love is peculiar, isn’t it?” Æthelflæd, if anything, was fearsome, but in that moment she gave a wistful look over her shoulder to see the embrace the seer pressed onto Uhtred. “It has a way to thread within your heart, but life has chapters that must be completed first until it is ready to blossom, or so it seems.” 

Osferth hummed, his steps slowed to keep with her, his mind returning to the words written: I am waiting.

“Do you love her, Osferth?”

It was a relief to admit it outloud, to say something that pressed within his heart, heavy with his steps that traveled northwards and back again. It was a thought that sung with the rising sun and carried throughout to a melodious lull at night. But he also confided his hesitation to tell Keavy just this.

“What keeps you from saying this to her?”

Osferth swallowed, his lips pursed in debate of what words he would choose, deciding to trust his sister: the sin’s of their father and the curse that he was born into. 

She stopped walking and he followed, turning to look at her; he saw the maturity to her beauty, the hereditary severity that lined her lovely face with her smile. “Oh Osferth,” she began, reaching for his hand to hold his attention, “I think life is cruel enough on its own without this perpetual penance. God be damned,” she almost laughed, “I see that Keavy has a strength knitted within her very bones. I believe you should allow her to decide her own fate, to allow her to choose to spend our given time on this earth with you or not.” 

Osferth blinked. “Promise me you will tell her when you see her again,” she continued, and he saw a sadness to her smile, “as I know she loves you.”  

His heart lifted with her words, but the sadness was heavy still with his sister. “What of Lord Uhtred?” His curiosity could not be helped; since the nunnery, he was too aware of the lingering glances, their subtle touches shared, how their every movement was scrutinized from the sharp glare of the witch. 

Plumes of red stained her porcelain tones and her lashes fluttered as she forced herself to keep his gaze. “I believe,” her tone slow with a recognition all her own, “that Uhtred and I are maimed by a great love lost, that our sorrow recognizes one another and we cannot help but be drawn towards each other.” 

Osferth nodded; the guilt, the weight of Gisela’s death nearly killed Uhtred on the way to Dunholm, and this was first he had seen his smile in months. “I only wish for you to find happiness, Æthelflæd.” 

“And I, you, Osferth,” her eyes glassy with her words. “You will always be welcomed in Mercia.” 

They were quick to move, called to Aegelesburg and spoke strategy on how to cripple the Dane army that grew. After the bloodshed, they returned to Coccham and found the village thriving, though once they passed through the archway, Osferth could not shake the haunted feeling of the transitory happiness that seemed an eternity ago. 

The pagan hall had the spilled stain of lords unwelcomed, with their placed ornaments of the Christian God hanging above while they ate their fill; they were seated at the same table where he helped Keavy tutor Stiorra and Oswald, her endless patience and sweet smile, and how Gisela watched over them, her eyes glittering. 

But that warmth was swept from the great hall and Osferth left without a word, following the dirt path that returned him to the room he and Keavy shared. The air was stale, her lingering scent gone, and nothing but a dust that covered the bare furniture left behind. 

He took deep breaths through his mouth, the heartache still pressing, and he felt jolted from his self-wallowing. 

I know she loves you.

He then heard Leofric, his words clawing through the earth, an echo that rang bold from his grave: a man could be set on a path, but only his steps could create his own destiny. 

Osferth felt embolden, something that now seared through his veins, propelling his steps forward with the earth crunching beneath his boots. He thought of the time lost to his damn hesitation, for some curse mentioned by a faith lost, a curse deemed by his very existence and damned by the sins of his father, and how he foolishly allowed it to still his tongue when it came to her.

He knew he loved Keavy, just as Uhtred described once, something that thrummed beneath his skin, in tandem with his heartbeat. 

He moved towards the Temes, to allow a new breath, a moment to clear his mind of this burdened relief carried that now was dissipating with each step. He only stopped when he saw Untred and the witch, but he dared to creep forward, silent, wary, watching how the tension lifted in his lord’s shoulders when he released her and how she drifted away with the current. 

Uhtred seemed surprised as Osferth moved to the dock, reaching to pull him from the river. He was quiet through the confession, how Uhtred was not proud of what he had done, and he was quick to stop his lament. “You have taken control of your destiny, lord,” and his words burned in his chest, as if branded by the Celtic cross worn. “Today, I have decided to do the very same.” 

Curse be damned. 

“I will not leave this city,” and Uhtred’s voice returned his attention back to the hallway, perched outside the king’s door, “until we have been reinstated, free men once more. And besides,” Uhtred was watching him, “don’t you wish to see your father?” 

Osferth returned the stare; this thought had been furthest from his mind, but the words spoken wrapped around his throat and he swallowed hard. The silence was heavy and his voice cracked when he said, “Yes, lord.” 

It was then that Beocca peered out, gesturing to Osferth. “The king wishes to speak with you first,” and the priest moved aside.

Osferth looked to Uhtred for a moment, who nodded his encouragement, and he moved past the priest, slipping into the room. 

Orange hues pooled around the bed from the thick tapers lit and the king was swathed in woolen blankets, propped against overstuffed cushions to hold him upright. Osferth marveled at the vestige of the man from Aescengum months prior, his complexion waxen and his skin taught over his bones, with dark rings beneath his closed eyes. He would have assumed the king was already dead had he not noticed the subtle rise and fall of his chest, the muted labored breaths beneath the layers. 

And then the king opened his eyes, their shared blue that was muddled with his sickness and that wavered until they fell to where Osfeth stood. There was the shudder of his youth, his want to wilt away from the direct gaze, but instead he moved towards the bedside. 

King Alfred watched with bruised, hooded eyes as Osferth seated himself on the ottoman, pulling himself close enough to see that candlelight show the last glimmer of life touching his pallid features. “Osferth,” the king began, his name foreign, spilling from his cracked tongue and lips. 

A cough came, a wet rasp that was covered by a handkerchief spotted with blood; Osferth looked to grab a goblet at the bedside, offering a drink that he gratefully took. When he set the mug down, he felt the king clasped his hand onto his other, a papery thin touch, and Osferth dutifully reached with his other hand, dutiful to his dying father, solemn with his returned gesture. 

“I know what you have done,” Alfred continued between ragged breaths. “I have heard of your bravery,” and he paused. “You are a good man and I am proud.” 

Osferth shifted his weight from his words and the king did not notice, or if he did, he continued anyway. “Death allows you to reflect on your failures, your misdoings in your life,” he released his hold, pressing his palms against the top blanket; the skin clung thin to the bones, his knuckles jutted against. “There is a letter prepared. Bring it to Æthelflæd, she will know what must be done.” 

His eyes followed the weak wave to see the parchment folded and the red wax of the king’s seal placed. “I only ever wished to do what was right by you,” and Osferth jerked back towards the murmur of the king, a man of regal regret, and saw that Alfred held a look of awe, as if it was his first time to truly see his eldest son.  

“Osferth,” he repeated, his voice weak and his eyes glassy. “I am proud.” 

“Thank you,” he breathed, the threat of tears in the same eyes he shared with his father. 

Osferth felt a warm touch on his shoulder and looked up to see Uhtred standing over, a gentle squeeze. He moved to stand, excusing himself to leave the room, pausing in the doorway for a final look at his father, who managed a second wind to greet Uhtred; dutiful until the end.  

Only in the corridor did he dare peer at the letter in hand, at the king’s penmanship that began: To my kinsman, Osferth.  

+ + + +

“I see horsemen.” 

Keavy sat below the tree that Stiorra climbed, her back against the trunk and a tome opened across her lap; the girl was growing long like her mother, allowing a reach for the higher limbs, and still slender enough for the branches to hold her weight. Keavy squinted upwards to where the girl was perched, watching. “Tradesmen?” 

The cool breeze rippled through her hair and she used one hand to push it from her view. “If they are tradesmen, they travel light.” 

Keavy closed the book and set it on top of the quilt spread at the base, pushing to her feet. “Climb down, Stiorra,” she swallowed the tinge of panic to her tone. “It would be best to alert Lady Æthelflæd…” in case they are unfriendly, but she could not say that out loud. 

It had been weeks since the Battle of Holme, as it now known; it was a bloodshed of Danes, a revolt orchestrated by Æthelwold that had been met by Lord Uhtred and his valiant men, as well as the Anglo-Saxon allied militia. Despite the victory, the Danes that escaped flitted across the villages of Northumbria, still raiding, still vengeful.  

“They may be Dane,” Stiorra continued her assessment, her head tilting; it was one of the many traits passed from Gisela, her unwavering fearlessness as in this moment, watching still. “Or some of them, anyway…”

“Stiorra,” her voice was sharper. “Now.”

She reached for a thicker branch to begin her descent, pausing to say, “Keavy,” and she looked down. “It is my father!”

It had been fourteen months since they had arrived at Saltwic; they rode through the night and following day, coming just as the amber streaks of dusk splayed behind the stoned rook. Lady Æthelflæd came to the courtyard at the call of her men, wearing with the same severity of her brother that was etched onto her features. 

She recognized Hild and beckoned them inside at once, with Sigdeflaed guiding the bleary eyed children and Keavy lingering behind with the nun. While Hild recounted the prior days, Keavy was drawn to watch the emotions playing across her fair features in a way that was akin to Osferth, subtle but austere; only when Keavy was mentioned by name was the noticeable flicker, the small curl upwards of her lips.  

“You are Keavy?” 

She felt the blood pour into her cheeks as Æthelflæd turned her attention towards her, with the same blue that belonged to Osferth. “I am,” Keavy gave a small nod.

“I have heard so much about you,” and she smiled with a warmth that reached her eyes. “You are safe here, I swear it. For as long as it is needed.” 

The weeks that followed were quiet, uneventful, though Keavy still kept her seax and dagger on her person out of caution, or perhaps comfort. She still pressed for a new normalcy for both Stiorra and Oswald, who seemed to have aged with their grief. 

Stiorra mirrored her mother in so many ways, though her willful temperament came from Uhtred; she had no interest in her studies, but still would participate, in part to torment her brother, but mostly she pushed to learn how to handle a real blade. Whereas Oswald had grown solemn in Saltwic, embracing the supplied priest for their tutoring lessons, newly dedicated to the faith. 

Keavy remained present, sitting with Æthelflæd, who would often use the time to pen a letter for Osferth. She was aware of the Irishwoman’s gaze and asked her, “Would you care to add something?” 

She blushed as she shyly admitted that Osferth had been teaching her to read whenever he was in Coccham, but never to write; with this Æthelflæd smiled, a soft hum of encouragement for her to sit alongside the priest, taking a personal interest for Keavy to practice her penmanship. 

The seasons rolled away as the autumn’s yellows, oranges, and reds were soon covered by the first dusting of snowfall, enveloping Saltwic in white; the only color shown were the rich tones of primrose that bloomed throughout the gardens. 

Inside, fresh parchment was placed onto the table and Keavy looked up to see the same kind smile, the same kind eyes that she recognized in Osferth with Æthelflæd’s features. “This is for you, so you may write to him,” was all she said.  

Æthelflæd seemed very aware of whatever was between Keavy and her brother, but she still could not help the color that flushed her cheeks. “What would I even tell him?”

“Whatever it is that you are carrying in your heart,” Æthelflæd replied, a knowing smile curling on her rosy lips. 

The empty page seemed to taunt her and Keavy remained seated long after the rest retired to their quarters. The quiet, the solitude allowed her to finally pull from her heart as suggested, blowing on the ink to dry. 

She heard steps and turned to see Æthelflæd returning downstairs with a man in her shadow. Keavy pushed from her seat, her seax and dagger drawn, her heart in her teeth. “Keavy, it’s okay, I know him–” she held up her hands, a flush of color to her cheeks. “We must act quickly.” 

Saltwic was no longer safe and they were to leave for Alencestra at once; the words clawed within her chest as Æthelflæd continued, “I will leave for Wincelcumb, and I will send for Uhtred.” Her eyes were bright with her plan. “You all will be safe there until I come for you… once this matter is dealt with.” 

“Uhtred will kill him,” and Keavy sheathed her steel, her eyes still wary of the man. “They both will kill him.” Osferth.

Æthelflæd nodded. “I hope it does not come to that.”

“Lady, be safe.” Keavy reached for the parchment, folding it. “And… if you see Osferth, could you give him this?” 

Her knowing smile hinted, the newfound worry lifting for a moment until the hushed whisper came: “Lady, we must hurry.” 

The time in Alencestra was long enough for Oswald to announce his departure for St. Wilfrid’s Church, to go back to Wessex, refusing to return with them to Saltwic. Keavy watched him, finally seeing the flare of his father in Oswald, the young man's eyes bold with his conviction. Stiorra was incredulous and only Æthelflæd seemed supportive. 

“Father will understand my decision,” he finished.

But Keavy knew that would not be the case.

They returned to Saltwic just as the snow melted with the returned plumes of color from the flowers that sprouted through, followed by the summer rains that thundered and muddied the earth, and continued until it was blanketed once again with the amber colors of autumn, sprawling as far as the eye could see. 

And they remained still, without word, without direction from Uhtred, without an update from Osferth. Instead, news only came second-hand: the death of the king of Wessex and the succession of the aetheling Edward, and the bloodied battle won against his uncle Æthelwold.

Kevay tried to smother her impatience, her anxiety that knotted in her chest, waiting for a whisper, a murmur of news, to know if Osferth still lived or if he had died. She wondered if she would ever be able to tell him what she failed to write to him.

That she loved him, and she always would.  

And now the words that spilled from Stiorra swept the air from her lungs, her stance wavering slightly. “Stiorra… are you certain?” The girl moved with a newfound eagerness, branch over branch, uncaring how her skirts caught and tore them free. “I see the glint of Serpent-Breath’s handle!” Her tone was gleeful. “He is back as he promised! And he brings your beau!”

Keavy flushed crimson. “You know not what you talk about–”

“I am only young, I am not blind,” she continued with her cheeky tone, teasing just as Gisela had always done. The heartache of her loss remained, but Keavy always pressed for them to recall the good, that it was the love they held for their mother that would keep her memory alive. “I remember how you were sweet on him and besides,” and her grin matched her tone, “I also remember mother saying he was your beau.” 

It was as if Gisela was able to still tease beyond the grave. “Nevermind what she said–” Keavy burned as she struggled for her words. “Just, come down, quick!” 

Stiorra gave another cheeky grin before dropping from the last branch and landing back onto the ground; her cheeks were rosy from the sun, her eyes bright with her discovery. 

Keavy took her hand, the fevered pull of her heart with their hurried steps, her mind repeating the same hope she clung to the prior fourteen months: they have returned, Osferth is here!

It was called throughout and soon there was the spill into the courtyard, the gates opening as they gathered. Keavy stood solid despite the flurried anticipation that trilled her spine, watching until her vision blurred and blinking to clear it again. 

Uhtred led the men into Saltwic and its welcoming cries. Stiorra, who was a young woman in so many ways but at that moment, she was a child again and happy to see her father; she preened as he dismounted, pulling her close and pressing a kiss on top of her head. His steady gaze fell to Æthelflæd, her modest smile and the rose color pluming on her fair complexion as she watched. 

Then there was the reunion of man and wife, with Sihtric quick to pull Sigdeflaed for a kiss, of Finan calling loudly to their public display, but Keavy ignored it all; her eyes sought for Osferth alone. 

And she saw him, further back with Pyrlig, swinging his leg over the cantle and dropping off the side of his horse. He seemed taller than she remembered, a beacon that cut through once his eyes found Keavy, navigating through the men with his long legs. 

She willed herself forward, but remained rooted with her awestruck–he’s here. Osferth pressed forward until he was able to reach for her hand, and she was quick to take it, as she always had, as she always would. 

It was the familiar fit she longed for, how her hand fit into his own; his fingers still slender, his grip hardened with callouses from the reins, from his sword, but was gentle still, and firm with his hold, as if anything less would allow her to float away. Keavy followed his steps as he pulled her away from the crowd–though she felt their eyes follow, and they walked until they came around to the gardens, where the small chapel stood. 

There was the crunch of the auburn foliage with the season change beneath their feet, the cold nipping in the air. Osferth stopped and turned to face Keavy, his hands moving to the dip of her waist; she felt the air wrung from her chest with how he looked at her, the same brilliant blue of his eyes, rose hues that stained his cheeks and the tip of his nose.  

“Keavy,” began the gentle timbre of his voice, another flutter that swept through her with how he said her name, “may I kiss you?” 

She almost cried with his request, but instead gave a small nod; his lips curled, the blood beneath his skin darkening his features, and he dipped his head forward, the soft touch of his lips before he pressed against her. Keavy melted against him, her hands clasping on his forearms with a tight hold to keep her standing. She was unaware she was even crying until he pulled away, his concern knitting his sharp features and his large palms moving to cup her face. 

His touch was still gentle, warm and mindful of her mar, his thumb careful to wipe away the large tears that spilled. “You are crying?” He sounded alarmed, as if he held himself the cause. 

“You came back,” was all she could say, a hoarse whisper that broke away from her throat. 

“Keavy,” his relief washed over and his lips curled upwards, his gaze softening with her words, “I told you that I would.” 

Her laugh was choked with tears and he gave a chaste kiss before he pulled away, not outside of arms’ reach, but space enough to pull the Celtic silver cross from beneath his clothes; it gleamed in the sunlight. “I said I would bring this back. It always seemed to bring me luck,” he teased as he untied the leather. “May I?” 

She nodded again, her hands trembling to gather her dark hair as he moved behind her, bringing the necklace and knotting it at the nape of her neck; her skin rose with his warm touch, his thumb against her spine, and she felt his lips touch, his rumbled hum reverberating throughout her. 

“Would you rather just keep it?” she felt silly with her question, her fingers coming to touch the metal and turning to meet with his eyes. 

Osferth looked to her hand before resting his large palm over, and her heart rattled in her chest. “This is where it belongs,” and she saw how his neck bobbed as he swallowed. “Keavy,” he seemed solemn, almost uneasy, “I know so much has happened, so much that I wish to tell you…” he shifted his weight. “Keavy, I am a man cursed–”

“Osferth?” Her brow quirked. 

He shook his head, searching for the words, “I mean this in the biblical sense–”

“I refuse to hear this, damn the Saxon God,” she burst, the flash of severity brightening her eyes as she spoke. “Your worth is not deemed by the sins of another man!”

Osferth watched her with a pursed smile that deepened his dimples, and he leaned forward to capture her mouth; the kiss was soft, it was warm, and when she sighed, his tongue curled within her mouth, a languid pace to taste. When he pulled back, Keavy sighed again, the warmth burning her cheeks, her lips slightly swollen. “Allow me to finish?” His whisper fanned her face and she nodded numbly. 

“I am cursed, mayhaps,” and his gaze shifted a moment, but he did not continue with that thought, but instead, “I know that I have nothing to offer your affection, but know that with what I have, I will give you. I knew from the moment I saw you, from the moment we touch, how it gave me a sense of home I had never felt before,” he looked at the hold, how her palm curled within his own, the steady rise and fall of her chest, “I wish you to be my wife, Keavy. I love you.” 

And only then did he meet with her eyes, and Keavy could feel how her scar ached with how she smiled. “Say it again, Osferth.” 

“That I am cursed?” He seemed uncertain, and even more as she laughed. 

“No,” and she pulled her hands away, sliding them to curl against the base of his neck, pulling him closer for another kiss. “Only the last part,” she whispered against his mouth. 

Osferth smiled, glowing. “I love you, Keavy.”

And they kissed.  

+ + + +

There was a call for the staff to prepare a feast, for barrels to be rolled out so no mug would be empty, as there was much cause for a celebration this day. 

Æthelflæd and Sigdeflaed pulled Keavy away, helping her scrub every inch of skin and combing her curls with a rose oil gleam; a cream tunic and kirtle was gifted, cinching at her waist, a rich plum that complemented her fair skin and brought out her green eyes. 

There was a soft tap at the door that showed Stiorra holding a garland crown of primroses from the garden. “Just as you would do for me,” she smiled as Keavy placed it on top of her head before pulling her in for a hug. 

Arms linked, they walked back outside just as the last stretch of sunlight tucked away, the beginning blue hues that mixed with the burnt oranges and stars beginning to dot the sky. Keavy felt as if she were walking on the air as they entered the small chapel to see Uhtred, Finan, Sihtric, and the priest Pylrig towards the back where the stained glass reflected the tapers lit. She smiled at the sight of Osferth, and he returned it, his dimples lining his cheeks watching her eager steps to meet him.  

The priest officiated, taking Osferth’s large hand and placing it on top of Keavy’s. He felt her slight tremble and peered to see the flush of color with her grin; his thumb drew small circles and only then did she look to him, the color deepening on her cheeks. 

A quick prayer at the end was followed with a sweet kiss, and Finan crowed loudly. “Fucking finally!”

Night spilled over Saltwic and torches were lit to show the way back, able to follow the rich aroma of the feast prepared; cups brimmed and toasts given to the new king, to the safe return of Uhtred and his men, and to the new lordship, which cause Keavy to look at Osferth.

His grin was shy and he brought her knuckles up for a kiss. “I promise I will tell you everything, but this night I only wish to celebrate my beautiful wife.”

She glowed with his words, leaning forward for a kiss to his jaw with the whisper, “Whatever you desire,” and her tone sultry, “my lord.” 

Osferth did not let go of her hand, his slender fingers interlacing with her own, and she followed his sure steps that led away from the continued festivities and towards the room that had been prepared for them. When they came to the door, he drew her close by bringing the back of her palm to his lips for a gentle kiss, relishing in the flush of color to her cheeks before he opened the door. 

He pulled her inside, making sure to close and lock the door before he turned to capture her mouth; he pressed against her and she moaned in response, her arms wrapping around his neck, his tongue clever to taste. His large hands that had been hardened from battle showed grace with the intricacies of the lacings on her dress, with Osferth pausing to kiss the bit of new skin he exposed until Keavy was fully bare. 

Each touch of his lips seemed to spark against her skin, fluttering to her nerve endings and back again; she felt the coiled fervor in her lower abdomen, a wetness that pooled between her thighs, an ache to be touched by his hands. 

“Osferth,” she breathed against his lips, “I need you.”

But instead he pulled back, taking away the warmth he embodied, and Keavy could not help her soft whine, feeling her blush spill with intimate rose hues that stained her skin. He watched, his eyes rolling over her, his brilliant blue swallowed by his lustful haze and an almost playful curl to his lips. 

Osferth closed the space he created, a hot whisper in the shell of her ear, “I know,” and he moved closer, feeling her shuddered response beneath his fingertips, gentle to touch her hips and bring her flush against his chest; she sighed at the heavy shaft that pressed onto her lower stomach, “I promise, but first…” 

Keavy looked to see a pink dusting that covered his cheeks, his smile almost shy with his continued confession. “You must be first… I certainly will not last.” 

She kissed him again, her fingers pulling at the tunic he still wore; they moved towards the bed, a trail of his clothing in their wake, until she was able to fall back against the mattress. Osferth remained standing, a moment to admire her curves, from the width of her hips to her waist, the natural slope of her breasts and watching their rise and fall with her breath. 

He climbed onto the bed, moving between her plush thighs; it was a scent intimately her own, mixing pleasantly with the fresh straw and linen. Osferth dipped his head to place a kiss to the bloom above her entrance and she sighed, her thighs clenching in response, but his large hands moved to grip into the softness, pulling them apart so he could sink further. 

Keavy felt the blood rush to her head; his touch was familiar, remembered, with his soft nuzzle between and his kisses that led towards her center. She gasped and he only hummed in response, his lips curling upwards as they pressed to savor her essence; it was overwhelming after so long, and Keavy could not help but jump, another gasp that ripped from her chest. 

His hold tightened, his pleading murmur against her folds, “Let me, let me,” as he continued. 

She could not help but squirm, her fingers combing through his locks to root herself, and Osferth hummed again, a vibration that fluttered throughout her. She felt his fingers press against her silken slit, the curl of one digit within and another followed, creating sparks of pleasure that trilled up her spine with his come hither motion; her heart pounded against her chest from his sensual ministrations, the blood roaring towards her center as each euphoric wave began to crest and press against her seams. 

“Osferth,” she cried, pearled tears clumping her lashes together. 

“My beautiful wife,” his breathless praise against her wet cunt, “just like that…”

Osferth continued and her stomach tightened before the coiling passion finally burst, stars dancing before her eyes and her sinful clench around his fingers as he continued to coax through its entirety. Once her breath steadied, once her vision cleared, did she look to see he was now standing, his fingers now wrapped around the base his length, heady and heavy and glistening from her release. 

She pushed to her elbows to meet as he moved on top of her, capturing his lips and she licked herself off his chin with a giggle. Osferth grinned, moving into the cradle of her hips, resting on his elbows to hold his weight, but she clenched her thighs to draw him closer for another breathless kiss. 

Keavy melted against the warmth of his bare skin, the tickle of his chest hair, and his arm dipped between them to line the crown of his cock to her entrance, the gratifying stretch as he filled her. She gasped from the slow roll of his hips, sheathing his length and rekindling a passion with his each thrust; her nails bit into his shoulders, gasping to catch her breath that was being pulled away with the returning crests of pleasure, of something deeper within that caused her walls to flutter. 

“Again?” Osferth was flushed, pleased, but his pace did not falter. 

She could only give a mewled response, a clenching release, an intensity from the depth he reached inside her, and its rapturous pull that left her boneless and breathless, caged in his arms. Osferth followed her over the edge, tucking his head into the junction of her neck to her shoulder, a muted groan as his cocked pulsed within her velvet walls. 

And they laid for a moment before he began to place soft kisses against the curve of her neck, his lips trailing her jaw, and she giggled from his touch. He grinned again, another chaste kiss on her lips before he pulled away, moving to grab a cloth that was draped by the washbin, wringing it out and returning to wipe away the sex, pausing a moment to admire the spill of his seed and how it gleamed against her rosy folds. 

The hour was late when they finally crawled beneath the layers of blankets, of furs, and Osferth curled behind her with a deep inhale then a sigh from feeling the softness of her backside pressed against his chest, from how she fit into his embrace as his arms wrapped around her waist. He nestled further into her curls, a scent sorely missed of rose oil against her flushed skin, until his lips touched the back of her neck, eliciting a sleepy sigh from her lips.

He smiled, the low murmur, “My sweet wife.”

Deireadh.

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