#IIHAH AU

[space-was-an-artistic-mistake]

Ello! I'm Cosmo, and welcome to my blog! This is a side blog to post art and Thoughts™.

☆○°•°○☆ Read First! ☆○°•°○☆

@spacewasnotagoodidea is my main blog! It is 99.9% reblogs (hence why I made this blog) so go there if you want to see me go crazy over fictional characters :>)

@space-was-an-artistic-mistake (this blog) is where I put all my art and rambles so they don't get lost in the sauce that is my main :3

@ask-the-metallics is my ask blog for my AvA OCs! There's nothing there yet (so please ask me questions). There is an intro post, though!

☆ ▪︎ Last updated 1/4/25 ▪︎ ☆

☆○°•°○☆ About Me! ☆○°•°○☆

Names: Cosmo and Tea (nicknames welcome)

Pronouns: She/They

Age: Minor (Thats all you get >:>)

My labels: Demi-Girl, Lesbian, AroAce

Other things: I get unseasonably obsessed with things, like to do art, has undiagnosed something, I'm bad at summaries and have been here for almost 3 years now!

☆○°•°○☆ Fandoms! ☆○°•°○☆

More or less from most obsessed to least obsessed: The Power of Two (and the osc in general), The Animation vs Series, The Magnus Archives/Protocol, Mouthwashing, Danny's world, Mistome Museum, Henry Stickmin, Generation Loss, Shorts Wars, Ranboo Live, Cookie Run, Slimecicle, Stardew Valley, Minecraft, Ace Attorney, Hermitcraft, Doug Doug, The Amazing Digital Circus, In ___ With Markiplier, The Stanley Parable, Welcome to Night Vale, ULTRAKILL, Dream smp.

Damn that's a lot

☆○°•°○☆ Art Stuff! ☆○°•°○☆

I'm do Art Fight every year! When that comes around, that will be my pined post. But outside of that this will be my pined post.

I am taking doodle requests (Unless stated otherwise)! I will try to get to them quickly but the Horrors™ might get to me first.

I'll do art for most of my fandoms except for the following (I'm bad/don't wanna): Shorts Wars, Cookie Run, Ace Attorney, The Amazing Digital Circus, Doug Doug, The Stanley Parable, Welcome to Night Vale, ULTRAKILL, The Mistome Museum and Dream smp.

☆○°•°○☆ Music Stuff! ☆○°•°○☆

My music taste can be split like this: 30% Indie, 35% Nerd Core, 25% Soundtracks and lyric-liss songs, 8% Japanese Songs, and 2% Sad stuff.

I also make playlists!

"Thank you" (Generation Loss)

"And I fell in love Instantly" (WTNV)

"I can't lose you, _nala" (CyberAttack (an AvA au)

A Playlist that Reminds me of Captain (In Space with Markiplier)

Una's Playlist to archive to (Oc, TMA)

Songs to mop your heart out to (for cleaning)

🟦🔹️Object Shows 🔸️🟧 (OSC)

☆ 《Songs to Disassociate to》 ☆ (gen)

☆~Songs That Make Me Feel Things~☆(gen)

🌟🎄🎁It's Christmas time baby!🎁🎄🌟 (Christmas songs)

💥Fast Pasted Jams💥 (gen)

🌉💫🪡A Few Changes?🪡💫🌉 (Post TPOT 15 Twogaty; TPOT)

A Song A Day (Updates daily)

My current Favorites!

☆○°•°○☆ AUs! ☆○°•°○☆

Way of the Wind Au (AvA) - Four fatality wounded teens wind up in front of the Wind God's temple are able to mutter out one last prayer before collapsing on it's front steps

Zombie Au (AvA) - There is a zombie apocalypse on the canvas but everything's fineeee, as long as we don't talk about Florida.

My OCs Au (AvA)- A small gang of meet a new member (and friend)

Magical Girl Au (AvA) - [I'm not to sure how to explain it but it's like kid show magical girl show. It's sweet tho] Coming soon!

Bendy and the Ink Machine Au (AvA) - Very much just "What if the BATIM characters were also AvA?" so it's simple.

Hear the Stars Wispers (Charlie Slimecicle) - Charlie's new job is doing numbers on his mental health. Maybe there was a reason this place was abandoned for a few months. (Inspired by his Voices of the Void stream)

Break the 4th Wall (AvA) - Yellow's machine didn't break; more like did something it wasn't supposed to do. Something that lead to Kaori to frantically call her husband. Today's going to be a long day. (The sticks end up in the real world and Alan was just trying to get groceries.)

Animator vs TADC (AvA) - Today hasn't been fun. First someone broke into his house. Then said person knock them out. And now he was here, in this circus place. He doesn't even know how he got there. Worst of all, he might have a concussion; he can't remember his name. (Alan in The Amazing Digital Circus)

Animators vs TADC (AvG) - Look, they were just trying to film a video and now they're stuck. They were just trying to play Minecraft and for some reason it didn't work! Why are they in a circus?? (Alan and DJ in The Amazing Digital Circus)

The Amazing Animated Circus (AvA) - "What if the TADC characters were also AvA?"

A Different Path (AvA) - I throw Alan back to like a month before chosen's creation. What will he do? (Past Alan is also there and is very confused) [Inspired by @/i3utterflyeffect's Untitled-3 Au]

Narrative Sentience (BFDI) - "Maybe making the Bfdi characters self aware wasn't the best idea" - Voice of someone who just had X put on their desk by Four.

If I Had A Nickel (No Not The Object) [TPOT & Objectified] - "If I had a nickel for every time I ended up in a zombie apocalypse I would have two nickels. With isn't a lot, but it's weird that it happened twice." Or an incredibly self-indulgent au about Two meeting Painkiller and ending up in the Rings with them and Fossil. Two does not take this serious enough.

Singularly (BFDI & OSC)- Gaty doesn't take One's deal in time and the time-line collapses in on itself. Instead of being erased or perma-killed the contestants (and hosts) wake up in an off-white void. Golf Ball and Tennis Ball try to make sense of it all when someone not from Bfdi shows up.

Conference AU(?) - Not technically an au! I put a lot of characters who would not interact normally in a white void to interact :3. I.e: All the different AU's of one person or a lot of Object Show contestants or hosts! (Singularly is based on this)

Also feel free to ask about my head-cannons! (This goes of all fandoms!)

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#Baps you cutely - Reblogs

#Space Rambles - Text posts

#Art Fight - Art Fight stuff!

#My Art - Art

#Asks - Ask responses

#Doodles - Doodles responses

#Way of the Wind AU #WotW AU - Au stuff

#Zomble AU - Au stuff

#The Metallics #AvA OCs - AvA OC stuff

#Magical Girl AU - Au stuff

#BATIMxAVA - Bendy and the Ink Machine Au

#Hear the Stars Wispers AU #HSW AU - Au stuff!

#Break the 4th Wall AU #BT4W AU - Au stuff!

#Main TADC AU - Au stuff!

#Second TADC AU - Au stuff!

#The Amazing Animated Circus AU #TAAC AU - Au Stuff!

#A Different Path AU #ADP AU - Au stuff!

#Naritive Sentience AU #NS AU - Au stuff!

#If I Had A Nickel AU #IIHAH AU - Au stuff!

#My OCs - All my OCs!

#Singularly AU - Au stuff!

#Extra Extra! - Stuff that doesn't fit under anything else.

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Fandom specific tag are the same as they are across tumblr :3

Also I try to add the tags in the tags but tumblr has a limit of 30 so that might be a problem in the future 😅

[whimsicallyreading]

“The King and his men stole a queen from her bed, and bound her in her bones-“ Colm R. McGuiness

CW- Blood, Mentions of drugs/herbs

Part Three

After an hour of slogging through the sodden forest, Rowan finally comes across a trail, and a sigh of relief escapes him.

Inland roads weren't a thing amongst the Northman. They proffered to travel through the watery canals of the Terresan fjords. The canals were treacherous, a labyrinth of water that even his Queen's best cartographers didn't quite understand. It's what made Terresan so impenetrable and the Earl Rhoe's offer so tempting.

If Aelin were conscious, perhaps he could fashion a raft and put more distance between them and Hajmel. But with her limp form still in the throes of fever, he couldn't risk it.

Sooner than he expected, the smell of smoke filled Rowan's nose, and the trail he walked on showed more signs of frequent use. It was a risk to enter an unknown Earl's territory, especially as a Saxon, but Aelin desperately needed tending and a dry place to rest. Rhoe wouldn't uphold his bargain if she died, and his Queen would not be pleased. So, it was a gamble he was going to have to make.

Rowan assures that the cloak covers her face as the trees thin into fields, and he sees a small cluster of farms. They aren't the neatly built buildings of Doranelle or the stout strongholds of Hajmel's village- just simple shacks of wood and thatched straw with animals grazing about.

"Aelin," he jostles the woman on his back. "Can you hear me?"

A small whimper sounds from his shoulder, and her fingers clench against his tunic before going slack. "I'm getting you help."

Rain begins to trickle from the skies as if the Nords sensed his presence and he was unwelcome. Aelin twitches, and he wonders if he should carry her in his arms but doesn't want to hinder his movement if he has to fight or run.

Rowan really hopes someone will sell him a horse.

He approaches the tiny hut and notes the lack of a front door. Shifting awkwardly, he knocks on the wooden frame, "Well met, is anyone home?"

Silence.

He makes to step inside but finds the end of a thin hunter's knife at his throat. Rowan freezes and raises his hands to show they are free of weapons, Aelin's weight sagging fully into the sling without his grip on her legs.

A slender brunette woman with eyes the color of grass is at the other end of the blade. Behind her, a young girl with a face full of scars cowers near a pile of animal hides. "Saxon," the guttural word falls from her lips with a growl.

"I mean no harm," Rowan says slowly, uncertain how well she was acquainted with his language. Rhoe had informed him Aelin was fluent in both, but he should have considered that the rural villagers would speak the old language. "My companion and I are only looking for a place to rest."

Clever eyes took in Aelin's cloaked form, and the blade to his neck dug a little further, drawing a bead of blood. "That is a woman. She does not look like your companion but your prisoner."

Her heavily accented voice speaks his language with a confidence that surprises Rowan. "She's been hurt. I'm looking for a safe place to tend her wounds."

"There is no safety for women in these lands." She lowers the blade and steps away from them. "You may bring her inside, but if you cause trouble, I'll feed your body to the crows."

"Evangeline," the woman beckons the cowering girl forward. "Go across the way and see if our neighbors have any spare yarrow root." The girl nods and sprints across the field, golden-red hair trailing in her wake.

She beckons for him to lay Aelin down on a pelt, but Rowan hesitates. "The girl's not going to bring armed men back with her, I hope."

"Her name is Evangeline. Use it. And no, she's not. You are a lucky man to happen across me. I've had practice tending wounds." She gives him another stern gesture, and Rowan yields.

Carefully, he maneuvers Aelin to his front, then down onto the pelt. A hiss of pain escapes her as Rowan eases her onto her stomach. There are bloody patches on the cloak where the gashes leaked through the makeshift bandages. Laying a hand on her head, Rowan feels for fever, but they are both too chilled for him to tell after spending the night outdoors. She's a ghostly pale, and he fears that maybe help came for her too late. That he had been too late.

The woman kneels next to Aelin and begins unwrapping her from the cloak. "Make yourself useful and start a fire. She needs warmth."

Silently, Rowan finds himself obeying her orders, his inner soldier clinging to the assuredness in her voice. If this woman could help Aelin, he wouldn't stand in her way. "What's your name?"

"You may call me Lysandra, and what of yours?"

Before responding, he considers the question a moment, "I am Rowan." His name meant nothing in these lands. There was no hiding the fact he was a Saxon, so he may as well use his proper name.

"And hers?" Lysandra pressed as she gathered Aelin's sodden hair and laid it over her shoulder. There was a glint in her eyes as she took in the blood and signs of malnutrition.

"Elentiya."

"That's not a Terresan name," Lysandra sets a kettle over the newly made fire and gathers clean strips of cloth.

While Rowan could hide behind his name, Aelin's was recognizable across the lands. She was a mythical figure, a minor deity to the people of Terresan, and he didn't need word of their location to travel back to Hajmel. "She was given to me as a bride. That is the new name I have gifted to her."

Lysandra's hands freeze, and she looks up at him with furrowed brows. "A new name?"

"Yes," Rowan pulled from a grain of truth. When foreigners defected to Wendlyn, it was customarily to take a new name, especially wives. He never saw a point to it, but it made for a convincing cover story to conceal her identity.

It doesn't have the desired effect as Lysandra seems to deflate, and she lays a protective hand on the back of Aelin's head. "You steal her from her people and take her name away."

"She is willing," Rowan assures, but a pang of guilt throbs in his chest. He has to remind himself that he is not the person who stole Aelin, but the one tasked to return her home.

Nonetheless, she had been stolen. It was the first time in this journey that fact sat with Rowan.

Hajmel had raided Aelin's village and taken her- away from her father, her family, from the people she was destined to lead. It wasn't just Maeve who was invested in the outcome of this mission. There was a man who'd gambled everything to a foreign enemy to see his only child brought home safely. Aelin hadn't known he was coming. She'd been prepared to die when he first saw her upon that dais with Hajmel's ax raised above her head, eyes full of living flame.

He'd lost family in his lifetime. Memories of his first wife, swelled with child, lying broken and bleeding flooded his mind. Images of his sweet mother rotting away on her death bed and cousins sent off to far-off wars never to be seen again. Rowan couldn't stop the frown as he recalled Selene's shattered face as he road away to Terresan. It's a different realm of pain to know someone you love is suffering.

Aelin had family waiting for her.

Rowan swallows thickly, and Lysandra looks down at Aelin, refusing to meet his gaze again.

When Aelin's wounds are uncovered, his stomach drops. The cauterized cuts are no longer stuck together, and the burned edges weep blood. It's a grizzly sight accompanied by the purple blooms across her broken ribs. Lysandra's hand sweeps across her skin tenderly. Poking. Inspecting. Her face is grim.

"There is an infection, but her body is still fighting. Hope is not lost. When Evangeline returns with the yarrow root, I'll make a salve. I'll start on some apple bark tea, and maybe we can give her a fighting chance."

Evangeline arrives at that moment, clutching a bushel of stems with white pail buds. "Modir, I have it."

She hands the yarrow to Lysandra, who strips the roots from the stems and hands them back. "Use those and start on making a tea, then come help me dress the wounds. It's time you practiced."

Evangeline is careful to skirt around Rowan as she follows her mother's orders, her scarred face cast down.

"Thank you for your help, Evangeline." Rowan lowers his voice to address the girl. "We are grateful for your help. The both of you."

Evangeline acknowledges him with a nod, stems clutched tightly in her hands. "Are you taking her south?"

No. "Yes," Rowan says. "To the coast of Wendlyn. Where it never snows, and it's forever summer."

The little girl nods solemnly, then, for the first time, she meets Rowan's gaze fully, and he can perfectly see the claw marks on her face. No, not claw marks. Fingernails. Her voice is sad, and she speaks soft enough so that Lysandra can't hear, "The people here are different. They aren't meant to be pretty and nice. They are supposed to be free. If you mean to be her companion, remember that."

"I shall," Rowan inclines his head in a slight bow, respecting the child's bravery.

It was an astute observation. The Northmen he'd met were rough and haggard, but they walked as if the mountain winds followed at their backs. They had the presence of wild things that while cunning, weren't quite tame.

Aelin exuded it on an entirely different level. He'd witnessed it as they escaped Hajmel's village when she tossed the torch into the oil and set her captors ablaze. It was a bold move. A violent one. But despite her injuries, Aelin had looked like a being of lore amid the battle, a flame incarnate. He'd been entranced by her.

Even now he has to shake his head to banish the memory and focus on the present. Lysandra had mashed the roots into a paste and mixed a little water into the bowl until it turned into a thick salve.

He watched Lysandra rinse the wounds with fresh water and pack them with yarrow. They discussed rewrapping them but decided the bandages wouldn't be of much use to her ribs laying down and her gashes needed to breathe. His shoddy attempt at cauterizing had at least kept them from festering.

"Is the tea ready?" Lysandra peeks over her shoulder to where the girl was filling a hollowed-out horn with hot tea.

Evangeline hands it over, and Rowan starts when Lysandra passes it to him. "Be careful. It's hot."

"What am I supposed to do with this?" Rowan looks between the horn and the sleeping Viking.

Lysandra's lips pull at the edges smugly. "You are her companion. You should have an easier time getting her to drink than I. Make sure she consumes it all. There is some powdered poppy milk in it to help with the pain."

She rises to her feet and gestures for Evangelin to follow her. "We must go tend the animals. Don't steal anything or I will have your head on a pike."

They exit through the open doorway and leave a stunned Rowan behind. The horn is smooth and hot in his fist, and the smell wafting from it is pleasantly herbal. He takes a tentative sniff, and the familiar scent of poppy hits his nose. Milk of the poppy was a potent pain killer, usually reserved for nobility in the south. It was curious that a young peasant woman would have a supply. He wasn't even sure the flower it derived from grew this far North.

Rowan glances at Aelin. Even in sleep, her face is pinched with pain. His eyes rake over her prone form, marking the abuse she'd endured, the bruised and battered flesh. She deserved relief.

It was awkward getting her situated, but he finally managed to prop her up in a sitting position with his arm wrapped loosely around the least damaged portion of her back. Her blond hair cascaded over his shoulder like dirty silk. He'd never seen a Saxon woman with hair as long as hers, and he could only imagine that it would resemble strands of spun gold when clean.

Rowan tips her head back in the crook of his elbow and raises the horn to her lips. He pours it into her mouth, some dribbling from the corners of her lips. Tucking the horn between his knees, he kneads the column of Aelin's throat softly, urging her to swallow.

"Come on, princess." He mutters, raising her head slightly. When he feels the muscles beneath his fingers contract, he smiles victoriously.

It takes a considerable amount of time to coax all of the tea into her, but Lysandra and Evangeline are still nowhere to be seen when he finishes. Aelin is now lax in his arms, her body no longer stiff with pain as the poppy milk takes effect in her body. Rowan's eyes scour her for any sign of discomfort and once again land on her long sheet of hair full of blood and filth.

That's something he can fix, Rowan decides. He scours the hut for supplies, sets a water kettle over the flames to warm, and gets to work.

~~~

Aelin fades in and out of consciousness, a blessing and a curse.

With awareness of her surroundings comes the pain. It radiated from her back, her knees from where she'd been forced to kneel for days. She knew as one knows an old friend, but never had it ever been so all-consuming. Every part of her body protested.

When her awareness left, it was like a shroud between her and her agony. It offered her reprieve, but every moment she spent sleeping, she put herself at the mercy of the Saxon.

Rowan.

He claims that her fadir sent him. That Earl Rhoe the Ironside begged at the feet of a foreign queen for her safe passage. Aelin didn't want to believe it of her stalwart sire. The man who'd become a living legend before crossing the bridge to Valhalla would never beg. But a small part of Aelin knew he would. For her.

She was his weakness.

Lochan had told her when her Modir died that it almost broke him. He'd locked himself in the great hall with her body, unable to let the woman prepare her body for the journey to the afterlife. Many tried to break him from his stupor, but it was like his soul had split into halves, and the emptiness around him was palpable.

It was only when he broke the door down and his wife, Aelin's aunt Marion, strode inside and forced her into her Fadir's arms that things changed. Lochan said that things were different the moment he laid eyes on her.

Thor struck his anvil the moment of her birth, and when she was rested against her fadir's chest, Marion said the flames burned hotter, wilder throughout the village. The people named her blessed, but he had named her beloved, and the emptiness vanished.

He hadn't raised her like a daughter. Aelin wasn't trained to be a shieldmaiden like the other girls her age. Her fadir pushed her harder and kept her close to his side. She learned with the boys and accompanied him on voyages, raids, meetings. Rhoe was preparing her to become his true successor, and their people welcomed her eagerly.

They saw the way the flames danced in her presence, the flare of gold in her eyes when lightning filled the skies. Those who didn't welcome Aelin feared her power. But no matter how wild the fires burned or how violent the skies became, she was the center of Rhoe's adoration.

His Fireheart.

And just like the seer had told her so long ago, she had become his folly.

So perhaps the Saxon wasn't lying, and that irked Aelin more. All of the work she'd done to prevent that prophecy from coming to pass was all for naught.

Aelin rose to consciousness a few more times. First to burning pain and then a deep chill as pouring rain saturated her to the bone, but this final wakening felt different than the rest.

Aelin wasn't cold. It was the first thing she noticed. She was no longer wet, and wind no longer kissed her skin. Instead, the warmth that could only come from fire encased her. It was a heavenly feeling, even with a fever.

Then she realizes that her initial observations weren't entirely accurate. Her scalp was damp, and something firm props her head up. Water pours over her—fingers card through her hair, massaging the strands from her skin down to the ends.

The pain is blissfully dull. Only a numbed ache that Aelin shoves to the back of her mind. Peeling her eyes open, she sees the Saxon's face peering at her. He is focused and serene, with green eyes as bright as the plains of Theralis. Her rescuer is handsome, Aelin appreciates for the first time. Rowan is the image of a warrior, tall, with a chin as sharp as a blade's edge and brimmed with muscle. Not even Aedion could match him in size.

Her head is resting against his thigh. The dense muscle supports her while her hair hangs back into a bowl of warm water. It's Rowan's calloused fingers washing the grime from her. Aelin leans into the warmth as another cup of water is poured over her hairline, a whine escaping her throat.

Rowan chuckles warmly. "No better than a cat."

The words aren't spoken meanly. Normally, Aelin would spit at such a comparison, but the atmosphere around her is airy. It calms her. Whatever was easing her pain was slowing her mind as well, making her docile. And she was laid out on his lap like a house cat. So maybe he wasn't far from the truth with such a comment.

He pulls the water bowl from under her head and uses a swath of cloth to ring the water from her hair. She winces as he roughs the top of her head with it, imagining the tangles it will cause.

"Are you going to braid it too, Saxon?"

"That is not something men do down south, Viking."

"It is a warrior's tradition anyway," Aelin mumbles, eyes falling shut as his fingers break up her clumps of hair.

"Am I not warrior enough of for it? I am considered a knight in my homeland, a soldier of honor."

"You are not a warrior like a Northman is a warrior." Aelin's cracked voice tries to match his unoffensive tone. "You are too restrained. A Viking is born with the song of war in their blood and a call for glory."

Rowan is quiet as he considers her words. "You speak my language very well for someone who lives so far from the south."

"Orynth is a hub of trade. Maybe people gather there who speak many languages. It doesn't hurt to know a few of them."

Aelin doesn't know why she is sharing so much with Rowan. Perhaps it is the drug, or maybe it's the fact she'd woken to him tending her. If his job was to return her to her fadir alive, then she understood why he mended her wounds. She couldn't die. But she was warm. Dry. He'd taken care to wash the remnants of her ordeal from her skin.

It meant something.

"Where are we?"

As if fate had heard her speak, a woman and child come stumbling into the hut where she lay. The woman is Viking. Beautiful in a feral way. Her brown hair is braided into careful rows and gathered into a knot at the crown of her skull. She wears simple clothes, but Aelin can see the fighting spirit writhing behind her eyes.

"You are awake? Good."

The young girl leans over Aelin and frowns. She is petit, with strawberry hair and a face more scarred than any of her fadir's men. "What did he do to your head?"

"That bad?" Aelin coughs heavily, a shooting racing up her back and stealing her breath.

Rowan sits her up slowly, and Aelin is ashamed of how much she has to rely on him to support her. A hand presses to her forehead, "She's warm."

The woman tuts, "It's good you washed her, but having wet hair won't do any good."

"I'll braid it," the girl offers eagerly. Aelin is almost intimidated by her enthusiasm.

"Good. I'll make some more tea for, Elentiya." The woman gages her reaction as she uses the name, but Aelin keeps her features schooled. "The Saxon can go collect more water for our dinner."

Rowan grunts and helps Aelin onto her stomach. The fur pelts beneath her are decadent compared to the hut they resided in, wolf and bear pelts. Not something a woman could come by easily alone.

The little girl is upon her as soon as she's settled. "I'll make it pretty. I promise."

"I'm sure you will," Aelin croaks, and the woman by the fire snorts.

~~~

When Rowan returns to the cabin, a yoke over his shoulders with a bucket of water on either side, he is pleasantly surprised.

Aelin is asleep once more beneath a pile of furs. Color is slowly starting to creep back into her cheeks, and Evangeline has gathered her hair into a single elegant braid.

Lysandra is cutting strips from a hunk of meat, the knife she'd had pointed at his throat effortlessly severing the bones and sinew. She doesn't scowl upon seeing him, which Rowan considers progress.

"She fell asleep while Evangeline was doing her hair. All of her strength is going into combating the infection. Was she wounded like that when you collected her?"

"Yes," Rowan doesn't want their host to think he was in the practice of harming women.

Lysandra purses her lips. "She won't be able to travel. Her body is in a fragile state. It could be weeks before she's strong enough for a long journey. I know you had yourself set on bringing home a bride, but you will be toting a corpse south if she isn't given adequate rest."

Rowan sighs, trying to word his response carefully. "She has family waiting for her. They are expecting to see her soon, or they may think something bad has befallen her."

"Is that not the truth?" Lysandra challenges. "Leave her here. Tell her family what happened and then return for her in the spring."

"I can't do that."

"Isn't it better she arrives late and alive than on time and dead?" Lysandra's voice raises. Evangeline peeks her head towards them, a garment in one hand and a needle in the other. But a glare from her mother has her minding her work again.

Rowan swallows his frustration and lowers his voice. "I am grateful for your help, but you don't understand what you speak of. She is strong. We will rest here long enough for her to battle the infection, and then we must be on our way.

He can tell Lysandra is biting her tongue, aggression lining her features. Rowan wonders why she is so protective of a woman she hardly knows. She was determined to remove Aelin from his care, unaware that Rowan truly had no ill intentions and was trying to save her himself.

"Then may Freya watch over your travels," Lysandra says gravely.

A mournful echoing pierces the quiet of the cabin. Three heads perk up at the sound, and Rowan recognizes it as the sound of a horn. Lysandra swears in the language of the Northmen, and Evangeline's face pails with terror.

"We are under attack."

Thank you so much for reading! I just had my wisdom teeth pulled, so this isn’t the most edited 😅 but I was tired of waiting to post

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[whimsicallyreading]

The Vikings au-

“This will never end because I want more.

Give me more.

Give me more.

Give me more.”

- Fever Ray

~~~~~

Aelin, the gods-blessed, only child of Earl Rhoe Ironside is taken captive by her father’s sworn enemy.

Sir Rowan Whitethorn has been tasked with returning her home when a bargain is struck between his Queen and the Northman.

~~~

Part One, Part Two, Part Three,

A mighty thanks to @highqueenofelfhame for the beautiful banner and @westofmoon for letting me relentlessly hash the plot out with her.

[whimsicallyreading]

“This will never end because I want more-“

CW- graphic injury, cauterization

Part Two~

Rowan breathes heavily as he continues his mad race through the unfamiliar forest. Any pursuers had long since lost their trail, but he couldn't be too careful. The men he'd seen in King Hjamel's village barely passed for human, and he couldn't allow them to catch up. His diversion's had granted them an escape from the village, but Rowan was humble enough to know he couldn't take an entire hunting party of northmen alone.

Perhaps if Aelin was at full capacity, they could survive an attack. He knew that the vikings trained their women to fight, and that Rhoe's daughter was a legend to their people. A daughter blessed by the Norns. A part of him was skeptical of a woman in battle, but the image of a battered Aelin setting those men ablaze was burned in his memory. The glow of the firelight against her blonde hair, the wildness in her eyes, she looking like a living flame personified. Rowan could see her being an asset in a fight, but for now, that wild woman laid limp and lifeless against his shoulder.

Aelin's head bounced against his back as he ran, and her arms laid loose against her sides. Blood seeped from the wounds on her back. It had already drenched through the tattered rags she wore and stained his own clothes. Her injuries needed tending too soon.

After another hour of running, Rowan finally collapses to his knees. He eases Aelin off his shoulder and rests her body on the cool earth as his lungs consume the cold air.

Aelin's face is bleached of color even in the moonlight. It had been that way since he'd first seen her. She'd been hardly dressed and left hanging in the cold autumn air, so Rowan hadn't been that surprised at her sickly appearance, but now, there was a pink flush to the arches of her cheeks.

"Shit," Rowan swears as he lays a palm against her head and heat instantly greets his frozen hand.

If he didn't act now, he would be returning a corpse to the Earl.

Rowan takes off his coat and lays it on the ground. Gently, he rolls Aelin's off her back until she's belly down on the soft material. Thankfully, he has a piece of flint in the small sack he had attached to his belt. It only takes him moments to make a pit and get a fire going.

The flames allows him better light to see as Rowan moves the halves of Aelin's shirt away from her back. Jagged lines scored the flesh on either side of the woman's spine, the gash on the left was deeper and when she shifted he could see the white's of her ribs.

Aelin wakes with a scream as he slips a finger into the wound to feel the bone.

Two of the ribs are badly split, but not severed. The best he can do for those is wrap them, the wounds themselves are the more immediate concern. Rowan knows infection has already set in from her feverish flush.

There is only one thing that can be done. One thing that could spare her life. Unsheathing a knife, Rowan lays it over the flames to heat.

Aelin grumbles and makes incoherent noises, a tremble running the course of his body. He'd faired many injuries in his life. Knew the kind of discomfort of sleeping on the hard ground, wounded and far away from home. A part of him felt bad for what he was about to do. A small part.

The greater portion of him was more concerned for his mission. His Queen's tentative deal with the Earl would be void if his daughter died. Aelin Galathynius had to make it back home for peace to be sealed with the Northmen, and Rowan would do what it takes to see it happen.

Another mumble from the viking, and flash of blue as she blinks. "Where-" a haggard coughs barks from her lungs, "Where am I?"

Rowan grimaces, it would have been better if she'd stayed sleeping. "Deep in Oakwald. We are safe for now, but we need to keep moving."

Glancing over at the blade, the metal was turning into a glowing orange.

"I-I cannot travel," Aelin rasps. "Like this."

"I know," Rowan says as he uses he carefully grasps the leather wrapped pommel. "I'm going to fix you."

Fast as an adder, Rowan removes the knife from the flames and presses it against the first gash. Skin sears, crackling in a way that made even his stomach weak. Rowan was impressed with the young woman. She didn't scream or cry. Her fingers reached out to her sides and clenched a cluster of tall grasses between her hands, breathing harshly from between her teeth.

Soon, both the cuts on her back were closed over with melted flesh. Rowan tosses the blade to the side. Looking down, Aelin is conscious, barely. Her eyes are glazed over with fever and pain, her shuddering worsened, and her palms are no longer clenched but lying loosely in the ground.

"Ow," Aelin whimpers and her eyes roll back into her head once more.

Rowan takes his water skein and rinses off her back, wiping away the layers of grit and dried blood. The land was wash with rivers and lakes, he wasn't concerned about wasting water. Easing her torso up, he removes her shirt while trying to conceal her modesty and uses the pieces to clean the rest of her body off as much as possible. The garment is thoroughly ruined when he finishes. Rowan tosses it aside in favor of wrapping her up in his cloak.

Once she is bundled in the thick material, Rowan smothers the fire. He could settle his stomach with the dried meat in his bag, Aelin wouldn't be hungry anyways, and they couldn't risk the smoke giving them away if Hjamel's men were still on their trail.

When he consumes his meager meal, Rowan makes himself comfortable on the ground. Traveling as quick as he did forced him to concede some trifle comforts like a bed roll. After several hours of running, sleep takes him mercifully fast.

~~~

Rowan wakes to the sound shuddering breaths.

He sits upright, his instantly alert. Scanning the trees around them, he sees no signs of pursers, glancing at Aelin it becomes apparent why his instincts woke him.

Aelin quakes beneath his cloak, between the fever and the bitter cold of the night she looked worse than ever. Swearing, Rowan crawls over to her side and jostles her shoulder.

"Aelin, wake up." He shakes her again, but her eyes stay shut.

"Shit," his cloak hadn't been enough to keep her warm.

One look at her wan face, he resigned himself to what had to be done. Leaning against a tree, Rowan rolls the woman onto her lap and tugs her up his torso. With her legs straddling his waist, Aelin can rest comfortably rest her head against chest without the pressure on her wounds. Wrapping his arms around her, he tries to let some of his body heat seep into her.

"Come on, princess. You don't have permission to die just yet," he tugs the cloak tighter. Rowan curls around her stiff frame to shield as much of her as possible from the elements.

A part of him is disgusted being in such close proximity to a viking, but his vows of honor and nobility shoved those down. Reputation aside, she was still a woman and he wouldn't allow her to writhe in the cold.

Aelin murmurs nonsense, but doesn't pull away. Rowan had noticed she was an avid sleep talker. Most of what she said were just strings of garbled words, sometimes in languages he didn't understand, but every now and then he would catch names. Rhoe, Aedion, and Killjian, were the most frequent.

Drawing his hood up over her head, he tires to stave off her shudders. Rowan knows he is not going to get any sleep with the fear of being hunted looming and Aelin's poor state of health. Tucking her head under his chin, he begins to softly hum an old ballad he'd once loved to pass the time.

After the first few notes, Aelin's body relaxes into him and her face burrows closer to his chest as if she were trying to hear the notes resonate within his body. Rowan stiffens with surprise, but keeps the tune lulling, breaking the quietness of the night.

That's how he spends the darkest hours, reciting what he remembers of ballads and songs quietly. Aelin never wakens, but her talking ceases as if she's hanging onto the sound of his voice instead.

Before dawn can cran its head over the horizon, Rowan breaks their camp. Laying Aelin down to check her wounds, the sight of the burned over gashes look no better or worse than they were before. Transporting her would be the hardest portion of the trip. He couldn't trek the whole journey with her thrown over his shoulder like a sack of grain, it wouldn't be comfortable for either of them.

His cloak proves the most useful item he'd brought along with him. It covers Aelin fully with an excess of cloth hanging off the bottom which he cuts with the same knife he'd held over the fire the night before. Using the fabric, he manages to fashion it into a kind of sling to hang over his shoulders. It takes careful maneuvering, but he's able to get Aelin onto his back, the bottom half of the sling holding the back of her thighs so she won't slide off.

It's not comfortable. At all. Rowan promises himself that at the next town they happen across he will use their meager money supply to purchase a horse, but for now, the sling was the best he could do.

~~~

The sun is high in the sky when Aelin finally rises to consciousness. She feels like she's floating, her feet dangling in open air. For a moment, she wonders if the Valkyrie have come to claim her soul. Maybe they were carrying her between their flying steeds, ascending her to Valhalla alongside her modir at last.

But no.

There was a hot, solid surface beneath her cheek and a blazing pain along her spine. Cracking her eyes, Aelin can see the blur of green trees passing as whatever force moved her trampled through the dense woods. Fresh air fills her lungs lacking the same stench that hung over Hjamel's village and she can feel cool leather beneath her fingertips.

A groan escapes as she moves her head and feels an awful crick in her neck. "Where am I?"

"South of Hjamel's village, east of the Flörine," a deep, accented voice rumbled from beneath her.

It's then Aelin's brain catches up with her surroundings. She is slung haphazardly on the Saxon's back. Rowan, his name was. A strip of cloth hugs beneath her thighs and supports her weight, while her arms hung limp around his neck. Aelin tries to move an arm to reach around and probe the agonizing pain in her back, but finds that it only moves a fraction before a bone-deep weariness overcomes her.

"Don't move around too much, you will break open your injury. The king did some damage, it will take time to heal," Rowan cautions from in front of her

Aelin has no choice but to lay her head back down on his shoulder as dizziness starts to wash over her. "Is it bad?"

"It's not good....but you will live," Rowan says but she can sense a lack of confidence in his words.

Aelin is no fool, she can feel the fever coursing through her body- knows from the familiar tightness of her skin that he'd had to burn the flesh. Infection was nothing to trifle with and she'd seen many men fall prey to its grasp. Death is always a possibility.

Aelin sighs, "the least you could do is try and sound convincing."

He doesn't grant her a response. Aelin wishes she could fall back asleep as the pain unconsciousness had shielded her from unfurled its wicked wings. A tight bandaged was wound around her torso to hold her bones still, but the edges of the cloth dug into her injuries. Every movement sent a jolting pain through her body and if she weren't so familiar with pain it may have debilitated her ability to reason.

They couldn't stop moving. Hjamel would not allow her to escape his grasp easily. The fact that this Saxon was willing to shoulder her burden and help her flee was enough to silence her complaints over discomfort.

Yet, it also begged the question, "Why are you doing this?"

"How do you mean?" was the tart reply she received. She'd gleaned very quickly that Rowan was not one for idle chatter, but Aelin felt she deserved some explanation.

Aelin pinches a tiny section of skin near his neck and he hisses angrily, "Why would you risk your life to free me?"

"Your father has made a bargain with my queen," Rowan jostles her slightly and the resounding cry from her back forces her to let go. "Hjamel's raids have become a problem for us, and your father pledged access into Teressen and men in exchange for your safe return."

Horror. Why would her father do such a thing? Aelin feels a horrid uneasiness settle on her shoulders. The Southermen were not to be trusted. They lusted for her kins recourses and strength, hated that their reach did not extend into the fjords that the Vikings called home. It was a fools bargain to allow them even a foothold into the homeland.

"My fadir is a smarter man then that," Aelin shook her head refusing to accept a Saxon's word. "What are your true intentions?"

Rowan huffed a laugh that made Aelin bristle, "You underestimate your father's love for you. He practically came to us on his hands and knees begging for our help. I and my cadre are fabled warriors, they are the ones who shot the arrows that cleared the way for our escape. Your father knew of our reputation and bargained for us specifically to be sent to your aid, be grateful."

"My Fadir does. not. beg." Aelin tries to squirm from his back enraged at his implications. Rowan growls as her unexpected struggling throws him off balance and they both tumble to the dirt. White streaks across her vision as she makes contact with the forest floor, but she forces herself to roll over.

Rowan's face is blank with fury as he gazes at her, "What do you think you are doing?"

Her arms tremble as she puts her weight on them and tries to get a knee under her. More than the wounds on her back, she'd been beaten and starved in Hjamel's care, she was weak. Aelin bared her teeth, it only served to fuel her rage. "You are a Saxon. Your words cannot be trusted. My fadir is a brave man, he is a legend. He would never plead to your feckless queen for aid nor would he allow his fondness for me to make him stupid."

"I am not lying," Rowan growls as he makes a grab for her but she dodges his hands. "There is no shame in a man doing what he must to rescue his child. I'm not saying this to insult him. Now stop moving, you will make your injuries worse."

Aelin shimmies over to a low hanging tree branch and tries to pull herself up by it, to her humiliation, she only makes it off of one knee before she is doubled over on the ground once more. It's then she realizes its not her tunic she wears anymore, but a man's cloak that swallows most of her body. If he'd changed her while she slept what else had he done when she hadn't been aware of herself? Aelin had allowed herself to be lulled into a false sense of security, her Modir would be ashamed at her lack of caution.

Anger fuels her strength as she heaves herself to her feet, only for that blinding pain to rear its head harder. Aelin gasps and her vision goes dark, hands stop her descent and lower her to the ground.

A rough, calloused hand grips her jaw harshly and shakes it, "Stop this." Rowan appears before her livid. "If I had wanted to harm you I would have already done so. I would not be busting my ass to carry you through this hellish woods and explaining my intentions to you."

Aelin refuses to meet his gaze and he shakes her again, ignoring her gasp of agony. "Believe what you will, but I am not lying to you. Stop acting like an errant child, and allow me to carry you, and when you are returned home you can question your father yourself."

Even if she wanted to, Aelin couldn't respond. If she opened her eyes or mouth, cries would escape and she wouldn't be humiliated further. Her hands curled into fists, nails digging into the soft flesh of her palms as she struggled not to writhe like a worm in the dirt.

"Aelin?" Rowan released her face as he realized something was not right. Fast like a hawk, he had her rolled onto her stomach and eased one of her arms from his cloak. Lifting the material from her skin, his swearing echoed through the woods. "Shit."

Hot blood welled beneath the thin bandages on her back. Aelin's lip wobbled as Rowan carelessly wrapped the cloak around her and hoisted her like an infant to his chest. "Aelin, you need to tell me if there is a village nearby? You need a healer, we can't carry on like this. Speak to me."

Rowan lurches to his feet and a tear escapes from beneath Aelin's eyelid. She cannot answer his questions as the darkness that promises relief from her suffering consumes her once more.

Thank you for reading! Leave me a comment if you would like to be removed or added from the tag list. :)

@westofmoon

@tomtenadia

@morganofthewildfire

@thestoriesyoutell

@larisssss

[whimsicallyreading]

Vikings update coming today! If you would like to be tagged, please drop your name below. 😊

I’m having trouble keeping track of who wants to be in what tag list, may have to look at just lumping them together 😅

[whimsicallyreading]

Updated!

The Vikings au-

“This will never end because I want more.

Give me more.

Give me more.

Give me more.”

- Fever Ray

~~~~~

Aelin, the gods-blessed, only child of Earl Rhoe Ironside is taken captive by her father’s sworn enemy.

Sir Rowan Whitethorn has been tasked with returning her home when a bargain is struck between his Queen and the Northman.

~~~

Part One, Part Two, Part Three,

A mighty thanks to @highqueenofelfhame for the beautiful banner and @westofmoon for letting me relentlessly hash the plot out with her.

[swankii-art-teacher]

More please...

“This will never end because I want more-“

CW- graphic injury, cauterization

Part Two~

Rowan breathes heavily as he continues his mad race through the unfamiliar forest. Any pursuers had long since lost their trail, but he couldn’t be too careful. The men he’d seen in King Hjamel’s village barely passed for human, and he couldn’t allow them to catch up. His diversion’s had granted them an escape from the village, but Rowan was humble enough to know he couldn’t take an entire hunting party of northmen alone.

Keep reading

[swankii-art-teacher]

Never saw the show... may have to try to find it and watch...

“The King and his men stole a queen from her bed, and bound her in her bones-“ Colm R. McGuiness

CW- Blood, Mentions of drugs/herbs

Part Five

After an hour of slogging through the sodden forest, Rowan finally comes across a trail, and a sigh of relief escapes him.

Inland roads weren't a thing amongst the Northman. They proffered to travel through the watery canals of the Terresan fjords. The canals were treacherous, a labyrinth of water that even his Queen's best cartographers didn't quite understand. It's what made Terresan so impenetrable and the Earl Rhoe's offer so tempting.

If Aelin were conscious, perhaps he could fashion a raft and put more distance between them and Hajmel. But with her limp form still in the throes of fever, he couldn't risk it.

Sooner than he expected, the smell of smoke filled Rowan's nose, and the trail he walked on showed more signs of frequent use. It was a risk to enter an unknown Earl's territory, especially as a Saxon, but Aelin desperately needed tending and a dry place to rest. Rhoe wouldn't uphold his bargain if she died, and his Queen would not be pleased. So, it was a gamble he was going to have to make.

Rowan assures that the cloak covers her face as the trees thin into fields, and he sees a small cluster of farms. They aren't the neatly built buildings of Doranelle or the stout strongholds of Hajmel's village- just simple shacks of wood and thatched straw with animals grazing about.

"Aelin," he jostles the woman on his back. "Can you hear me?"

A small whimper sounds from his shoulder, and her fingers clench against his tunic before going slack. "I'm getting you help."

Rain begins to trickle from the skies as if the Nords sensed his presence and he was unwelcome. Aelin twitches, and he wonders if he should carry her in his arms but doesn't want to hinder his movement if he has to fight or run.

Rowan really hopes someone will sell him a horse.

He approaches the tiny hut and notes the lack of a front door. Shifting awkwardly, he knocks on the wooden frame, "Well met, is anyone home?"

Silence.

He makes to step inside but finds the end of a thin hunter's knife at his throat. Rowan freezes and raises his hands to show they are free of weapons, Aelin's weight sagging fully into the sling without his grip on her legs.

A slender brunette woman with eyes the color of grass is at the other end of the blade. Behind her, a young girl with a face full of scars cowers near a pile of animal hides. "Saxon," the guttural word falls from her lips with a growl.

"I mean no harm," Rowan says slowly, uncertain how well she was acquainted with his language. Rhoe had informed him Aelin was fluent in both, but he should have considered that the rural villagers would speak the old language. "My companion and I are only looking for a place to rest."

Clever eyes took in Aelin's cloaked form, and the blade to his neck dug a little further, drawing a bead of blood. "That is a woman. She does not look like your companion but your prisoner."

Her heavily accented voice speaks his language with a confidence that surprises Rowan. "She's been hurt. I'm looking for a safe place to tend her wounds."

"There is no safety for women in these lands." She lowers the blade and steps away from them. "You may bring her inside, but if you cause trouble, I'll feed your body to the crows."

"Evangeline," the woman beckons the cowering girl forward. "Go across the way and see if our neighbors have any spare yarrow root." The girl nods and sprints across the field, golden-red hair trailing in her wake.

She beckons for him to lay Aelin down on a pelt, but Rowan hesitates. "The girl's not going to bring armed men back with her, I hope."

"Her name is Evangeline. Use it. And no, she's not. You are a lucky man to happen across me. I've had practice tending wounds." She gives him another stern gesture, and Rowan yields.

Carefully, he maneuvers Aelin to his front, then down onto the pelt. A hiss of pain escapes her as Rowan eases her onto her stomach. There are bloody patches on the cloak where the gashes leaked through the makeshift bandages. Laying a hand on her head, Rowan feels for fever, but they are both too chilled for him to tell after spending the night outdoors. She's a ghostly pale, and he fears that maybe help came for her too late. That he had been too late.

The woman kneels next to Aelin and begins unwrapping her from the cloak. "Make yourself useful and start a fire. She needs warmth."

Silently, Rowan finds himself obeying her orders, his inner soldier clinging to the assuredness in her voice. If this woman could help Aelin, he wouldn't stand in her way. "What's your name?"

"You may call me Lysandra, and what of yours?"

Before responding, he considers the question a moment, "I am Rowan." His name meant nothing in these lands. There was no hiding the fact he was a Saxon, so he may as well use his proper name.

"And hers?" Lysandra pressed as she gathered Aelin's sodden hair and laid it over her shoulder. There was a glint in her eyes as she took in the blood and signs of malnutrition.

"Elentiya."

"That's not a Terresan name," Lysandra sets a kettle over the newly made fire and gathers clean strips of cloth.

While Rowan could hide behind his name, Aelin's was recognizable across the lands. She was a mythical figure, a minor deity to the people of Terresan, and he didn't need word of their location to travel back to Hajmel. "She was given to me as a bride. That is the new name I have gifted to her."

Lysandra's hands freeze, and she looks up at him with furrowed brows. "A new name?"

"Yes," Rowan pulled from a grain of truth. When foreigners defected to Wendlyn, it was customarily to take a new name, especially wives. He never saw a point to it, but it made for a convincing cover story to conceal her identity.

It doesn't have the desired effect as Lysandra seems to deflate, and she lays a protective hand on the back of Aelin's head. "You steal her from her people and take her name away."

"She is willing," Rowan assures, but a pang of guilt throbs in his chest. He has to remind himself that he is not the person who stole Aelin, but the one tasked to return her home.

Nonetheless, she had been stolen. It was the first time in this journey that fact sat with Rowan.

Hajmel had raided Aelin's village and taken her- away from her father, her family, from the people she was destined to lead. It wasn't just Maeve who was invested in the outcome of this mission. There was a man who'd gambled everything to a foreign enemy to see his only child brought home safely. Aelin hadn't known he was coming. She'd been prepared to die when he first saw her upon that dais with Hajmel's ax raised above her head, eyes full of living flame.

He'd lost family in his lifetime. Memories of his first wife, swelled with child, lying broken and bleeding flooded his mind. Images of his sweet mother rotting away on her death bed and cousins sent off to far-off wars never to be seen again. Rowan couldn't stop the frown as he recalled Selene's shattered face as he road away to Terresan. It's a different realm of pain to know someone you love is suffering.

Aelin had family waiting for her.

Rowan swallows thickly, and Lysandra looks down at Aelin, refusing to meet his gaze again.

When Aelin's wounds are uncovered, his stomach drops. The cauterized cuts are no longer stuck together, and the burned edges weep blood. It's a grizzly sight accompanied by the purple blooms across her broken ribs. Lysandra's hand sweeps across her skin tenderly. Poking. Inspecting. Her face is grim.

"There is an infection, but her body is still fighting. Hope is not lost. When Evangeline returns with the yarrow root, I'll make a salve. I'll start on some apple bark tea, and maybe we can give her a fighting chance."

Evangeline arrives at that moment, clutching a bushel of stems with white pail buds. "Modir, I have it."

She hands the yarrow to Lysandra, who strips the roots from the stems and hands them back. "Use those and start on making a tea, then come help me dress the wounds. It's time you practiced."

Evangeline is careful to skirt around Rowan as she follows her mother's orders, her scarred face cast down.

"Thank you for your help, Evangeline." Rowan lowers his voice to address the girl. "We are grateful for your help. The both of you."

Evangeline acknowledges him with a nod, stems clutched tightly in her hands. "Are you taking her south?"

No. "Yes," Rowan says. "To the coast of Wendlyn. Where it never snows, and it's forever summer."

The little girl nods solemnly, then, for the first time, she meets Rowan's gaze fully, and he can perfectly see the claw marks on her face. No, not claw marks. Fingernails. Her voice is sad, and she speaks soft enough so that Lysandra can't hear, "The people here are different. They aren't meant to be pretty and nice. They are supposed to be free. If you mean to be her companion, remember that."

"I shall," Rowan inclines his head in a slight bow, respecting the child's bravery.

It was an astute observation. The Northmen he'd met were rough and haggard, but they walked as if the mountain winds followed at their backs. They had the presence of wild things that while cunning, weren't quite tame.

Aelin exuded it on an entirely different level. He'd witnessed it as they escaped Hajmel's village when she tossed the torch into the oil and set her captors ablaze. It was a bold move. A violent one. But despite her injuries, Aelin had looked like a being of lore amid the battle, a flame incarnate. He'd been entranced by her.

Even now he has to shake his head to banish the memory and focus on the present. Lysandra had mashed the roots into a paste and mixed a little water into the bowl until it turned into a thick salve.

He watched Lysandra rinse the wounds with fresh water and pack them with yarrow. They discussed rewrapping them but decided the bandages wouldn't be of much use to her ribs laying down and her gashes needed to breathe. His shoddy attempt at cauterizing had at least kept them from festering.

"Is the tea ready?" Lysandra peeks over her shoulder to where the girl was filling a hollowed-out horn with hot tea.

Evangeline hands it over, and Rowan starts when Lysandra passes it to him. "Be careful. It's hot."

"What am I supposed to do with this?" Rowan looks between the horn and the sleeping Viking.

Lysandra's lips pull at the edges smugly. "You are her companion. You should have an easier time getting her to drink than I. Make sure she consumes it all. There is some powdered poppy milk in it to help with the pain."

She rises to her feet and gestures for Evangelin to follow her. "We must go tend the animals. Don't steal anything or I will have your head on a pike."

They exit through the open doorway and leave a stunned Rowan behind. The horn is smooth and hot in his fist, and the smell wafting from it is pleasantly herbal. He takes a tentative sniff, and the familiar scent of poppy hits his nose. Milk of the poppy was a potent pain killer, usually reserved for nobility in the south. It was curious that a young peasant woman would have a supply. He wasn't even sure the flower it derived from grew this far North.

Rowan glances at Aelin. Even in sleep, her face is pinched with pain. His eyes rake over her prone form, marking the abuse she'd endured, the bruised and battered flesh. She deserved relief.

It was awkward getting her situated, but he finally managed to prop her up in a sitting position with his arm wrapped loosely around the least damaged portion of her back. Her blond hair cascaded over his shoulder like dirty silk. He'd never seen a Saxon woman with hair as long as hers, and he could only imagine that it would resemble strands of spun gold when clean.

Rowan tips her head back in the crook of his elbow and raises the horn to her lips. He pours it into her mouth, some dribbling from the corners of her lips. Tucking the horn between his knees, he kneads the column of Aelin's throat softly, urging her to swallow.

"Come on, princess." He mutters, raising her head slightly. When he feels the muscles beneath his fingers contract, he smiles victoriously.

It takes a considerable amount of time to coax all of the tea into her, but Lysandra and Evangeline are still nowhere to be seen when he finishes. Aelin is now lax in his arms, her body no longer stiff with pain as the poppy milk takes effect in her body. Rowan's eyes scour her for any sign of discomfort and once again land on her long sheet of hair full of blood and filth.

That's something he can fix, Rowan decides. He scours the hut for supplies, sets a water kettle over the flames to warm, and gets to work.

~~~

Aelin fades in and out of consciousness, a blessing and a curse.

With awareness of her surroundings comes the pain. It radiated from her back, her knees from where she'd been forced to kneel for days. She knew as one knows an old friend, but never had it ever been so all-consuming. Every part of her body protested.

When her awareness left, it was like a shroud between her and her agony. It offered her reprieve, but every moment she spent sleeping, she put herself at the mercy of the Saxon.

Rowan.

He claims that her fadir sent him. That Earl Rhoe the Ironside begged at the feet of a foreign queen for her safe passage. Aelin didn't want to believe it of her stalwart sire. The man who'd become a living legend before crossing the bridge to Valhalla would never beg. But a small part of Aelin knew he would. For her.

She was his weakness.

Lochan had told her when her Modir died that it almost broke him. He'd locked himself in the great hall with her body, unable to let the woman prepare her body for the journey to the afterlife. Many tried to break him from his stupor, but it was like his soul had split into halves, and the emptiness around him was palpable.

It was only when he broke the door down and his wife, Aelin's aunt Marion, strode inside and forced her into her Fadir's arms that things changed. Lochan said that things were different the moment he laid eyes on her.

Thor struck his anvil the moment of her birth, and when she was rested against her fadir's chest, Marion said the flames burned hotter, wilder throughout the village. The people named her blessed, but he had named her beloved, and the emptiness vanished.

He hadn't raised her like a daughter. Aelin wasn't trained to be a shieldmaiden like the other girls her age. Her fadir pushed her harder and kept her close to his side. She learned with the boys and accompanied him on voyages, raids, meetings. Rhoe was preparing her to become his true successor, and their people welcomed her eagerly.

They saw the way the flames danced in her presence, the flare of gold in her eyes when lightning filled the skies. Those who didn't welcome Aelin feared her power. But no matter how wild the fires burned or how violent the skies became, she was the center of Rhoe's adoration.

His Fireheart.

And just like the seer had told her so long ago, she had become his folly.

So perhaps the Saxon wasn't lying, and that irked Aelin more. All of the work she'd done to prevent that prophecy from coming to pass was all for naught.

Aelin rose to consciousness a few more times. First to burning pain and then a deep chill as pouring rain saturated her to the bone, but this final wakening felt different than the rest.

Aelin wasn't cold. It was the first thing she noticed. She was no longer wet, and wind no longer kissed her skin. Instead, the warmth that could only come from fire encased her. It was a heavenly feeling, even with a fever.

Then she realizes that her initial observations weren't entirely accurate. Her scalp was damp, and something firm props her head up. Water pours over her—fingers card through her hair, massaging the strands from her skin down to the ends.

The pain is blissfully dull. Only a numbed ache that Aelin shoves to the back of her mind. Peeling her eyes open, she sees the Saxon's face peering at her. He is focused and serene, with green eyes as bright as the plains of Theralis. Her rescuer is handsome, Aelin appreciates for the first time. Rowan is the image of a warrior, tall, with a chin as sharp as a blade's edge and brimmed with muscle. Not even Aedion could match him in size.

Her head is resting against his thigh. The dense muscle supports her while her hair hangs back into a bowl of warm water. It's Rowan's calloused fingers washing the grime from her. Aelin leans into the warmth as another cup of water is poured over her hairline, a whine escaping her throat.

Rowan chuckles warmly. "No better than a cat."

The words aren't spoken meanly. Normally, Aelin would spit at such a comparison, but the atmosphere around her is airy. It calms her. Whatever was easing her pain was slowing her mind as well, making her docile. And she was laid out on his lap like a house cat. So maybe he wasn't far from the truth with such a comment.

He pulls the water bowl from under her head and uses a swath of cloth to ring the water from her hair. She winces as he roughs the top of her head with it, imagining the tangles it will cause.

"Are you going to braid it too, Saxon?"

"That is not something men do down south, Viking."

"It is a warrior's tradition anyway," Aelin mumbles, eyes falling shut as his fingers break up her clumps of hair.

"Am I not warrior enough of for it? I am considered a knight in my homeland, a soldier of honor."

"You are not a warrior like a Northman is a warrior." Aelin's cracked voice tries to match his unoffensive tone. "You are too restrained. A Viking is born with the song of war in their blood and a call for glory."

Rowan is quiet as he considers her words. "You speak my language very well for someone who lives so far from the south."

"Orynth is a hub of trade. Maybe people gather there who speak many languages. It doesn't hurt to know a few of them."

Aelin doesn't know why she is sharing so much with Rowan. Perhaps it is the drug, or maybe it's the fact she'd woken to him tending her. If his job was to return her to her fadir alive, then she understood why he mended her wounds. She couldn't die. But she was warm. Dry. He'd taken care to wash the remnants of her ordeal from her skin.

It meant something.

"Where are we?"

As if fate had heard her speak, a woman and child come stumbling into the hut where she lay. The woman is Viking. Beautiful in a feral way. Her brown hair is braided into careful rows and gathered into a knot at the crown of her skull. She wears simple clothes, but Aelin can see the fighting spirit writhing behind her eyes.

"You are awake? Good."

The young girl leans over Aelin and frowns. She is petit, with strawberry hair and a face more scarred than any of her fadir's men. "What did he do to your head?"

"That bad?" Aelin coughs heavily, a shooting racing up her back and stealing her breath.

Rowan sits her up slowly, and Aelin is ashamed of how much she has to rely on him to support her. A hand presses to her forehead, "She's warm."

The woman tuts, "It's good you washed her, but having wet hair won't do any good."

"I'll braid it," the girl offers eagerly. Aelin is almost intimidated by her enthusiasm.

"Good. I'll make some more tea for, Elentiya." The woman gages her reaction as she uses the name, but Aelin keeps her features schooled. "The Saxon can go collect more water for our dinner."

Rowan grunts and helps Aelin onto her stomach. The fur pelts beneath her are decadent compared to the hut they resided in, wolf and bear pelts. Not something a woman could come by easily alone.

The little girl is upon her as soon as she's settled. "I'll make it pretty. I promise."

"I'm sure you will," Aelin croaks, and the woman by the fire snorts.

~~~

When Rowan returns to the cabin, a yoke over his shoulders with a bucket of water on either side, he is pleasantly surprised.

Aelin is asleep once more beneath a pile of furs. Color is slowly starting to creep back into her cheeks, and Evangeline has gathered her hair into a single elegant braid.

Lysandra is cutting strips from a hunk of meat, the knife she'd had pointed at his throat effortlessly severing the bones and sinew. She doesn't scowl upon seeing him, which Rowan considers progress.

"She fell asleep while Evangeline was doing her hair. All of her strength is going into combating the infection. Was she wounded like that when you collected her?"

"Yes," Rowan doesn't want their host to think he was in the practice of harming women.

Lysandra purses her lips. "She won't be able to travel. Her body is in a fragile state. It could be weeks before she's strong enough for a long journey. I know you had yourself set on bringing home a bride, but you will be toting a corpse south if she isn't given adequate rest."

Rowan sighs, trying to word his response carefully. "She has family waiting for her. They are expecting to see her soon, or they may think something bad has befallen her."

"Is that not the truth?" Lysandra challenges. "Leave her here. Tell her family what happened and then return for her in the spring."

"I can't do that."

"Isn't it better she arrives late and alive than on time and dead?" Lysandra's voice raises. Evangeline peeks her head towards them, a garment in one hand and a needle in the other. But a glare from her mother has her minding her work again.

Rowan swallows his frustration and lowers his voice. "I am grateful for your help, but you don't understand what you speak of. She is strong. We will rest here long enough for her to battle the infection, and then we must be on our way.

He can tell Lysandra is biting her tongue, aggression lining her features. Rowan wonders why she is so protective of a woman she hardly knows. She was determined to remove Aelin from his care, unaware that Rowan truly had no ill intentions and was trying to save her himself.

"Then may Freya watch over your travels," Lysandra says gravely.

A mournful echoing pierces the quiet of the cabin. Three heads perk up at the sound, and Rowan recognizes it as the sound of a horn. Lysandra swears in the language of the Northmen, and Evangeline's face pails with terror.

"We are under attack."

Thank you so much for reading! I just had my wisdom teeth pulled, so this isn’t the most edited 😅 but I was tired of waiting to post

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