#Saxon End roll

[no-reference-georg]

2/2

1/2

[evilkitten3]

ah the resident old man

of 45

[zonebirdie]

This is the End Roll video ever

[akuma-tenshi]

some new end roll posting for that one mutual who sent me an ask requesting more several months ago

spoilers + gory sprites under the cut (it's really just one post lmao)

[tomriddleslove]

What’s left of me?

✩Mattheo Riddle x Reader

Summary: The one where your pursuit for excellence leads you down a path of self destruction, and you’re slowly loosing yourself. You didn’t expect a certain boy in your year would be your saving grace. Alternatively: Mattheo makes you realise you’re more than what you think you are.

A/N: I guess this could very easily be like a prequel to the other mattheo one shot ‘i’m here’. This is definitely a bit self indulgent but we all have our things 😻😻

Warnings: Allusions to overdosing (brief), mentions of not eating.

Songs: Nothings New - Rio Romeo

18 days.

18 days till you would be finished with all of this.

Technically, it would actually be 408 days till you finished school and graduated from this godforsaken place, but 18 more till you finished with exams.

You weren’t sure how many more hours you could spend hunched over indecipherable handwriting, pouring over text till your eyes stung and your back ached. Surrounded by a stack of books and rolls of parchment, you couldn’t even begin to figure out where you ended and the library began. You had taken up a huge table (that could seat at least 4) for the better part of 17 hours, sat on the same chair since 6:00 am.

You stifle a small groan of pain as you roll your wrist, stiff and sore from the hell that was ancient runes.

There are ink splotches all over your skin, and you’re sure the amount of work you were pouring into this stopped being effective nearly 5 hours ago.

Your eyes flicker up and scan over the once-packed library that had slowly dwindled down to a few students, half of whom were in the same boat as you.

To you, being the last person in the library was a huge sign of success. It meant you were more dedicated and more hard-working.

In reality, the truth couldn’t be any further from that, but in your mind, if you weren’t milking yourself over every last piece of work it simply wasn’t being done right.

The hushed murmurs and sounds of parchment being unfurled fade into the background as your quill scratches furiously against the parchment, mind running at a million miles an hour.

You ignore the pang in your stomach as you work; you haven’t eaten today. You didn’t want to get up at any point to get food, for fear of your place being taken.

Now, you didn’t want to get up for another reason. It was well past the library's open hours and Madame Pince was angrily fussing about, bustling around everyone as she got them to leave. A testament to how long you had been there, she didn’t even seem to notice you, and you were worried getting up and walking about would break this sort of invisibility shield you had going on.

Come to think of it, you hadn’t really drunk any water either. You brought your bottle with you but had forgotten to fill it up. It was fine though, the human body could last for 3 days without water - it could wait. Your upcoming exams were far more important.

In Scandinavia, the Elder Futhark remained in use until some time around the eighth century (the time of the Eddas), when drastic changes in the Old Norse language occurred, and corresponding changes in the runic alphabet were made to accommodate the new sounds. However, unlike the Anglo-Saxon Futhorc, the Younger Futhark (as it is now called) reduced the number of runes from 24 to 16, and several runes came to represent multiple sounds. The forms of the runes were also changed and simplified.

Gods, you couldn't take this anymore. You felt sick and exhausted. You ignore the hunger that gnaws at your stomach, rubbing a hand over your face as you contemplate finishing off and going to bed.

But every time you think of stopping a horrible feeling emerges in your stomach, consuming you with anxiety. The weight of impending exams and the fear of not doing well gnawing at your determination. You glance at the clock, realizing it's well past midnight, and the library is now completely empty except for you.

Madame Pince, finally noticing your presence, approaches with a disapproving look. "You know, the library does close at a certain hour. I can't have students staying here all night," she scolds, but her tone softens as she sees the exhaustion in your eyes.

“Sorry. I lost track of time” You mumble, haphazardly cramming your stuff into your bag. You get up, and the room spins for a second. You stumble but manage to catch yourself, holding onto the table as Madam Pince reaches out a hand to help you recover.

“You need to take care of yourself. No exam is worth this much stress,” She says, eyeing you with concern. If only she knew how far that was from the truth. You felt as though you had so little to your name. Performing well, overachieing. That was what you were known for. It was the only thing you felt was yours. Everyone else had character, they were distinctly themselves. They had hobbies, interests, and friendships that defined them. But for you, it was always about excelling academically. Without that, you became nobody. You were no more than the number on your papers, and the reminder weighed down on you like an unrelenting burden.

By some miracle you manage to stumble down the empty halls of the castle into the Slytherin common room, which seemed paradoxically warm considering its grandiose stone structure and dark, moody lighting. You carelessly drop your bag onto a table closest to the fireplace, trudging up to your room as you battle the sleep that threatens to consume you.

It's dark, and your roommates have long gone to bed.

“Lumos” You murmur, hiding the blinding light that emerges from the tip of your wand with the lining of your school robes, dimming it slightly. You grope blindly at your bedside drawer, stopping when you feel the familiar smooth glass bottle, that fits perfectly in your palm. You slip it into the pocket of your robes, slowly shutting the drawer as you make your way back down to the common room. You dismiss the light that shines from your wand, tossing it onto the sofa as you take a seat on the floor, in front of the low table. You read the instructions on the back of the small bottle as if you hadn’t been consuming this religiously for the past month.

Wideye potion User Guidance:

Take no more than one teaspoon every 6 hours. Effects will last for up to 8 hours. Excessive use of this potion may lead to adverse effects, and in rare cases, severe bodily harm. Users are advised not to use the maximum dosage for a consecutive 72 hours.

You’ve read it so many times, you were sure you could recite it by heart. Choosing not to heed any warnings, you pop open the cork and down the whole bottle in one go. The rancid taste of the potion burns, eliciting a shudder down your spine as you swallow down the bile that threatens to emerge. Pocketing the empty glass bottle, you stretch your arms before retrieving your books, ready to continue working.

If you were lucky, the potion might give you a boost of energy for about 3 hours or so. You had been taking it so much you had developed a sort of immunity to it, and the effects were not as potent as they used to be. The sacrifice of your well-being for the sake of productivity had become a routine, a desperate attempt to squeeze every ounce of time and focus out of your exhausted mind and body.

You have attempted to brew a stronger concoction, in the misplaced hopes that increasing the potency would counteract the effect of the immunity. However, the violent cramps and palpitations it had given you very quickly told you that wouldn't work.

You knew it was bad. It was causing irreversible damage to your body, killing you at worst. It simply wasn't sustainable. But you couldn't drag yourself out of that mindset.

Failure. Nobody.

You gritted your teeth and carried on working.

You managed to get through another potions essay, and the time on your watch read 1:00 am.

You could carry on for longer, right?

You zone out for a second, staring off at the orange embers that emerged from the fireplace, shining bright for what seemed like a millisecond before falling to the floor, turning into nothing but ash.

The orange embers flicker, and for a moment, you see yourself in them – a fleeting brightness that threatens to be extinguished. The battle between ambition and self-preservation rages on as you grit your teeth and carry on working, oblivious to the embers slowly falling into nothingness, much like your own fading sense of self.

“Why on earth are you up at this hour doing work?” A voice calls from behind you, and the momentary intrusion shocks you, sending a burst of energy through you as you spin around.

Flopping down onto the sofa next to you, leaning back with his legs lazily outstretched, was none other than Mattheo Riddle. Clad in a plain grey sweatshirt and black jeans, he eyes you with curiosity, smelling distinctively of smoke. He had most likely been out, as he so usually was at this hour. You shrug, turning back to your work.

“Exams. Need to revise” You mumble, voice cracking. You swallow, massaging your dry throat as you grimace, trying to get back to your writing.

“Revise? Merlin, you're the smartest person in our year. You don't need to be revising” Matthep leans forward, plucking a piece of parchment from your pile and examining it with a raised eyebrow.

You snatch it back, a protective instinct kicking in despite the fatigue. You hated that sentiment. Despised it, even. People always assumed your performance came naturally. That you were simply born with the ability to do well. No one seemed to consider what you had to do to get to that point, how you wore yourself down, day in and day out, till you either passed out from exhaustion or pain, neglecting your most basic needs.

"I might be the 'smartest' person, but that doesn't mean I can afford to slack off," you reply, a hint of frustration in your voice. The adrenaline from the sudden interruption starts to ebb away, leaving you feeling even more drained.

Mattheo leans back, momentarily caught off guard by your defensiveness. He had never seen you this on edge. He was so accustomed to seeing you as this familiar presence during the school day his partner for the many lessons that he didn’t have his friends in. The two of you would work together and on rare occasions, hang out with one another in the common room as well. It was a rather unlikely duo, the king of Slytherin and the academic prodigy. Yet, More often than not Mattheo found himself seeking out your presence. He never admitted it outright, but he hugely admired you. Your intelligence, your drive, it all captivated him. There were times when he hoped he could be only half the person you were.

How funny it was, for you felt the very same thing when you saw him. He seemed content. Happy. He was loved by nearly everyone. Popular, with a fun social life. He had everything you wanted without putting in any of the work.

You wanted to be like him. But you weren’t. And if you wanted anything like what he had, you had to work damn hard for it. So that's what you did. With a small sigh, you turn back to your work.

“Hey,” He says gently, his voice softening slightly. "I’m sorry. I say stupid things sometimes.” He apologies, brows furrowed as he looks at your back facing him.

“It's fine. I should be saying sorry. You didn't say anything, I just…. I’m just a bit tired, that's all.” You mumble, apologising as you get up. You stretch, a yawn escaping your lips as you wearily rub your eyes.

“I'm gonna run up to my room and grab some more parchment. I’ll be down in a second,” You say, shrugging off your school robe as you turn to walk away. You ascend the stairs leading to your dorm, tossing your robe onto the sofa next to Mattheo as you do so.

Your robe slides off the sofa and hits the floor, a faint clinking sound echoing through the empty room as you disappear.

Curious, Mattheo looks down at your carelessly discarded robe. He reaches down, picking it up. It weighs heavier than it should be, and Mattheo can't help but feel a twinge of curiosity, He eyes the now empty staircase before reaching into your pocket, fingers brushing against a smooth glass vial.

Not just one, but a few.

Frowning, he turns out your pocket, and four identical glass vials tumble into his lap. Picking one up, his frown only deepens as he reads the label.

“Wideye potion?” He mutters to himself, the confusion on his face morphing into something else as the pieces fit in place.

He had admired you for your intelligence and drive, and now he was confronted with the reality of your struggles. The contrast between your achievements and the seemingly carefree moments he sought with you becomes stark. He berates himself for not having noticed early, for having let you fall down such a destructive path.

Jaw clenched, he gazes at the piles of books you had been working through, rolling the empty vials between his fingers as the sound of your approaching footsteps snaps him out of his thoughts.

You pause in confusion, noticing the scrutinising depression plastered on his face as he looks up at you, rolls of parchment bundled in your hands.

"What's the Wideye potion for?" Mattheo questions, his voice cutting through the silence with an uncomfortable heaviness. He holds up the empty vials as evidence, his gaze piercing through the exhaustion in your eyes.

Caught off guard by the confrontation, you glance down at the vials and then meet Mattheo's eyes. A brief moment of silence hangs in the air, the crackling embers of the fireplace filling the empty silence.

“Research. For uh, potions.” You respond, internally berating yourself for coming up with such a weak excuse.

Mattheo's expression remains stern, a mix of frustration and genuine concern etched on his face.

"Don't bullshit me," he says, his tone direct and uncompromising. "I found these in your pocket, and 'potions research' is a shit excuse. I’m going to ask you again. What’s the wideye potion for?"

You shift uncomfortably, feeling small under his scrutinising gaze You clear your throat, speaking.

"It's just to stay awake, you know? To keep going. I only take it in extreme circumstances" you explain, your voice betraying the exhaustion that has settled in.

Mattheos jaw clenches, his tongue poking the inside of his cheek as he looks to the side with a sigh, visibly frustrated.

“Extreme? And what would that be, hmm? Because right now I'm looking at four empty bottles, and God knows how many more you’ve thrown away.” He snaps, his expression softening as he looks at you.

You feel a lump forming in your throat as you struggle to find the right words. Why on earth were you close to tears? Why did you feel like crying?

“I-” You start, trailing off as you stare at the floor.

Mattheo cuts through the silence, his tone still stern but laced with concern. "This isn't okay. You're smart, and you know better. You can't keep doing this to yourself. What if something happens? What if you collapse or get seriously sick? It's not worth it."

After a moment, Mattheo's expression softens, and he exhales deeply. "When was the last time you ate?" he asks, the concern evident in his voice.

Shit.

You pause, hesitating before admitting quietly, "Breakfast...yesterday."

Mattheo's features tighten at your admission, his eyes reflecting a mixture of frustration, anger, and genuine worry. He rises from his seat and strides towards you, his footsteps echoing in the otherwise silent room.

"Yesterday? Are you serious?" he says sharply, his voice carrying a weight of both concern and disbelief.

You remain silent, unable to meet his eyes, feeling the shame and vulnerability washing over you.

“Seriously? Fuck, what’s wrong with you? Why would you do that to yourself?” He chastises you, and you snap.

“I have to! You don't fucking get it, do you? I don't have anything else to fall back on.” You start, dropping the parchment onto the table in front of you.

Mattheo's expression shifts from concern to confusion as you lash out. "What are you talking about? You have plenty more than just academics. You're talented, you're smart, and people care about you. Why are you reducing yourself to just grades?"

You scoff, a bitter smile playing on your lips. "Talented? Smart? What does that even mean? It's just a facade, a cover-up for the fact that without these achievements, I'm nothing. I don't have friends; I don't have hobbies or interests. What am I without my grades?"

Mattheo tries to interject, "You're a person with-"

But you cut him off, "No, you don't get it! I'm just a number, a ranking, a test score. Everything I am is tied to how well I perform academically. Do you know what it's like to feel like the only thing you're good at is studying, and even that's slipping away?" You snap anger evident in your tone as you spin around to face him, your weary eyes meeting his.

“It’s the same thing every single day. I wake up, bury myself in books, and push myself to the brink just to feel like I matter. I don't eat, I don't sleep, I don't talk to anyone. I’ve spent my whole life isolating myself and neglecting my most basic needs for this! If I stop now, then what's left of me?”

Tears start to well up in your eyes, and you hate yourself for showing such vulnerability. Mattheo's stern demeanour softens as he watches you unravel.

"I can't stop, Mattheo. I can't afford to. Because if I do, what's left of me?" Your voice trembles.

Mattheo's heart drops at your words, guilt and hurt clawing at his insides. He can’t fathom the idea of you suffering so much, and him being blind to it. How could you not notice how incredible of a person you are beyond all of this? He’d give anything in the world for you to see yourself through his eyes. For you to feel the way he feels when he's with you, even for a second. To know that he’d do anything you asked him to because he cared for you. Not the one who gets outstanding on all their tests.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Mattheo finally speaks, his voice softer, genuine concern written across his face.

You shake your head, a mix of frustration and desperation in your eyes. “Because you wouldn’t understand. No one does. They just see the grades, the perfect student. They don’t see the mess behind it all. And I can’t let them. I can’t let anyone see me like this.”

Mattheo moves closer, his expression shifting. “You’re wrong. I do understand. Maybe not completely, but I want to. You don’t have to face this alone.”

You scoff, wiping away a tear. “Why? What do you care? You have everything, popularity, friends, a life. I’m just the study partner, the smart one. I can’t burden you with this.”

Mattheo remains silent for a second, before he speaks.

“Every other Sunday, you go down to Hogsmesde and buy a hamper of sweets form Honeydukes. You take it to the children’s school and volunteer there for an hour. Everytime you visit, you make their day.” He starts.

"You're not just grades," he says, his voice gentle. "You have quirks that make you who you are. Like the way you absentmindedly tap your foot when you're deep in thought. Or how you always carry a small notebook, and I bet it's filled with more than just class notes. I've seen you doodle in the margins."

He continues, "You have a wicked sense of humor, even if you don't show it to everyone. I've heard you snort-laugh during our study sessions. And don't even get me started on your taste in music.How you call that dastardly jazz music, i’ll never understand, but you can’t resist humming along to the tunes of the Wizarding Wireless Network when you're studying. Your fondness for Chocolate Frogs and your inexplicable aversion to pumpkin juice.”

Mattheo's eyes light up, a small smile tugging at his lips as he recalls more details. "Remember that time in Charms class when you made your quill dance across the room just to see if you could do it? Or when you brewed a prank potion that turned the water in the Prefects' bathroom blue for a week? You have a mischievous side that not many people get to see." He continues, looking down at you sincerely. He remains silent for a second, eyes scanning over your face before he steps back, sighing.

“I don’t know how to do this emotional, sappy bullshit. I don’t do it. But with you, I do. I want to. Other people want to. That’s what you do.” He says, voice quiet.

You remain rooted to your spot, somewhere between disbelief and gratitude as you stare up at Mattheo. How did he know all that? Why did he know all that?

“You noticed?” You speak up, voice alarmingly quiet.

He looks at you as though you’ve just asked him whether the sky is blue.

“Of course i’ve noticed. It’s impossible not to.” He murmurs, and you know he’s being honest.

Tears prick in your eyes again, and it’s as though all that exhaustion and neglect has come crashing back down on you tenfold after Mattheo had called you out. You try blink them away but alas, you simply couldn’t. Before you can even say anything, Mattheo steps forward, pulling you into his chest as he wraps his arms around you in a tight embrace. He holds you tightly, not even entertaining the thought of letting go as your tears soak his sweatshirt, tentatively accepting his embrace. His heart clenches at every tear that falls from your eyes, and he can’t tell if he’s horrified or accepting of the fact that he’d give up everything to relieve you of your burdens, even if only for a day.

He rubs your back soothingly, and you can’t help but let it all out.

It’s rather cathartic, really, because you've held onto this weight for so long, and now, in Mattheo's arms, it feels like a moment of release.

As your tears eventually subside, you pull back, both embarrassed and utterly shattered. You look down, sniffling as you wipe away your tear stained eyes when Mattheo hooks a finger under your chin, tilting your head up to look at him.

People often said that the eyes were a window to the soul. You never really understood that, but in this moment, you felt as though you were gazing into the very depths of Mattheos being.

With a tenderness that betrays the boundaries of ‘just friends’ , he wipes away your tears with his thumb, looking down at you.

“Come on. Let’s get you up to rest, yeah?” He hums, quietly. You nod, having to tear yourself away from his touch.

He leans down to pack away your stuff, not letting you handle a thing as he throws your stuff over his shoulder.

“You can stay in my room, if you’d like. Theodore’s out for the night so I can take his bed.” Mattheo says.

You consider it for a second. You didn’t particularly fancy heading up to your room with Mattheo, for fear of your roommate awakening to see you in such a state. You nod, speaking.

“Yes please.” You say, voice embarrassingly hoarse from having cried so much. You pray Mattheo didn’t notice.

Of course he did. But, he chose not to draw attention to it, instead resolving to run down to the kitchen to get you a cup of tea.

You follow Mattheo into his room, which you were no stranger to. Having projects together meant endless hours of collaborating, and opting to avoid being pestered by your roommate and her friends (who had a rather amusing infatuation with Mattheo), you worked in his room instead.

“Help yourself to some clothes if you’d like. They’re on the right.” He says, carefully draping your school bag and robe onto one of the desks. You thank him, smiling softly as he cleans the mess he had left.

“Go lie down. I’ll be back in a second” He says, turning away as he exits his room. Swiftly walking down to the kitchen, his head is reeling with thoughts of you.

He chose not to confront the feeling gnawing at him in light of your breakdown. He didn’t want to deal with that just yet. In no less than 10 minutes he’s carefully treading up the stairs to the dorms once more, a cup of chamomile tea in one hand and some small crackers in the other.

You hadn’t been eating, nor drinking, and the idea of you neglecting yourself so much sent Mattheo into an uncomfortable state where he found himself riddled with anxiety.

Just friends, right?

He clicks open the door to his room with his elbow, precariously walking over with the tea and crackers in hand as he goes to set them down on his bedside table. His eyes flicker over to you, and a small smile tugs at his lips as he sees you already fast asleep, curled up under the covers. The sight of your slumber brings a warmth to Mattheo's heart. He watches you for a moment, taking in the soft rise and fall of your breath, the delicate features that are usually tense with stress now softened in sleep.

The sight brings him more peace than he wishes to admit, and the looming reality that he had to eventually confront only pressed down on him further.

But for now, he didn’t care.

Because in your peace, he found happiness. And he’s sure he’d never find anything else more beautiful.

Possessed by a wave of sentiment that betrays his usual self, he can’t resist reaching out to tuck a stand of misplaced hair behind your ear. Before he can even comprehend what he’s doing, he leans down and presses a soft , brief kiss to your forehead.

He pulls back and finds himself slightly taken aback by his own actions. The quiet room, filled only with the soft sounds of your sleep, almost seems to amplify the beating of his heart.

Mattheo stands there for a moment, looking at you with a mix of tenderness and confusion. Then, shaking off the unexpected surge of emotions, he retreats to Theodores bed , slipping out of his clothes as he goes to lay down. He had to resist the urge to turn around and catch a glimpse of you once again, and lets out a small sigh as he shuts his eyes.

Mattheo Riddle was not a man of sentiment. He was not soft, and he most certainly did not go out of his way for others.

You had changed that. And he couldn’t figure out whether the prospect was one he was ready to welcome.

[the-magiarcheologist]

Reading the Ancient Magic Book Pages

I propose to you today a short analysis of the sections of text on the pages of the Ancient Magic book we find below the restricted section.

High-res images of the book’s pages have been shared by a kind soul. Here they all are:

I was working on a completely different post when I realised that the text on the last 2 pages was easily readable and written in Latin. So I just did a quick search and discovered that these are verses from the Vulgate (4th century translation of the Bible in Latin), more precisely from the Gospel of Luke from the New Testament.

A bit more research and I could find exactly which source they got this text from: the Book of Kells, a Celtic Gospel book written in Latin and illuminated in the Insular style (a combination of Celtic and Anglo-Saxon styles). The precise origins of the Book of Kells are debated but many believe it was created around the year 800 at the monastery founded by St Colum Cille on Iona Island in western Scotland.

Here I put side by side the pages of the Ancient Magic book and the pages from the Books of Kells where the text is from (folio 204r and 275r):

The verses they used are Luke 22:23

Et ipsi coeperunt quaerere inter se quis esset ex eis qui hoc facturus esset.

Which translates to:

And they began to enquire among themselves, which of them it was that should do this thing.

And on the second page, Luke 4:8-14

Et respondens Jesus, dixit illi: Scriptum est: Dominum Deum tuum adorabis, et illi soli servies. Et duxit illum in Jerusalem, et statuit eum super pinnam templi, et dixit illi: Si Filius Dei es, mitte te hinc deorsum. Scriptum est enim quod angelis suis mandavit de te, ut conservent te: et quia in manibus tollent te, ne forte offendas ad lapidem pedem tuum. Et respondens Jesus, ait illi: Dictum est: Non tentabis Dominum Deum tuum. Et consummata omni tentatione, diabolus recessit ab illo, usque ad tempus. Et regressus est Jesus in virtute Spiritus in Galilaeam, et fama exiit per universam regionem de illo.

Which translates to:

And Jesus answered and said unto him, Get thee behind me, Satan: for it is written, Thou shalt worship the Lord thy God, and him only shalt thou serve. And he brought him to Jerusalem, and set him on a pinnacle of the temple, and said unto him, If thou be the Son of God, cast thyself down from hence: For it is written, He shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee: And in their hands they shall bear thee up, lest at any time thou dash thy foot against a stone. And Jesus answering said unto him, It is said, Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy God. And when the devil had ended all the temptation, he departed from him for a season. And Jesus returned in the power of the Spirit into Galilee: and there went out a fame of him through all the region round about.

I’m not christian and don’t know much about the Bible so I have no idea why they chose these particular verses. Maybe someone more educated than me will be able to chime in. My hunch is that these verses were just chosen at random from old manuscripts that the artists for the game were using as reference for the art style.

Now, since I was on a roll, I also looked at the text on the other pages. Pages 1 and 3 have some text written in some old form of Icelandic (figured that out from the few words I could sort of read on those pages). So I started looking into old Icelandic manuscripts but it took me a ridiculously long time to find the exact source the text is from! I was starting to go mad but here it is! It’s from an illustration of the Prose Edda found in the Icelandic manuscript ÍB 299 4to., in particular the illustration of the god Týr presented as Mars (folio 60r).

They took the short text in the little box and copy/pasted it mosaic style to give the illusion of the full page of text but you can see it’s just short sections that repeat over and over on both pages.

(To note: this manuscript is from 1764 so it’s sort of anachronistic for them to use this source for an Ancient Magic book that already existed in the Keepers time, meaning the Ancient Magic book is from the 15th century or older.)

Týr is one of the principal war gods in Norse mythology (alongside Odin and Thor) but he also presides over justice and the law. Latin texts often identified him as Mars (hence the subject of the illustration).

I could not find any transcription or translation of the text on the image, I could only decipher some words here and there such as «sigir hielldu» which google translate tells me could mean «victories held» in Icelandic. A bit further down there is «orrustu guð» which could mean «god of war». So it seems to be a short description of the god Týr and at the end there are roman numerals that identify the section in the Prose Edda where the story of Týr can be found.

Again, I can’t really see how this text makes particular sense in the context of the Ancient Magic book, probably just placeholder text from some of the sources they were studying as inspiration.

There is one last book page, but the text on this one is so blurred I didn’t even try to decipher it. Although I do note that the artist has traced over some letters which are: W S M I(?) I(?) I(?) Z N R(?) P(?) G W Q O U(?) H W R(?)

Don’t know… some of them are hard to read or could be not from the Latin alphabet. Again, I just can’t make sense of that. There are not enough vowels for it to be an anagram of an English or Latin phrase so… what else? I leave this mystery to others with more powerful brains than mine!

Anyway, this is it! Not really much to say about this but I think other people are also planning on looking into these book pages so maybe these findings can help them out!

[thatsmzbitchtoyou]

Norsemen & Anglo-Saxons Chapter 1

Here's the new story! I hope y'all like it.

Summary: Princess Y/N has a secret that her parents are ashamed of.  A conquering Viking chief recognizes the gift she has.  Will they be able to bring peace between warring people, and maybe find love along the way? Viking!Bucky Warnings: eventual smut, abuse, violence, animal attack, blood

Next chapter

The New Year was upon them.  The castle was bustling with maids and squires decorating and scrambling to get everything ready in time. The halls were filled up with garlands, pinecones, dried oranges, berries, and candles lit every ten feet.  A large tree had been hauled into the great hall during Christmas Time and decorated with the same oranges, berries and pinecones, as well as ornamental pieces that shone through the branches in the candlelight.  The last seasonal ball was to be held in a few days time, and the noble families from all over the Isles had traveled in to be part of the festivities.

Princess Y/N watched the chaos in boredom as her little brother Prince Alfred, or Alfie,  ran around the room with a stream of ribbon in hand, singing holiday songs at the top of his lungs.  As much as she loved and adored him their age difference was definitely apparent during these moments.  “I watched three ships come sailing in on Christmas day on Christmas day…”

“Alfie if you sing that wretched song one more time I will–”

“You will do nothing,” her mother, Queen Eugenia interrupted as she walked into the great hall to inspect the decorations.  “After all these years of training, you still resort to violence, you ridiculous child.”

“And you still call me a child when I near my thirtieth year, Mother,” Y/N spat back.  “Perhaps my penchant for violence comes from my frustration with said training and the constant degradation of my age and ability.”

“Your petulance and independence has made you unmarriable and therefore a thorn in my side,” Eugenia sighed.  

“There have been no, as you and Father called them, “suitable” suitors to marry me off to, Mother.  And this,” she held out her hand, opening her palm, wherein a green orb of light appeared, “scares you both to death.”

“Put your hand away!” Eugenia ran over and slapped Y/N’s hand down before anyone could see.  “Stop being so careless!”

Y/N rolled her eyes.  “Yes, Mother.”

Eugenia sat next to her.  “You will attend tonight’s ball, dressed appropriately, with a smile on your ungrateful face and nothing but patient, polite mannerisms escaping that mouth of yours.  And you will not play tricks,” she looked pointedly at Y/N’s hands.

Y/N glared at her.  “Yes, Mother.”

Eugenia sighed again.  “Go get ready.”

Y/N left the great hall as Alfie continued singing away.  Her lady’s maid followed her as she roamed the halls towards her room.  The only ones who knew about her ability were her family, the royal advisory court and her lady’s maid.  No one had been able to figure out what to do with it.  She didn’t have a handle on it, either.  She could manipulate objects and people’s bodies to move how she wanted, heal minor injuries, and when touching someone she was able to see their thoughts and feel their feelings.  She could feel that there was something more to it, that her power had the potential to grow, and yet she and her ability had been tamped down so heavily from the moment she first started exhibiting it that she was unable to truly hone it and see what she was capable of.  The advisors had researched their history and fairy tale books extensively and could not find a rhyme or reason as to why she had this power.  The only reason she had not been burned at the stake as a witch was because her father thought it could be useful to him and his never ending battle against the Norsemen.

Y/N had only seen one Norseman in her entire life.  Her father had captured one after a horrible battle and brought him back from the battlefield.  He was what they called a Berserker, a Norseman warrior that would lose all sense of self-preservation and run into battle like a feral animal, like they were out of their minds and drunk with bloodlust.  Her father had put them in a room together, separated by a line of thin prison bars.  The Norseman didn’t try to attack her, just watched her intently.  Her father told her to try her powers on him, see what she could make him do.  Y/N had refused, so her father flogged her to try and make her submit.  The Norseman had become so incensed by her father’s mistreatment that he had broken through the bars, bending them like they were butter, and just as he was about to lay his hands on her father she threw her hands up.  The Norseman was encircled in the green light, stopping him midair.  Her father gave the first genuine smile towards her she had seen in years.  

The guards had shackled him and took him away shortly after that.  The look in his eyes as they dragged him away was one of shock and betrayal.  Y/N couldn’t stand it, and that night snuck through the castle to the dungeon.  She had found secret passages as a child that she used regularly, and slipped through undetected.  She stole the keys and found his cell.  He was awake, and when he heard the jingle of the keys he looked up at her.  His eyes widened and he scurried towards the farthest wall from her.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” Y/N had whispered, holding her hands up.  He watched her carefully as she unlocked the door and swung it open.  She had stepped away, giving him room to leave.  He had slowly walked out of the cell, watching her constantly.  He stepped away towards the nearest exiting door.  “Run,” she whispered as she backed away from him, keeping her hands up.

He stopped for a moment.  He cleared his throat and asked in perfect English, “Are you a witch?”

Y/N had blinked at him in surprise.  “I…I don’t know,” she answered honestly.  This man could kill her in a second without making a sound, and yet he merely nodded.  “Thank you, Drottning,” he bowed his head to her then ran off towards the door.

Y/N had never seen or heard from him again.  The castle had been abuzz with confusion and fear upon finding him missing the next morning, but they ultimately decided that the barbarian had his ways and wasn’t worth pursuing. 

Y/N had never trusted her father again after that day, and had steered clear of him whenever and however she could.  He only wanted her for her power and what it could do for him.  He didn’t love her, he didn’t love Alfie.  He was a true English King, hoarding power and wealth wherever he could.

Y/N dressed in her holiday best for the ball and begrudgingly entered the great hall later that night.  The party was in full swing, nobles dancing together as the music played, the King and Queen laughing madly at the jester performing in front of them.  The wine was flowing, making the crowd more rowdy by the second.  As Y/N ascended the stage where the King and Queen sat she saw two short legs poking out and found Alfie hiding behind the Queen’s wide throne chair.  She quickly walked over and pulled him into her arms.  “What are you doing here, Alfie?  It’s late, and this is no place for a young boy,” she scolded him.

“Papa said I had to be here, because I’m to be king, and this is what kings do,” he mumbled.  Y/N glared over at her father, who was drinking himself into a stupor.  Alfie was a mere 11 years old, and already her father was trying to sink his dirty claws into the little boy’s mind and heart.

“No, Alfie, this is not how kings should act,” Y/N reassured him as she ran her fingers through his hair.  “Let’s get you to bed.”

Suddenly there was a loud bang and a whistling as wind whipped through the hall from where the front doors burst open.  A thunderous roar from what seemed like hundreds of men swarming the hall filled the room, echoing through the high ceilings and making Alfie cover his ears.  Y/N held him close as she huddled behind the throne, concealing him and herself as best as possible.  There were shouts and screams from the nobles as the men started to cut many of them down, pushing and beating others as they made their way to the stage.

The King and Queen sat in shocked silence as they watched their guards and nobles die or be captured around them.  Y/N glanced around looking for an escape and saw men standing in the higher windows, pointing arrows at the royals.  She knew they were seen and so any attempt to run would be met with death.  

Heavy footsteps walked up the stage steps, and before she could even move large hands were hefting her and Alfie from behind the chair.  They ripped Alfie from her arms and she screamed, trying to get ahold of him again as he cried and tried to grab for her.  Y/N’s body was wrenched around and she came face to face with a familiar looking man.

“Hello, Drottning, remember me?” the Norseman from years earlier smiled at her.

“You!” Y/N breathed as her eyes widened.

The Norseman chuckled as he led her to the front of the stage to stand next to her Mother and Father who sat dumbfounded on their thrones, Alfie on the other side of them being held back by another man.  Y/N looked around and even through her fear was struck by the attractive nature of these men.  Most of them were spattered in blood and sweat from fighting, and yet she had never seen so many handsome men.  The yelling started to die down as one Norseman walked forward, assumedly the leader, the rest of them parting to let him through.  The one approaching her and her family was easily one of the most beautiful men she had ever seen in her life.  His long, dark brown hair was half tied back with braids that had ornaments of beads and metal cuffs attached to them.  His full beard was cut neatly and framed his pink lips, which were stretched into a menacing smirk.  His blue eyes shone bright like the ocean just after a storm, and she could see the mischievous glint in them as he scanned the family.  He was covered in Norse battle gear from just under his jaw to his feet, a large sheathed sword on his right side and a war hammer at his left.  His left arm was bare, and upon further inspection Y/N realized it wasn’t flesh, but some kind of metal, yet it looked and functioned like a normal arm.  He was huge, like all the other men, tall and broad.  His eyes settled on her and he appraised her, giving her a long look up and down.  Y/N straightened herself under his stare, refusing to bow or show weakness to him.  His smirk deepened at her as he looked back at her parents.

“King Henry, Queen Eugenia,” he greeted them in a deep, booming voice.  “I am James Barnes, Jarl of the Danes, or Norsemen as you like to call us.”  He nonchalantly took a half eaten pastry off the table closest to him and popped it in his mouth, chewing it slowly.  “What a lovely party.  We missed our invitation,” he said with a sly smile, making his men laugh heartily around him.

Henry just couldn’t help himself as he stood up.  “You aren’t wanted, heathens!  Leave immediately!”

“Now now, Henry, is that any way to speak to the ones who have conquered you?” James admonished him.  “I’ve come to make peace, and you want to scream insults?”

Y/N silently gasped.  Peace?  With the Norsemen?  

“Make peace?  While you murder my nobles and threaten my family?  That’s preposterous,” Henry scoffed.  Y/N glared at her father, silently wishing for him to shut up.

“Well you could either choose peace, or watch the rest of your nobles and your family die, starting with your heir,” James threatened, glancing at Alfie.  Y/N squirmed against the Norseman behind her at the threat.  “And we’ll make some stops along the way to some of your most prosperous cities and take what we need.  The choice is yours.”

“That’s no choice!” Henry yelled and then started to move towards James.  “You wretched, barbaric–”

A whistle sounded through the hall as an arrow was loosed.  It flew straight towards Alfie’s chest.  Y/N’s hand yanked out of the Norseman’s hand that was holding her and stretched toward her brother as she screamed, “NO!”

The arrow stopped, hovering right in front of Alfie’s heart, surrounded by the green light.  The men gasped, James staring at Y/N with an awestruck smile on his face.  “So it’s true,” he whispered.  Y/N flicked her wrist and the arrow went flying towards the wall and shattered.  Before she could even drop her hand James was in front of her.  He looked at the Norseman holding her back and nodded to him.  “Thor, is this the English witch of royal blood who freed you?”

The man behind her nodded and lightly shoved her into his arms.  James held her by her arms and looked down at her.  “What’s your name, Princess?”

Y/N could only stare at his bright blue eyes, her heart hammering in her chest at exposing herself and her ability.  “Y/N,” she whispered.  

“Y/N,” he repeated it like it was a prayer.  “I’ve been talking to the wrong person.”  He pulled her forward to face her family.  “Henry, you’ve been hiding something,” he chuckled as he plopped his chin on her shoulder so they were cheek to cheek and ran his fingers up and down her arms, the metal ones sending chills up her spine.  “She’s the one with power, not you.”  Henry glared at her, a hateful look on his face.  “Oh, I see,” James’ voice became sharper.  “You feel threatened by her, so you’ve hid her away, stomped on her potential to grow,” Y/N was nearly shaking as she felt the adrenaline rush through her.  “She’s a goddess among you pathetic royals,” he kissed the side of her head, “and you wanted to reduce her to a torture device.  You let the magic go to waste.”  He turned her towards him again and dipped his face to be at eye level with her.  “We have magic at home.  We can help you learn and grow,” Y/N’s eyes widened at him.  “So I ask you, Princess Y/N.  What do you choose, death or peace?”

Y/N exhaled a shaky breath as she stared at him.  As he touched her she let her ability slip into his mind.  She could find no lie in his words.  He and his people were tired, the constant war depleting their resources and wiping out families.  They won the battles more often than lost, but it had put a strain on their lives.  His mention of magic seemed real, too, with glimpses and flashes of things that were unexplainable popping up in his mind.  Y/N thought about her people and how the English had been begging for peace for years as well, all of it falling on her father’s greedy, prideful ears.  She could tell James was good, and only wanted good for his men and his people.

“I propose an allyship,” she said.  James blinked and his eyebrows furrowed at her.  “A peace treaty with a tradition as old as time,” she clarified, gulping quickly.  “We join our families in marriage.”  His eyes flicked between hers, like he was studying her.  His men around him mumbled as they considered the idea.  “If you are unmarried,” she amended, since she wasn’t sure, “or if someone in your nobility is unmarried, I will come with you as a peace offering, a marriage tribute.  You will have me, and my power, and leave my family and my people be,” she said, trying to look and sound every bit the princess her mother had always wanted her to be.  “And we will end this war and finally bring peace to our people.”

James stood straight, towering over her.  He watched her for another moment, then stepped back and looked to his men behind him.  Two of them walked up and spoke to him quietly.  Y/N waited on baited breath as they consulted with each other.  They stood back and he turned toward her again.  “Done,” he said simply, the smirk returning to his lips.  Y/N nodded and quietly sighed.  “My Drottning,” he spoke lowly, holding out his metal hand.  She put her right hand into his metal hand, admiring it.  

“What does that mean?” she asked him.

“My Queen,” he winked at her.  Y/N blushed deeply.  He turned to his men and held her hand up high in his.  “We have peace!” he yelled triumphantly.  The thunderous roar returned as they cheered, their hands and swords and axes held high as they hugged each other and drank some of the wine left on the tables around them.  James dropped their joined hands and kissed the hand he held, making her blush again.  “Say goodbye to your family, Drottning, we leave immediately.”

He let her go and she ran up the stairs towards her family.  She ignored her parents altogether, grabbing Alfie and holding him tight against her.  

“Don’t go,” Alfie cried as his fingers clutched her dress.

“I have to,” Y/N cried as she carded her fingers through his hair.  “You listen to me,” she knelt in front of him and held his face in her hands, “you remember what I’ve taught you.”  He nodded frantically.  “Do not listen to Father,” he nodded again, making her father sneer at them next to her.  “I’ve seen it in you,” she whispered, laying a hand against his heart then tapping her finger to her head.  “You will become one of the greatest kings England has ever known, as long as you don’t do as Father has done.  You will bring continued peace and prosperity, you hear me?”  She wiped his tears away.  “Because you are a good boy, and will become a great man.  My little king,” she kissed his forehead firmly before pulling away.

Alfie cried harder as she stepped away from him.  She turned to her father.  “Stay away from him,” she warned him, glancing at Alfie.  “I have procured a peace that you, and your father, and your father’s father could never have dreamed of,” she sneered back at him.  “Do good by our people, for once in your miserable life.”  She glared at him before turning back towards James who stood patiently waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs.  

His men were slowly retreating out of the great hall as he held his hand out for her again.  She took it as he flashed one last glance and triumphant smile at her father before leading her out the front doors.  As they walked through the courtyard and towards the horses waiting for them he glanced at her attire.

“Hm, this won’t do while riding,” he said as he twirled her around.  Y/N furrowed her eyebrows at him.  “Where’s your lady’s maid?”

Y/N looked around and saw the telltale eyes peeking from behind the stables.  “May,” she pointed.

James summoned her forward out of hiding.  She quickly ran across the courtyard and into Y/N’s arms, sobbing as Y/N pet her hair.  “Miss May, go fetch your princess’ riding clothes and some simple dresses for travel,” James instructed her.  May stared at him with wide eyes, looking at Y/N who nodded to her.  She was escorted back inside with Thor to get Y/N’s things packed.

As they stood there waiting, the snow started to fall.  Y/N looked up and sighed as the cold kissed her face, a welcome reprieve to her inflamed cheeks from the night’s tension.  She looked towards James who was already looking at her.

“What do I call you?” she asked him.  

“You can call me Bucky,” he said.

“Bucky?” she asked, a small smirk pulling her lips.

“A nickname,” he laughed at her perplexed look.  “Saved for those closest to me.  And since you’ll be my queen–”

“So it is you I’ll be marrying then?”  Y/N asked.

“Yes,” Bucky laughed harder.  “I guess I didn’t make that very clear.”

“Hm,” Y/N hummed.  “You have a very English name...James.”

“Yes,” he agreed, sighing as he looked at the falling snowflakes.  “We Norsemen and you Anglo-Saxons are not that different from each other,” he said with a twinkle in his eye as he winked at her again.  

Y/N pondered that as May came out holding Y/N’s riding clothes and boots with Thor holding a small trunk that he loaded onto one of the wagons they had waiting.  May ran back to Y/N.

“Go change, and then we’ll be off,” Bucky excused Y/N, who led May over to the stables.  They went into an empty bay and May quickly stripped Y/N out of her gown and into her riding clothes.

“My lady,” May said as she held Y/N’s crown in her hands.  Y/N looked at it and gingerly took it from her.  She stared at it for a moment before giving it back to her.  She gave May another hug.  

“Take it, my love,” she said as May sobbed in her arms again.  “Run away and marry that stable boy, Ben, and use it to live long happy lives together,” she said as she pulled away.

May nodded as she cried, gathering up the gown as she said goodbye.

Y/N came back out in her riding clothes.  She approached Bucky who was preparing his horse.  He mounted it and held his hand out to her.  She took it and he helped hoist her behind him on the saddle.  He wrapped her hands around his waist then she felt him tying her wrists together.

“What–” she started, trying to look over his shoulder.

“So you don’t run off,” Bucky cocked an eyebrow at her in warning as he looked back at her.

“I won’t,” Y/N promised.

“That’s what they all say,” Bucky chuckled before he turned to his men who were all waiting.  “To Danmark!!”

“To Danmark!” they all yelled, and the pounding of hooves rang through the night as they all rode out of the courtyard and into the English countryside.

Y/N’s arms tightened around Bucky, her head tucking in between his shoulder blades as the winter wind stung her face.  She was not going to run and wanted to prove it to him.  She wanted peace, even if it meant giving up herself to get it. After about an hour they all started to slow as they reached the water’s edge where multiple ships were docked, secured by other Norsemen who waited anxiously for them.

Bucky untied the rope around her wrists then dismounted.  He held his hands up to her hips and helped her down as well.  He inspected her wrists, giving them a short rub.  “I’m sorry,” he whispered as he pressed a kiss to each wrist.  Y/N was surprised at his affection, but welcomed it in the moment.  He pulled her towards one of the boats.  He helped her step onto it and settled her into a corner of the stern that was covered in furs and quilts.  He pulled one of the furs up and covered her with it, securing it around her shoulders.  There was plenty of room around her as she got herself comfortable.

“It’s going to be a four day journey, Drottning,” Bucky kneeled in front of her.  “This area is for all of us to sleep, so you’ll have at least a few men next to you, but don’t fear,” he reassured her at the look on her face, “they’re harmless.  Just tired.”

Y/N looked around at the men loading themselves into the boat, many of them taking seats at the benches where the oars were sitting.  She felt worried but nodded at him.  He gave her a smile and stepped away to help load more things into the boats.  They all worked methodically together until in just a few minutes they were ready to pull off.  Bucky was stationed at one of the oars as well, giving the signal and they shoved off the shore.

Y/N watched the men in her boat and the others row in perfect unison.  She admired their strength and the way they all seemed to be of one mind as they worked together to get into a good rhythm, making the boat fly through the water.  The rhythmic rowing lulled her to sleep as she snuggled down into the furs below her.

She woke a few hours later.  It was still dark out, the rowing still going strong.  As she shifted to get more comfortable she felt a heavy weight around her waist.  She panicked until she turned and saw Bucky’s peaceful face sleeping next to her, his metal arm resting on her side.  Y/N looked down at the arm.  She admired its craftsmanship, unsure of how he was able to find or create such a thing.  Her fingers traced along the metal, the plates and divots carved like the muscles of a real arm would be.  When she reached his hand she lightly traced each finger with the tip of her pointer finger.  His hand suddenly moved to grasp her wrist.  She gasped as he gently maneuvered her to face him.  His eyes were still closed as he let go of her wrist then wound his metal arm around her back this time, holding her to his chest.  “Sleep, wife,” he mumbled, his voice coming out hoarsely as he kissed her forehead and rested his chin on top of her head.  

Y/N was stiff for a moment until the warmth enveloped her and she melted into his embrace.  She pressed her nose into his sternum and breathed deeply as her hands gripped the fur coat he was wearing.  He hummed as his breathing evened out and a soft snore rumbled in his chest.  It lulled her to sleep again, a small smile on her face.

**picture is A.I. from Pinterest, unknown original "artist" or "creator"**

[whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk]

Hold Me Like A Knife (i) (ao3)

In the words of our lord and saviour Taylor Swift, it's been a long time coming but... presenting, for @nessianweek day 4, viking!Cassian 🖤

After a decisive battle forges a peace treaty between the king of the West Saxons and the leader of the viking horde, Anglo-Saxon Nesta Archeron is brought north for the first time in her life when the king’s court travels to Jorvik to settle the terms and draw up boundary lines. After centuries of bloody raids, she should be terrified of the invaders from across the sea— after all, tales abound of their violence and their brutality. And yet quickly she discovers that there are some things about the heathens that she can’t help but be drawn to… especially when a chance encounter brings her face to face with one viking in particular. 

Jorvik, 884 AD

In nomine patris, et filli et spiritus sancti.

With each step of the horses’ hooves beyond the borderlands of Wessex, the priest muttered those same words; a prayer offered at every turn, the sign of the cross made with stiff hands and a darkened brow as mile after mile gave way beneath their feet. Through the countryside and long grass, beneath the grey sky that loomed heavy above, the king’s court made its way north— and all the while, Osbert the Holy Man whispered. 

In nomine patris, et filli et spiritus sancti.

Like the ground itself was cursed, and only his prayers could save them. 

It was maddening.

With a scowl, Nesta Archeron cast her eyes to the sky, rolling her eyes as Osbert began another rotation of prayers, his fingers tripping over the rosary at his neck. 

She hadn’t ever wished to head north.

It was full of wild-men, her father used to say. Wild-men with bloodied swords and even bloodier hands, invaders who set fire to the coast and laughed as it burned. Men from across the sea, who spoke in strange tongues and worshipped strange gods, who murdered priests and monks and nuns only to revel in the violence. From the places civilisation had forgotten to reach, he said, they made their home beneath grim skies on stolen Saxon land.

Nobody wanted to head north these days.

Even the horses had slowed their pace, like after days of traveling they were reluctant, now, to reach their destination. Nesta scanned the landscape with narrowed eyes as her grey mare shook her head, the reins she’d held so loosely for the past hour becoming taut, and though Nesta hadn’t spoken to her father in two whole summers, his words came back to her now, as if carried by the wind that blew cold towards the south. Aedwulf had said many things over the years that Nesta had stopped believing in, but he had gotten one thing right. The skies were grim up here, overcast and heavy, the clouds like a swathe of slate rolling in from across the sea. The April sun was well hidden, and as the bite of the wind numbed her cheeks, it made her think of the depths of winter rather than the first breaths of spring. With another scowl aimed at the sky, Nesta pulled her fur-edged cloak more closely about her shoulders, the tips of her fingers aching as she clung to the fabric.

For what must have been the hundredth time, she cursed the day they’d left Wessex.

Ahead of her, as the sun made a rare appearance from behind the clouds, the gold of the king’s crown glinted weakly, like a spark attempting flame. She wondered if anybody else had noticed that the garnets studding the band about his temples gleamed dark like pools of fresh blood; reminiscent of the battles that had brought them here.

Their side will be known as the Danelaw, the king had announced after the last pitched battle; the one that had ended with weapons on both sides laid down, a tentative peace agreed as the Norse leader had the sign of the cross traced on his brow with holy water. They will have their own laws and customs, but their leader will be baptised a Christian.

With that hammered diadem about his brow, King Alfred led his court north now, chasing peace as they neared the city of Jorvik, where the pagan lands were to be ratified; the boundaries between their peoples hammered out like a sword fresh from the forge. The women, Alfred had insisted, were to be present too - to add ‘an air of civility’ to the proceedings, like he thought the Danes might stay their hand and sheathe their blades in the presence of ladies. 

Nesta had barely been able to suppress her snort at that.

They’d all heard the stories— gruesome ones, of the pagans and their rituals. Tomas had even taken great pleasure, once, in describing to her, in detail, the horrifying blood eagle. The way the Danes delighted in breaking a man apart, in snapping bone and twisting ribs until they spread apart like wings.

If the treaty between them wasn’t enough to ensure peace and prevent violence, Nesta doubted the presence of a handful of noblewomen would be enough to convince the Danes to behave.

And yet as the wife of the king’s right hand, Nesta had no refusal she could offer, and no reason good enough to keep her in Wessex when the king insisted that his court accompany him north— to that lawless place, where even the soil was saturated with Saxon blood.

Or so it was said, anyway. 

“We used to call it Eoforwic, you know,” Tomas muttered from the space beside her.

Her husband’s voice was a scathing rasp barely even audible above the sound of a hundred horses’ hooves. He looked ahead at the horizon, nodding to the city walls before them now, piercing the sky in a great wooden structure, stark against the grey of the countryside. Even from a distance Nesta could see that the ramparts were topped with wooden spikes, sharpened to a point that, she suspected, would be lethal if climbed. And yet, riding at her husband’s side, Nesta Archeron said nothing.

“And then the heathens took over,” he finished through gritted teeth. 

The heathens.

The word was almost enough to drive fear into the heart of any proper Saxon woman, but as they approached the gates in the long train behind the king, Nesta didn’t feel so much as an ember of it stirring in her breast. After all, for almost two full decades now the heathens had occupied the city that had been Eoforwic, and yet by all accounts the city behind those walls wasn’t lying in ashes like the monasteries scattered along the coastline.  No— it was flourishing. The men from across the sea that had raided these shores for so many years, to murder and pillage and burn, had settled. Renamed the place Jorvik, set down roots. And as the gates before them opened with the sound of creaking wooden beams, Nesta waited for all the signs of such infamous brutality to hit her— the smoke and dead silence, the smell of rotting flesh. The empty eyes of the people living behind those walls, the cruel smiles of the men from across the sea.

Without pause her horse crossed the threshold. She looked up— saw the symbols carved into the gate posts, the sharp lines of an alphabet she didn’t recognise. 

And still, she waited.

There were no screams, no rivers of blood pooling in the streets.

Instead, Jorvik stretched ahead of them, the roads wide enough for carts to pass two abreast.

Wattle and daub houses lined the roads, old Roman tiles decorating the walls of a select few— as well as old bricks and white stone, repurposed and used again, like the Danes hadn’t destroyed the city at all, merely… expanded on what they had already found. Woven fences separated buildings, clothes hung on lines strung in the narrow alleys between houses, and all around them the air was filled with languages that landed strangely on the ear, tongues both harsh and soft that Nesta had never heard before. Not the Saxon she was used to nor the Latin she heard in church, but something else, something that felt richer, somehow. And as she watched with a slackened jaw and widened eyes, her attention followed the sound of those voices, her focus dragged towards the river where the ships came in, laden with goods imported from all over the continent and beyond. 

Nesta had only ever seen her corner of Wessex before, but here— here it seemed like the entire world opened up before her. 

And though she knew she shouldn’t…

She wanted to see more of it.

With her eyes fixed on that river, on the horizon that seemed to hold so much in the way of promise, a kind of longing rose within her, and suddenly Nesta thought she understood just a little of why the Danes chased their home on the seas. 

Beneath it all, in the distance, there was the tell-tale sound of a forge at work too, the clatter of a hammer against an anvil. As it rang through the winding streets, she couldn’t help but wonder what kind of blade the smithy was beating into shape. Would it be great and heavy when it was done— as grand as the king’s own sword, kept in its sheath until battle called? Or would it be practical and small, light enough for even her own hands to wield—

“Nesta,” Tomas hissed at her side, little more than a scold as he leaned over and took the reins of her horse in his gloved hand. The horse whinnied, like even the mare couldn’t stand his closeness. “Did you hear a word I just said?”

“No,” Nesta shrugged, her eyes drifting back to the river, to the lines of ships gathered there. Ships that sat low in the water, heavy with stock. Ships that were wide and flat-bottomed, so unusual she couldn’t look away.

“I said, the pagans are too brazen. This was a Christian city.” 

He pulled away, shoving the reins back into her hands as he sat back in his saddle, his lip curling in disgust. His features twisted into a grimace; a sneer that held as his eyes roved over Jorvik’s streets. 

“Barbarous,” Osbert muttered, scowling as he rubbed a thumb over the cross he wore at his neck. “A violent and brutish people.”

Tomas hummed his agreement. The priests’s white robes fluttered in the wind, and Nesta glanced at the mud-spattered hem as the priest ran a thin hand over his tonsured head. His face was stark, all bloodless cheeks and dark eyes, and though she hadn’t ever been able to put a finger on it, there was something about the holy man that unnerved her, made her shudder whenever she found herself too close to him.

And she had been too close to him for days now.

Osbert had been by the king’s side almost as long as Tomas, and had struck up a companionship with her husband that meant the priest was frequently lingering in their rooms at court, never too far from the side of either the king or her husband. Both men rode directly behind King Alfred now, in a position of prominence that spoke to their influence, and as the streets of Jorvik grew even wider, leading them easily to an open courtyard close to the centre of the city, Nesta wondered how easy it might be to slip from her horse and disappear through those streets, never to see either of those men again.

Before she could let the thought take root, the king stopped his horse.

Ahead of them a great hall loomed; a towering wooden structure with two floors, its thatched roof a meeting of two large, carved wooden beams at the front— two serpents twining at the apex where they crossed.

The lord’s hall.

They could get no closer— the door was closed, the windows of the ground floor shuttered. Nesta frowned, taking in the crowd that had gathered before that closed door, assembled in a circle to leave a great space empty in the centre of the courtyard. At least fifty Danes she counted, all of them waiting, she thought, for the arrival of the King of Wessex.

But then there was the sound of steel ringing out upon steel, and as the crowd before them parted to let the horses through, Alfred’s trail of Saxons caught their first glimpse of the spectacle taking place just a stone’s throw from the lord’s hall and it’s resolutely closed door. As the spectators closed the circle behind them, she realised that the Danes weren’t there for Alfred at all. 

At the centre of that circle, two Danes prowled around one another like wolves. Nesta felt her eyes widen— her knuckles tighten on her horse’s reins. 

The nearest Dane towered above the rest, his skin like burnished bronze even in the dim grey light. In one hand he held a great steel sword— in the other, a short-handled axe. A seax. He wore a thin tunic, already clinging to his skin, and his hair curled haphazardly to his shoulders. Around his neck a silver pendant hung in the shape of a hammer, and when he lunged it danced, catching the thin light as much as his sword. The second Dane was similarly built, yet lighter on his feet and a touch more lithe, and as a manic grin split across the face of the first, a whisper rippling along the gathered crowd as coins exchanged hands, Nesta realised that the crowd had gathered to place their bets— to watch the fight like one might listen to a minstrel. 

The second Dane tilted his head, his raven hair cut short, and when he turned Nesta saw the smile that pulled at his mouth, like the fight… excited him.

Like there was no malice in it.

Like it was… fun.

The first was handsome in a rugged kind of way, a single scar splitting through his eyebrow and a hundred more littering the arms laid bare by his rolled-up sleeves. Tattoos snaked their way across his skin, shifting with each flex of muscle, and it was an effort to tear her eyes away from him, like somehow she needed to discover just how he’d earned each and every one of those scars. 

As the second Dane moved into her line of vision, she noticed that he had scars too— far more brutal ones that consumed both his hands, like he’d been caught in a fire. Like perhaps he’d started the kind of fire his people were so infamous for, burning down monasteries up and down the eastern coast. 

Nesta blinked once. Twice.

The first Dane dropped his sword to the ground, letting it clatter against the packed earth. He flipped his axe, clever fingers wrapping around the hilt as he crooked the fingers of his other hand in invitation. He murmured something in his native tongue, and Nesta tilted her head as he grinned again, shifting his weight and readying himself to make the next strike. The second smiled grimly, and even though both were already marred with blood - and a thin cut left a trail of blood weeping along the arm of the first - neither seemed particularly concerned. Like a little bloodshed was nothing.

The first wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and grinned as that, too, came away smeared with blood. 

“Barbarous,” the priest muttered again.

“Brutish,” Tomas agreed, an echo. 

The sun broke from behind the clouds, briefly illuminating the fighters in gold. They wore no armour, and Nesta’s mouth felt dry as she watched the first one fight, his arms corded with muscle that she suspected could break a man’s neck with ease. And he did make it lookeasy, the way he lifted his axe. The way he swept forward, dipping low enough to the ground to pluck up his discarded sword. 

The second warrior held his own, just as adept, but when the first landed a kick to his thigh that sent him stumbling—

Within a breath, the first Dane had his blade levelled at the neck of the second.

For a moment, Nesta’s heart was in her throat.

Here was the bloodshed— the easy violence that made the Danes so fearsome.

Would the first one cut the second’s throat with that smile still plastered on his face? Would he make that look easy too, when he opened his fellow countryman’s neck? 

Nesta held her breath.

Waited.

But after a moment, the first tossed his head back and laughed, grinning at his victory as his curls spilled across his shoulders. Then he extended a hand, helping the second to his feet even as the latter muttered something under his breath that Nesta couldn’t understand— something she suspected might have been good-natured grumbling after a fight lost between friends. 

Their hands clasped; all blood-stained skin and scars. 

“Next time,” she heard the second warrior say darkly, his chest rising and falling rapidly after the exertion of the fight. “Next time, It’ll be you on the floor.”

The first grinned, his victory lining his face with mirth. He opened his mouth, his dark eyes shining, but before he could speak, the doors to the hall behind them opened. Silence fell as a figure filled the doorway, dressed in deep black that almost made him one with the shadows of the hall behind, and as the warriors sheathed their blades, Nesta noted how the smile on the mouth of the first refused to fade, even in the presence of what was surely his lord.

“King Alfred.” The figure in the doorway stepped further into the grey light, his voice smooth and lilting beneath his accent, and as the weak sunlight glanced off the sharp planes of his face and illuminated the angular cut of his jaw, he looked like a man entirely content with command. His hair was smooth and black, kept short, and the deep black of his tunic was interrupted only by the silver rings on each of his fingers and the silver torc about his wrist.

“Lord Rhysand,” Alfred answered, his voice tight even as they met under the banner of peace. Tension wove through them like a breeze; the treaty between them hardly stronger than a reed in the river. Animosity was buried too deep, mistrust a currency of its own between their peoples. No matter what peace their leaders had agreed, Nesta hardly thought any of them were fooled.

Peace was a powder keg, just waiting for a spark.

Still, the leader of the Danes made a show of flashing a smile towards the Saxons. 

“Ignore my brothers,” he said, flicking a hand towards the two warriors they had witnessed sparring. “As Danes, the fight is embedded in our blood. We train for hours against one another,” he continued as he moved with purpose down the three steps that led up to the hall’s imposing door. His eyes glinted with something like arrogance as he canted his head, slowly, to the side. “To achieve the kind of prowess that wins our battles.”

Unease whispered through the gathered crowd, the smile on the first warrior’s face dropping to a darkened smirk as he looked up at the assembled Saxons from beneath his eyelashes. His hand shifted— fingers twitching towards the handle of his seax.

There was a threat there, Nesta thought, left so thinly veiled by Rhysand’s words. 

Alfred said nothing, only nodded sagely before glancing back, briefly, at his priest. Osbert’s scowl had deepened, his lips pressed so thin they were almost entirely invisible, and yet with a nod, both men’s horses stepped forwards anyway. The King of Wessex slid to his feet when his horse stopped in the centre of the courtyard, opening his arms in a show of perfect companionship as he walked towards the Danish lord.

It was a display Rhysand echoed, clasping Alfred’s hand as they embraced. The silver of his rings contrasted the gold of Alfred’s, and though no crown encircled Rhysand’s brow, authority rippled from him in waves. The warriors he had called his brothers took up a position on either side of their lord, like dark shadows that threatened violence, and as the rest of the crowd dispersed and serving men stepped forward to take their horses, they watched.

Smoothly, Nesta dismounted and handed her reins to a waiting groom. Beside her, Tomas still scowled, like just breathing the same air as the northmen was an affront to him. But then again, Nesta thought silently, most things proved an affront to Tomas Mandray. Even being one of the king’s right-hand men wasn’t enough for him. That scowl was permanently etched across his brow, like nothing and nobody was ever truly good enough.

Lifting her chin, Nesta straightened the silver rings that wound around her fingers. A sure sign of wealth— as sure as the belt at her waist decorated with gold, and the gold and garnet-inlaid brooches that held her cloak together at her collarbone. Tomas’ proximity to the king might not have given him land or a real title, but at least it had given him some wealth, and if gold and garnets were the only thing Nesta was to get out of this godforsaken marriage… well. 

She smoothed a hand down her cloak. 

So be it.

He left her standing alone as he drifted towards the king, a Saxon in a Norse stronghold. His gait was heavy as he stormed forwards, his hand on the hilt of the sword at his hip, and as their leaders spoke together with heads bowed, voices too low for Nesta to hear, all she could do was clasp her hands and wait for somebody - anybody - to show her to their lodgings. It took effort, sometimes, to keep her tongue behind her teeth. To keep from screaming as the rest of the king’s court moved to make way for the men, whilst the women lingered in the dust. 

She looked forward, cast her eyes over the Danes that remained standing before the lord’s hall. The warrior with the curling hair and scar-split brow glanced up, a soft breeze shifting those loose curls back to reveal both the high cut of his cheekbones and the curve of his ear, studded at several points with silver rings. His arms were folded over his broad chest, and when his eyes flicked to hers, Nesta felt his attention as sharply as the blade of the seax he had tucked into his belt. 

He was from another world— one so foreign to her that she didn’t know what to do when their eyes met, and yet there was something warm in it when he smirked again, a base heat that gathered at the bottom of her spine, constricting her lungs as she kept her head high. With a jolt that sent lightning forking down her spine, that mouth of his split into a grin as he inclined his head towards her in greeting.

“Come,” Rhysand announced, his voice echoing through the courtyard as he drew away from Alfred. With a sweep of one arm, he motioned broadly to the open door of the hall. “Let us get the business over with. The sooner it is done, the sooner we can drink.”

Several of the Danes let out a low cheer at that, more than one of them lifting an arm into the air as if to appease their gods. Skol, one of them proclaimed loudly, hammering a fist against his chest. 

Nesta didn’t pretend to understand, but as Rhysand led Alfred through that door, Osbert and Tomas in tow, she lingered in that courtyard, even as the cold air nipped at her skin. And as Tomas looked back over his shoulder and called her name with irritation lining each syllable, she looked back to the Dane that had snared her attention and watched as his lips kicked up at one corner, his head tilted as he looked at her with the full force of that determined gaze.

And as she watched, the Dane winked.

“Skol,” he echoed. 

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[supersaiyanjedi14]

SABEZRA WEEK: Day 3 (Oct 30): Surprise

*My AU: Ezra and Sabine make their way to Krownest to share some special news with Tristan, who has something to show them as well.

Krownest was just as he had remembered it.  A thick blanket of snow covered every visible inch, leaving the trees and rocks with a light frosted glow.  As the Phantom touched down, Ezra nonetheless appreciated the one critical difference from his last visit to the planet, that being the distinct lack of Imperials shooting at them.

Hopefully the lack of active firearms would remain a fact by the end of the day.

“Will you give it a rest?”

Ezra turned to the seat next to him to see Sabine lightly shaking her head.  As always her hair and armor were popping with color, though the stark whiteness of their surroundings was making it come across as substantially more so than usual.

“Am I that obvious about it?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

“Well,” Sabine mused, “considering that you’re about five seconds away from snapping the yoke like a stick in your bare hands, there’s sweat all over your face, you’ve been reciting your calming exercise mantra under your breath ever since we got off the comm-“

“Hey, it’s not every day you stroll up to a Mandalorian fortress and tell the guy in charge you suddenly tied the knot with his sister.”

Sabine rolled her eyes and placed her hand on his shoulder.  It was still a strange thing to think about.  It had been right before the New Republic’s attack to capture Coruscant.  The tension in the fleet had been so thick you could cut it with a broken vibroblade, most people expecting the most extreme fighting since the Death Star and Jakku and many wondering if they were going to come out of this in one piece.  For all their fearlessness, Ezra and Sabine had not been exempt from the worries.  Add on how their relationship had blossomed over the past decade and all the trials that had entailed, and they had decided that they wanted no regrets should the worst happen.

And so, in the privacy of their quarters aboard Home One, Ezra Bridger and Sabine Wren had exchanged the traditional marriage vows of the Mandalorian people, declaring themselves as one together and apart, vowing to share all and raise warriors.  Some would consider it a mere formality at this point considering how they were practically married already, but to them it had meant everything.

In hindsight, they could have probably waited on it.  Not only was the capture of the galactic capital considerably smoother than anyone had expected, but the subsequent trap that the Imperial leadership had left behind had tied everyone up in work that ranged from taxing to disturbing.  Ezra would have never thought that a disease would be more daunting than a pitched battle, but the Krytos virus had proved them all wrong.  The fact that Zeb and Hera had both been infected had only made those months even more taxing for the Specters.

The most relevant personal consequence of all this chaos had been that they had never gotten around to informing the rest of Clan Wren of their nuptials.  Most of the Mandalorians had been in their own space to try and force out the last remnants of the Saxon regime, the recently appointed Count Tristan Wren among them, while the severity of their busy schedules had prevented a proper visit until this point.  The substantial gap in time had give Ezra’s nerves plenty of time to settle in.  Sabine had insisted to him again and again that they had done nothing substantially out of the ordinary for her people, yet he still couldn’t shake the apprehension of springing the news on his new brother-in-law.

Thankfully, instead of giving him yet another lecture on the subject, Sabine merely laughed a bit and playfully punched his arm.  “You say that as though he doesn’t like you.  If anything, he’s probably going to be over the moon.”

“What if it had been your mom we were seeing?”

Sabine considered for a moment.  “Okay, she would have probably shot you.”

“Comforting.”

“Look,” Sabine said, turning his face to look at her, her expression much softer, “it’s going to be fine.  Trust me, he’s had worse surprises.”

Ezra took a deep breath.  “Okay then,” he said as he returned her smile, “Let’s go see the in-laws”

--

Normally, visitors to the Wren compound, especially aruetii, would have been thoroughly searched before being allowed entry, but a few sharp glares from Sabine had told the reception committee thar frisking the Loth-rat in her presence would not end well.  As such, the two of them were able to proceed quickly right to the throne room.  There, seated underneath the portrait of his mother, was Tristan Wren, looking over a datapad while talking with another warrior.  Aside from the thin mustache under his nose and the shades of burgundy in his armor, he seemed the same as ever, though there was also a visible tension to him that only upwards of five years of war could bring.  Once he saw the two walking in, however, that tension seemed to melt away.  Smiling broadly, Tristan shooed the others out of the room and made towards his sister.

“Sorry I wasn’t at the pad to greet you guys in person,” he said cheerfully, “Shysa and Korkie are running me like a bantha to keep a lid on things out here.  Reports and data coming in every minute.”

“At least you’re still in one piece.”  Sabine joked as she moved to hug her brother.

“Yeah, only on the outside.” Tristan returned both the humor and the embrace before extending a hand to Ezra.  “And how’ve you been?”

“Okay for the most part,” Ezra replied, taking the hand and firmly shaking it, “especially with our own messes to clean up.”

Tristan sighed.  “Yeah, we heard all about that.  How’re Hera and Zeb?”

“Fully recovered,” Sabine said, “Though Zeb’s still a bit cranky.”

“Isn’t he always?”

“Moreso than usual since he didn’t get the chance to pummel Isard himself before she blew.”

“That would have been entertaining.”

The three of them laughed at the mental image, and Ezra found himself far more relaxed and at ease.  What had he been worried for?

“So,” Tristan said, clapping his hands together, “to what do I owe the pleasure?  Not that I don’t like you guys visiting, but it’s a little odd that you couldn’t just do this in a holo call.”

Sabine grinned.  “We felt this was better said in person.  It’s not sensitive, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she quickly threw in in response to Tristan’s glimmer of concern.

“Okay, then,” he said cautiously, “What’s up?”

Sabine turned to face Ezra.  With a deep breath, Ezra decided to just rip the bacta patch off.

“Well,” he began, “when the New Republic was getting ready to attack Coruscant, Sabine and I…well we weren’t sure what would happen when we took the capital.  We didn’t really want anything unsaid or undone should the worst case happen.  So we…uh.”  Ezra’s words caught a bit his throat, then ran out “wesortofgotmarried.”

Tristan was silent for a moment, then blinked a few times.  “Huh?”

Ezra was afraid he’d have to rush it out again, but thankfully Sabine came to his rescue.  “We took the vows right before the battle,” she clarified, slipping her hand into his own.  “Ezra’s now my husband.”

Silence filled the room as Tristan just stood there.  The seconds seemed to tick by at the speed of a gonk droid.  Ezra was about to reach through the Force to get a glimpse of what was going through his head when the other Mandalorian finally spoke.

Or rather, laughed.

For several long seconds, the walls reverberated with Tristan’s booming laughter, his face twisting into an almost hysterical grin.  Before Ezra could ask if he was okay, Tristan had rushed forward and pulled Ezra into a bone-crushing hug, still howling as he did so.

“Really?!” he asked with tears in his eyes, “You’re not kidding?!”

“Ribs!  Ribs!”  Ezra wheezed as he pulled his brother-in-law off of him.  “And yes, we’re serious.  Unless I bungled the Mando’a somewhere, we’ve been married for the past seven months.” “Hahaha!” Tristan yelled.  “Finally!”

Sabine blinked at her brother’s reaction.  “Finally?  What do you mean ‘finally’?  Were you betting with someone on when it would happen?” she accused.

“No, no,” Tristan said, raising his hands as he started to come down from his high, “it’s just you guys were dating for so long people were joking you were married already for years.  I’m just happy you guys got around to making it official.”

“People were saying that?” Ezra asked, somewhat baffled that such gossip about him was a thing.

“Huh,” Sabine mused, “now I know how Kanan and Hera felt.”

“Anyway,” Tristan continued, having finally stopped cackling like a madman, “Thank the Force you guys did it.  It means I can finally give Mr. Jedi here this.”

“Give me what?”

To answer the question, Tristan ran over to a cabinet in the corner of the room and pulled out what seemed to be a large suitcase.  Whatever was inside must have been heavy, as he strained to pull it over and set it down at Ezra’s feet.  “Well,” he said, somewhat giddy, “open it up!”

Ezra looked at Sabine, who merely shrugged and gestured to the case.  Kneeling down, Ezra flipped the knobs and lifted the lid.  What he saw made his jaw drop.  It was a full suit of Mandalorian armor, the plates a mixture of dark orange and red.  At the top of the case was the helmet, adorned with the Nite-owl esque eyes that were the Wren family sigil.  Far more telling, however were the unmistakable markings of the Loth-wolf, something only Sabine had done to this point.  Underneath the plates was a neatly folded black cloak.

Ezra’s eyes turned up to look at Tristan.  From his peripheral, he saw that Sabine was just as awestruck.

“So,” Tristan asked.  “What do you think?” “You,” Ezra shakily rose to his feet, “You made this for me? “Had it done a couple years ago.”  Tristan explained.  “I’ve been holding onto it in case you guys ever became official.  In the, eh, ‘normal’ family sense at least.”

“Normal?”

Tristan sighed, then scooped up the helmet from the box.  “Ezra, you and the rest of the crew have been Sabine’s family since the beginning, in a lot of ways more than we ever were.”  There was a twinge of sadness in his voice as he said this.  “Even before you guys started dating.  As far as I’m concerned, you guys marrying is just a formality.”  He smiled warmly as he handed the helmet to Ezra.  “Unfortunately, we’re a little picky on formalities, and I can’t really just hand armor out to any odd boyfriend.”

“Well, you have the off bit down.”

“Hey!”

“I mean it as an endearment, Ez’ika!” Sabine clarified with a smirk.

Ezra laughed back before looking into the helmet’s visor.  “So, does marrying a Mandalorian just make me one?”

“Only if you want to.”

Ezra thought for a moment.  “Well, Sabine took my name.  If she wanted to be a Bridger, who am I to not want to be a Wren?”

Tristan and Sabine looked at each other, and shared a smile.  “In that case,”  Tristan walked over to Ezra and placed a hand on his shoulder.  “Ni kyr'tayl gai sa'vod.”

“Huh?”  Ezra blinked.  “Sorry, still new to the whole Mando’a thing.  You said you know-”

“I know your name as my brother,” Sabine said with the flickers of tears in her eyes.  ““It’s the gai bal manda.  The traditional Mandalorian adoption ritual.”

“Modified a bit.” Tristan said with a shrug.  “It’s meant for parents and kids, but with Mom and Dad gone I reworked it a bit.”  He turned to look at Ezra.  “Welcome to Clan Wren, Ezra Bridger.”

Ezra looked at Tristan for a moment, then turned to his wife.  Sabine looked like she was seconds away from tears of joy.  Rather than keep her anxious, Ezra just leaned forward to pull Tristan into a hug.  Complete with Force-enhanced strength.

“GAH!  RIBS!  RIBS!”

“How do you like it now, bro?”

“Why you-!”, Tristan’s complaint was drowned out by the laughter exploding from Sabine.

Ezra had come here thinking he would surprise Tristan.  Who’d have thought he’d be on the reciving end instead?

[witchezandwonderz]

In the Heart of the Blood Month...

Aethelstan x reader

Quick A/N- If you enjoy my writing please could you like or reblog- this will help me find new accounts and mutuals to follow and enjoy others work. Thank you <3

The Blood Month had just begun, but our last argument still echoed between us, sharper than any silence. Will he, for just once, be able to see that this grudge he holds is pure and utter ridiculousness? This thought definitely weighs heavy on his mind too. We are both the absolute definition of stubbornness, and believe me, other times have been worse.

Sitting here, by this freezing cold lake, all I have is time to think and think and think again. Do I just get up now, march in there and demand that we reconcile? I could, I could definitely do that- but- that would mean dragging myself up from the dirt, walking into a room of men and admitting defeat. Absolutely not. Not my style.

Aethelstan feels as though he is at home, here, in Rumcofa. I do not. I suppose that I would not feel at home anywhere on this strange planet. I have never really had one of those. I was found, as a child, by a seer named Skade. Uhtred has never divulged the entire story to me but what I do know, is that I was passed from Saxon to Dane as though I was a possession. I do not remember much of this, nor do I remember Skade. I have, however, been told tales and stories about her bizarre and most extreme ways. I ended up with Uhtred and his band of merry men, whom I have grown to love, including Aethelstan, whom I love in a different way completely.

I barely think about my childhood and past, not due to an overload of emotion, but simply because if I do not think about such events then they refuse to be real.

A raspy voice brought my attention back to reality, where my backside was beginning to turn numb due to the amount of time I have been fixed into the frosty ground.

"Y/N, it is nearly time, why are you sulking here you little weirdo" Finan called breathlessly in an attempt to approach me quickly, while trying to stop his ale from spilling out completely. I kept my gaze in front of me, refusing to look away as I replied quietly "now you know that I am one of the tallest girls here, therefore meaning, I am not little" I rolled my eyes as I concluded my sentence. Finan collapsed next to me, in turn, causing me to move out of his way and turn my head to scowl at him. I was met by a bright, glassy eyed, smiley, drunk man who laughed and retorted "oh shut up will ya, you're missing all the fun Y/N, Aethelstan has had too much ale and is telling everyone the story about how you met" My head snapped up at this as Finan and I both stated the word "again?"- well, mine was a question, his was a matter of fact. Finan laughed, "well, you know how much he loves you".

"Yeah, he loves me so much that he cannot even approach me to ensure that I am well and instead would rather show off to a room of men" Finan's smile dropped at my words; he opened his mouth to speak, but I interrupted- "AND also, why on earth does he think that getting drunk before his first hunt is a good idea-" by the end of my sentence, I began to unstick my backside from the dirt. As I stood up, I finished my words "what a fool". Before I was able to tear away, I felt a firm grip on my wrist "let go of me" I stated, looking down. Finan laughed, "Y/N, You had a weird fight over something minor, go and sort things out" He stated, his laughter reducing with each word. Me? Me sort it out? He must be humouring me.

"Finan, you do know why we had a 'weird fight'? Do you not? What did he tell you? Because from my point of view, I was practising with Cynlaef, minding my own business and then suddenly, Aethelstan starts throwing his weight about and screaming at both of us!"

"I know what happened, Y/N, you need to understand that for a man, seeing your woman practice fighting with another man, it does not feel, you know, great" Finan explained.

I concluded my conversation and shuffled my way to where the others were. Drinking, laughing, dancing and playing around- everyone is extremely excited about blood month, and believe me, no one is hiding it. It is rare to have something to look forward too these days.

It is not long before my eyes land on my Aethelstan's beautiful curly locks. It honestly does not matter how much him and I argue, I will always appreciate how unbelievably handsome he is. I honestly think that no matter how old and independent I grow, he will never fail to make me weak. It is a blessing and a curse, all at once.

I stood, briefly, while taking in the scenery, and breathing in the crisp air. A debate continued within my mind, part of me wanted to go up to him immediately and kiss him, the other part of me wanted to go up to him immediately and punch him. Unfortunately, before I had a chance to do either of those things a loud, familiar voice echoed through the air

"Aethelstan! Why have you left your post?" Uhtred announced, in turn earning the attention of everybody who gathered. Aethelstan's smile dropped, leaving him looking like a mood riddled teenager, which made me smirk, as he replied "It's good luck for blood month, Uhtred".

The conversation between them continued, and as it did, I found myself attempting to drift into the background as much as possible. Aethelstan may enjoy being cheered on by every soul in our presence but I, do not. I want to quietly, and without a fuss, go, fight, kill a beast and then brag about it when it is all done.

"Where is Y/N?" I heard Aethelstan ask, his voice getting louder and louder with each word. Everyone's eyes somehow found me, as I squatted down next to a nearby tree with a cup of ale in my hand. I rolled my eyes while standing up "I am here". I walked towards the men, Uhtred's happy demeanour forced a smile upon my face as he screamed "now, are YOU ready?". I laughed at this "am I ready? What do you think?". The men laughed and cheered, continuing with their small conversations- I expected this to be a moment where Aethelstan would approach me, but, to my surprise, he did not. He stood, pretending to be looking at something in the distance, not realising that I could see that his eyes were fixed upon me. I took a breath. Fine. I will swallow my pride.

I approached him, and looked up at him as I spoke, "my love, I-" my words were cut short,

"Y/N, I love you, but not now, we will speak after" his words were blunt and monotone. He kissed my forehead and with that, he walked away.

---------------------------------------

An hour passed, we all separated and made our own ways into the woods. I crept within the dark trees, attempting to make no noise. Admittedly, a very hard task when having an animal head sewn to your cloak- not the easiest endeavour. Things like this go very quickly, you see, you have to be focused constantly and consistently. I followed the squeals and crunches but could not locate the stupid beast for the life of me.

I did, however, hear a rustle a few metres away. I crept towards it, trying to be mindful of my surroundings, but, again, very difficult with an animal sewed to my head. With that, I pulled the head off, mumbling "screw it" to myself. Once removed, I could finally see within my peripheral vision once again. I heard the rustle again, looking left through the cracks in the trees, there he was. I chuckled and made it my next mission to frighten him. Will it make the argument worse? Yes. Will I do it anyway? Yes.

"Whose men are you?" Fear laced within his voice. Were there others? I crept closer, gaining a better view, where to my horror, I saw the love of my life surrounded by three men. Ugly fuckers they were too.

Fuck sake

Without a second thought, I leapt over the river that divided us to join. All four men looked at me, Aethelstan gasped in surprise while the other men started laughing. Laughing.

I hate most men, and I absolutely, will not be a joke to them.

I leapt forward once more, but this time, I swung my sword at one of the men, he dodged it. I ran behind him and swiped my pocket knife at his legs, slicing them both in a straight line. The man yelped in pain but did not back down. For a brief moment, I looked over and saw Aethelstan in a similar situation to myself, while a man I recognised watched on, somewhat amused by the events.

We continued for a little while longer, until I finally managed to get him onto the cold floor and slit his throat. When securing that he was dead, I jumped up to see, again, Aethelstan in a similar situation. He lunged towards me, engulfing me in a warm hug, blood and mud filling the small distance between us.

"Y/N, you should not have joined, you could have been killed" His voice stern, but his eyes soft.

"If I had not have come here, you may have been killed and that, my love, would have caused a war unlike any battle you have seen" I said softly.

"I am sorry, I should not have screamed at you in such a way" he said, I pulled away and looked up at him.

"Why were you so hurt?" He shrugged at my question , "I don't know, I just do not like seeing anyone other than Uhtred train you. Well and myself of course" He explained and then began to laugh as he said "it does sound quite idiotic when I speak it out loud though". I smiled as he laughed "It is okay, you are protective, I like it" I reasoned. Aethelstan's laugh continued as he said "clearly you are too" and pointed towards the two corpses on the floor.

Soon, the others joined us, and with that, Aethelstan bragged, with pride about what had happened.

[evilkitten3]

in apathy!russell's defense, it's not like saxon seems to matter much at all outside of giving me an id and mireille's situationship with him. his only discernible character traits are "vague sickness" and "old man" and he's 45 years old

ooh missed this last time around

[historia-vitae-magistras]

Part Eight: Summons

First Installment: Here.

Last Installment: Here.

Current Installment: You are here!

Author's note: Inspired by the 1950s short story "The Man Who Came Early" by Poul Anderson. Red Sail Hall Present Day

“Don’t you dare,”

Arthur’s hand froze over Cromwell’s skull as Rhys slapped his fingers away and down and snatched up bone, gripping the jawless head by the temples and pulling it from reach. Arthur went to take it from him, but they froze as Matthew rolled over from his place and bundled into a quilt. When he didn’t wake, Rhys snapped his gaze back to Arthur, and he found himself being dragged from the study with its electric faux fire and his son draped over the sofa, sleeping like the dead. They were suddenly in the hall, and he found himself pinned against the wall by his brother’s forearm. “You are not waking mother again.”

Arthur thrust the arm away but found he couldn’t move Rhys. He’d always been denser, compact and heavy like a lead ingot. “I don’t need to. I only need the skull and the spring.”‌

“For what? You delusional bastard. Do you fancy you can open a portal?‌ You can barely make a curse box without me, much less this deep in your cups. And you are not sullying her grave with that man’s bones.”

“I have Alfred to consider. Don’t pretend you have the—”

“It’s my name he bears, you bloody bastard. How Saxon do you think Jones is? Hm? All of your children are as much us as they are you. Including Alfred.”‌

“Would you be reasonable?”

“No.” Rhys was very close, a spring force as he stood straight.

“Since when do you—”

“Since you rolled out of a bloody fairy ring and into my lap.” He prodded Arthur towards the stairs. “I am not letting you run off half-cocked because it’s easier to hurl yourself into a void than feel a fucking emotion. This isn’t you tossing yourself into a ship and running; this is a paradigm shift in the universe, you daft cunt.”

“Rhys—”

“May Mother strike me dead before I‌ lose two nephews and a brother at once,” He was very close now, and sometimes ‌Arthur remembered why there was a dragon on every flag his brother used. “You are a grown fucking man with four grown children. Take a fucking avomine, sleep more than thirty seconds, and we’ll make a move in the fucking morning. Go.”‌

Burial Mound, Cumbria The Next Morning

Matthew knows he is dying when his uncle’s arms catch and hold him and he doesn't care. He has bled to death more than once. His shoulder had nearly been torn from his body once; a lobsterback cavalryman had broken an infantry formation he’d been caught in trying to run from the cannon fire. The bare faces of his arm bones saw the sky that day. He never ran away from a fight again. He was a century older when a gaping cavern of flesh appeared where his belly once was. A‌ piece of shrapnel severed his spine and his jugular. And blasted a hole through his front. This is worse. This is much worse, but Alasdair kisses his head, and Matthew stands, blank and unmoving.

He has said goodbye to the two who were once his siblings, and he hopes the squeeze they gave him isn't the last good thing he ever feels. Now he is without them, standing before the ruins of a chapel. Trees soar to the sky, older than most in England, but spaced like the posts of a palisade. He can hear running water and whispers. Aunt Brighid is there. Father asks her something. Softer than he ever does, and she stands tall.

“I‌ wove the spells into his cradle, I‌ will not damn him to a grave so far from home. And the past is another country.”

His father is not often speechless, but the novelty is not enough to stop the bleeding. There is no trace of red, but he wishes it would be over, that it could all seep into the earth and let him go—anything to make the silence end. Even a scream will not pierce it now; it lays so thick over his thoughts. He is dying. Uncle Rhys lights a torch, then two more. Even here, lifting light, Matthew is redundant. He can only follow as his father and uncles follow their sister, lingering behind as she walks ahead. Alasdair, Rhys, and last, Arthur. Perhaps the first time in a thousand years his father has not led. His uncles carve sharp shapes into old indentations softened by exposure. His father cuts his hand and presses blood into the runes until it drips into the furrows and inks their carvings into contrast with the darkness. Matthew cannot read the shapes. His aunt sings, and he does not understand the words. As he always has, he clings to the tree line and watches others do their work. Something in him wants to die. Something in him knows his will, drowning in silence that will not let him hear his own voice anymore.

A woman’s figure appears. His father’s mother, but not his grandmother. Her time is too far gone for him to know her now if he ever did. Matthew’s hands are shaking now. They speak more words he does not understand. The Welsh vowels and little pieces of Scots Gaelic he can hear refuse to make any sense. He knows Gaelic the way he does his French, as natural as breathing, but he cannot put meaning to sound, and nothing makes sense. He wishes he would bleed to death already.

Then, Life.

His world broke open with a song. He doesn’t know which one. Something about a republic and grapes of wrath: the chorus is the laugh of North America, showing teeth and soaring like the sky. Alfred. A‌ branch nearly takes his head off as he smashes through the trees towards the sound. More laughter. His world was born from a bolt of it centuries before. The pool of a spring lap at the stones of the edge, and the water sings in his brother’s voice for a moment before Matthew realizes the sound is below the water. There is no bottom of the pool; the stone edges descend into a black abyss. He would not have understood the depth of it even a moment before Alfred cut himself free from their reality. Kneeling, he touched the edges of the stone and knew the rounded channels locking into place were his uncles doing, the same dry stone construction of a broch.

“Mattie,” Alfred spoke, only barely damped by the water. A week without Alfred and he'd lost more love than Francois had given him in 150 years. Just a thread of it wound around his heart, hearing his name on the piano notes of his brother's laugh and pulled him forward.

He dove.

[akuma-tenshi]

found a twitter thread of people sending their favourite tumblr posts and it was an absolute goldmine of new content to make into end roll shitposts

gory sprites and spoilers for the entire game under the cut

[harrisonarchive]

At the Billboard Music Awards, December 9, 1992; photo by Reed Saxon/AP. (Both speeches can be viewed here.)

“George was the kind of guy who wasn’t going to leave until he hugged you for five minutes and told you how much he loved you. We knew where we stood with each other. […] I loved him so much, and if he had never played a note, I would have been so blessed to have him in my life. […] I'm just blessed by God to have known him. He had so much love in him. I realized it more with him gone that he was just pure love.” - Tom Petty, Rolling Stone, January 17, 2002

“‘Me and George have something somewhere where we're connected,’ Petty says with a laugh. ‘Some past life or something.’” - Pulse!, April 1999

“[George] was so funny, it’s hard to explain. He was the funniest guy I ever met. Such a keen sense of humor. A lot of fun. A wise person. He really wanted to know the meaning of it all. But at the same time, he was really light-hearted and tremendous fun. [Laughs] Just tremendous fun. And we got along so well. There’s really not a day that I don’t think about him.” - Tom Petty, Conversations With Tom Petty (2005)

“George [passing away] devastated me. I didn’t think George could die. It so ripped my heart out that I still can’t think about it.” - Tom Petty, Billboard, December 2005

“George came along, and we just got so close; it was like we had known each other in some other life or something. We were pals within minutes of meeting each other. I remember him saying to me a couple of days after we’d known each other — he’s just hugging me, holding me, saying, ‘Tommy, you’re in my life now whether you like it or not.’ It was like I’d been sent the very person I needed. He healed a lot of wounds.” - Tom Petty, Petty: The Biography (2015)

“I went through a bad period, you know, when my house burned… Just kind of one of those great gifts to run into Jeff and George like I did at that time. They probably don’t even realize it, but it really took away a lot of the pain.” - Tom Petty, In The Studio With Redbeard, 1989 (x)

“God I miss him you know. I miss him in the night a lot.” - Tom Petty, Concert for George microsite

“And so much has happed to me that you wouldn’t believe. I’m not gonna try to tell it all to you, but I’m thinking right now about one particular thing. I was looking out there - I know so many people here. Mo, Mo and Olivia [Harrison] are out there. I love Mo and I love Liv. Me and George Harrison and Jeff Lynne one night were at Mo Ostin’s house - this was before, we were just working on the idea of the Traveling Wilburys - and I had written this song ‘Free Fallin’’ and done the record and taken it to my label, MCA. And they rejected the record. And that had never happened to me before. I was like, wow, what do I do? So, we forgot about it. And we were at Mo’s house and dinner ended and George said, ‘Let’s get the guitars out and sing a little bit.’ And we sang and George said, ‘Let’s do that “Free Fallin’” Tom. Play that.’ So we had a kind of Wilbury arrangement of it with harmony. And we did it. And Lenny Waronker is sitting there, he said, ‘That’s a hit.’ With two acoustic guitars, you know? I said, ‘Well, my record company won’t put it out.’ And Mo says, “I’ll f*****’ put it out.” - Tom Petty, MusiCares speech, February 10, 2017 (x)

“I have a special fondness for him [Tom]. It makes you feel a little bit safer to know that someone like Tom is there for you. It’s a good umbrella to be standing under.” - Olivia Harrison, Petty: The Biography (2015)

“What makes Tom Petty a unique live performer is that he is a storyteller. His Florida drawl and the meter of his speech are engaging. Even his everyday observations sound more like tales, and whether he is singing or speaking you'll hear truisms in his words. I call him Aesop Wilbury.” - Olivia Harrison, Billboard, March 20, 2006

“Petty 'had a great bullshit detector – he didn’t suffer fools, just like my dad,’ says Dhani Harrison. While Petty and George Harrison 'were kind of stone-y, mellow dudes, they had that toughness. They’d kick your ass. But they loved the same stuff – ukuleles, motor racing. They would go to the Formula One races together.’ George 'really felt at ease with Tom,’ Dhani says, 'because it was like having another you next to you. There were more eyes watching out for you.’“ - Rolling Stone, 18 October 2017

“Tommy is just, like, the loveliest guy in the entire world. [...] [H]im and Jeff [Lynne] have been the nearest things I’ve had to a dad since I lost my dad.” - Dhani Harrison, Premier Guitar, January 16, 2018 (x)

[seriously-mike]

Don't Fear Your Tears, Binge on Your Cringe

So, there's shitstorm brewing lately that Tears for Fears' new album uses AI-generated imagery for the cover and related promotional purposes, and rightly so because on that level of money and fame not hiring an actual artist to make those for you feels insultingly cheap. Also, just look at this:

This is some ridiculously basic bitch shit cooked with zero effort in Bing Image Creator. Look, if I'm disgusted, you know it sucks shit big time. It's as bad as Saxon's video for "Madame Guillotine".

So, I thought "fight AI with AI" and came up with a chorus that skewered the idea, asked for 80s synthpop with male vocals, got the right vibe in the first batch. Then, it kinda went downhill from there.

"You want Tears for Fears' new single? But we have Tears for Fears' new single at home!"

This is the cheapest kind of Temu knockoff that I could accept, and since it's in English and relevant to current events, I'm expecting a shitton of hits in no time. Hell, if the short teaser clip featuring the chorus exploded right out of the gate, I'm expecting the full version to be a smash on par with the original Chinchilla song.

But, the lyrics:

There was a day I ruled the world, When I made people shout, Girls fell head over heels for me, Then we had a falling out, I laid so low, and tears rolled down, I broke it down again, Then by some kind of God’s mistake Dined with the Kings of Spain I want a spaceman, Standing in the field, Made by an AI, People will be thrilled! I want the limelight, I want to get laid, And I don’t give a shit If the artist gets paid! I want the limelight, I want to get laid, And I don’t give a shit If the artist gets paid! (See!) I rode the wave and I forgot About how much he sucks, And then he just called me one day To help him pay some tax, This happy ending, a fresh start, The crowd will love this crap, We’re going past the tipping point, And numbers spin back up I want a spaceman, Standing in the field, Made by an AI, People will be thrilled I want the limelight, I want to get laid, And I don’t give a shit If the artist gets paid! I want the limelight, I want to get laid, And I don’t give a shit If the artist gets paid! (Say!) The getting’s good, we’re on the road, Touring with some old hacks, We rule the world with our old hits, But we still need new tracks, We’re nervous and we’re getting old, So let’s run a new scheme, The cover of our record will Be designed by machines! I want a spaceman, Standing in the field, Made by an AI, People will be thrilled I want the limelight, I want to get laid, And I don’t give a shit If the artist gets paid! I want the limelight, I want to get laid, And I don’t give a shit If the artist gets paid! (SUCKERS!)

If you look up the history of Tears for Fears on Wikipedia, you'll see an absolute shitton of references to their songs and albums, particularly in the first verse. There are also references to the acrimonious split between Orzabal and Smith and the unusual reason they reunited (basically, Smith moved to the US and after several years asked Orzabal to sort out some bureaucratic issue regarding his UK property).

It wasn't that difficult to write, considering that once I spent almost two months on trying to put together a song based on Minsc's quotes from Baldur's Gate 2. The total creation time for this one was a couple of hours, including the video for Youtube. And please do remember that the lyrics are all-natural, free-range, fair-trade, hand-crafted and GPT free.

[ladyinred2248]

The Offering (Finan x Luna) Part 2

Warnings: Mature themes, MINORS DNI

Word Count: Long :) Ha!

Summary: Finan can hardly contain how he feels as he travels with Luna and Uhtred's men to Saltwic. Setting is Season 3, Episode 5-6.

*******************************************************************************************

Dawn approached, giving light to the horizon as the men gathered belongings and supplies. Sihtric began readying the horses to ride to Saltwic. 

Luna heard stirring outside the tent and opened her eyes. She had slept through the whole night, not waking once. She turned and glanced toward the ground at her bedside to search for Finan, but he had already gone. Luna turned on her back and sighed as she rubbed her eyes. A moment passed as Luna breathed silently, looking up when Finan entered the tent, dressed in armor and seemingly prepared to get going to Aethelflaed’s estate, not seeming tired from yesterday’s battle.

“Good morning, little lady!” He rang out. “Come, let’s eat and get going. You are riding with me.”

Luna groaned as she rolled to her side and sat up at the edge of the bed. She brushed her hair back and looked at him standing near her, a smile on his face. She smiled back and began to put her boots on.

“Make haste, lady, and put on your clothing so that I am not tempted to delay our trip,” he commanded and winked at her.

“Yes lord,” she whispered, teasing him. Finan took a deep breath and walked out of the tent. Luna finished getting dressed and gathered her belongings. She had a quick breakfast with Sihtric by the ashes of what had been their firepit the night before. The men seemed relieved to be getting back onto the road, even if the journey ahead was long. “Will Aethelflaed except me?” She asked Sihtric. 

“Of course she will,” he answered. “She is tolerant and accepting of our differences. And I don’t think you have anything to worry about now with the Irishman guarding you.” He smirked. 

“Luna, let’s go lady!” Finan shouted as he prepared to mount his horse. He had prepared Osferth a cart to ride in for recovery and planned for Luna and him to ride behind to keep an eye on his baby monk.

Luna came over to him swiftly. “I’m ready, lord.”

Finan smiled at her as he looked into her eyes. “Up ya go, darling.” He said as he helped her onto the horse. He swiftly mounted up behind her, and firmly wrapped his arms around her waist as he scooted her back against his groin and chest with a yelp from her at the surprise. He grabbed the reins and nudged the horse forward. 

They had been on the road for a week, taking short stops for rest. Finan had kept his focus almost entirely on Luna, having late night conversations and always trying to find ways to make her laugh. God, she is so cute when she laughs, he thought every time she held her belly in unrelenting laughter after some stupid joke he made with the other men. Sihtric seemed most happy to have her around, and Uhtred caught the similarities between the two as he observed Luna’s temperament and personality. He began to enjoy having her around too, and took note of how happy Finan seemed to be as well. It was probably the most joy he had ever seen from Finan.

Finan held Luna tight as they journeyed toward Saltwic, not letting her go for a second. She eventually relaxed into his embrace after many days of travel, leaning her head back and against his chest. She could smell his musky, woodsy scent on his skin and it made her wish that he would drag his hand to her inner thighs, or stop for a rest and take her in the woods to relieve the ache that had been building for him in her core for what seemed like never ending days.

This man is a Saxon, an Irishman who worships the Christian God, she thought. It goes against everything I believe in. And here I am, submitting to his grasp and claim on me. Oh gods, but I want him to…

Finan felt Luna stir and adjust herself in front of him. He leaned his mouth to her ear to speak, “Lady, we will be stopping soon once we find a good place to camp. I can tell you are getting restless.” He whispered in her ear with his raspy accent.

“Yes, Lord.” She replied. With that, he wrapped his hand across her lower stomach and pulled her closer once again. She gasped at the surprise.

What is this woman doing to me? Finan thought as he held her close, trying hard to not let the blood rush to his cock. I am being too forward with this woman, but God she tempts me… how can I keep my hands off of her? I desire to protect her, keep her near me… and God it would be amazing to touch that body with my hands, and have her all to myself. Her screaming my name…

Finan lightened his grip on her as he now shifted as well and took a deep breath.

“Getting restless, Lord?” Luna asked teasingly as she looked back at him.

“Luna,” he began, “as much as I like the thought of being your lord - you can call me Finan.” He said as he smiled down at her and saw her gazing up at him innocently.

“I only serve who I desire to serve lord,” she replied as she brought her hand to his thigh and pinched it with her fingernails. 

That’s it woman, he thought. Now you are really going to get it. Fuck.

“Mm” he growled in her ear. Suddenly, he nudged the horse into quicker motion and strayed from the others.

“Finan! Where are you going?” Uhtred yelled. 

“I will meet you up ahead, Lord,” Finan yelled back. “Go on, we’ll catch up.”

Finan rode Luna quickly to a familiar clearing off the road that he and the other men had camped before on another journey. It was beautifully covered with low hanging trees and grasses, with a small river stream just ahead.

Luna’s heart beat erratically in her chest as she knew this was the first time they had been alone, and it had been on purpose. Finan dismounted the horse and helped her down as well, keeping a strong grip on her hips. 

“Luna,” he whispered as he began trailing kisses on her neck. “I can’t stop myself any longer.”

She whimpered as he continued to kiss her neck, now bringing her hand to the back of his head and through his hair, a slight shake in her hands as her body became engulfed with yearning for him. 

“I won’t have you here,” he whispered. “Don’t worry.” He said, sensing her nervousness as he grabbed her hands in his and kissed her palms. She sighed as she gazed deeply into his dark, brown eyes. She stayed silent as he looked at her intently, cupping her cheek with one of his palms.

“Do you want me as much as I want you?” He asked, his voice almost a growl. 

“Yes, lord, please…” she whispered before she brought her lips to his fiercely. They kissed back and forth passionately as they gripped one another, Finan holding her strongly against his body. She felt his hard cock in his trousers and let out a soft moan. He pulled himself away from their kiss after a few minutes, groaning as he placed his forehead to hers. “We must go and catch the others, sweet girl.”  He muttered under his breath. She nodded as he forcibly turned her around swiftly, still pressing himself to her body with him now behind her, his groin pressing into her behind as he brought his hand across her neck gently. “Yes, lord” she replied with a sigh, now aching to feel his body without clothing and at a complete lack of words. 

“We shall be at Saltwic before dusk,” he said, “and before the night ends you will be mine.”

He assisted her back on the horse, chuckling as he witnessed her flushed cheeks and chest. He joined behind her and quickly nudged the horse back to the road. Luna suddenly couldn’t stop smiling as they road back.

“Well that was quick,” Uhtred teased as Finan and Luna fell back in line with the other men on the road.

“It was just a private conversation, lord.” Finan replied with a smirk. Sihtric looked at Luna and chuckled. Sihtric felt protective over his sister, but he also felt trusting of Finan and his treatment of women. He could only bring her bliss, he thought.

@gemini-mama @sihtricfedaraaahvicius @bhxrdy @valeskafics @king-alfred @persephones-journey @finanhasmyheart @tlkfaerie

@mojosdumpingground