#Warrior of Mercia

[coloursofunison]

Eagle of Mercia is a BookBub deal in the UK, Canada and Australia today

Eagle of Mercia is a BookBub deal in the UK, Canada and Australia today #histfic #BookBubdeal #BookBargain

[tlkfaerie]

Ribbons ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚

pairing: Finan x reader

a/n: Response to a lovely request! My first request, actually! Finally doing a solo Finan piece :) A bit soppier than I had originally planned, but I love it and I love Finan soooooo. Also the circumstance / sequence of events aren't entirely accurately in line with the events of the show but we move.

MDNI!18+ : TW finan x reader, dom!finan, virgin!reader, virginity loss, manhandling, kissing, very brief mentions of loss, fingering, p in v sex, confessions of love, slight breeding!kink

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔ 　　　.   　　˚　　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　

Things were tense when the men staggered back to the stronghold. They had won their latest battle involving Mercia and Bloodhair, though at the cost of a disastrous curse upon Uhtred's family. You selfishly prayed for Finan's safety, despite the two of you not being together. You were great friends, and though the others were familiar to you too, it was Finan that you truly wished to return in one piece.

You spent your time at home praying for the souls of those who had been lost, thinking about the wise words that Hild so graciously bestowed on you. You felt her absence more than ever, needing her sweet guidance, but aware that she was already spread thin. Everyone was.

As winter crept into your home, you wallowed slightly, missing everyone. But you had a duty, an alehouse to run. It was where you had met everyone originally, and had turned into somewhat of a cornucopia for Coccham. You knew that in order to keep spirits high, you'd have to open it up and welcome everyone in. Your hearth was where you had first met Finan, sitting with Uhtred as the two of them laughed. Hild had introduced you, and your speechlessness was the source of several laughs.

You had sat with them on the table that night, laughing with Hild, who you truly saw as your aspiration. Uhtred noticed this, joking about how you reminded him of his children, which had made you huff slightly. You were embarrassed of this, but Finan assured you that you were alright, muttering some joke about how you clearly had the spirit of a warrior within you to deal with these drunken men.

It had been a slow night, but you would rejoin them when you could, smiling at Finan every now and then. Finan's eyes had scrunched up too, but his lingering look had you blushing all throughout the night. From then on, the warriors had frequented your place. You and Finan would often sit and chat. He loved that he could talk to you. For once, it was not about war, or combat, or blasted shield walls. He was sick to death of hearing the names Alfred or Edward, and you gave him peace from all of that.

It filled you with warmth to see everyone so carefree and jolly, especially as it was your father's wish when he opened the alehouse to make an honest place of it. Every now and then, a regular face would vanish, and you felt it like a sting in your core, but you carried on nevertheless.

You lived just above the alehouse, walking down the steep wooden steps as you tried to alleviate your chill. Nothing seemed to work. Lighting candles and preparing some food for the hungry travellers that would arrive soon. You had heard news that the travelling party were returning from Winchester within the next few hours, feeling sadness at the inevitable loss and pain that would be felt all through the town, but also the deep, hidden feelings of desire that you so heavily pushed to one side.

Every time you saw Finan leave, you felt a tinge of regret within you. After all, he was Uhtred's right hand man by all accounts, and great responsibilities were often given to him. What if he were to never return? You supposed it was silly to think more of your confessions being told than him returning with his life, but you were sick of pushing down these feelings. You felt like some sort of angel when his gaze fell on you, which it did, often. And when he would come in for a final glass of ale, though what you didn't know is that he was really just looking for an excuse to talk to you.

He had seemed grave when you saw him last, trying to keep smiling at you but looking away darkly every now and then. You, none the wiser, had given him a cheerful departure, promising a full meal for him and his friends upon his return. You had assured him that the plate would be waiting for him, only if he came home in one piece. The gesture was halfhearted, though to him it was a challenge. He had left beside Uhtred, meditating upon his horse about you.

You.

Finan really, really loved you. He was always incredibly outgoing, and so you assumed he would just wed someone more like him, but Finan dreamed of you almost every night. It tortured him that he was so quick with his words, and yet they seemed to disappear from him whenever he saw you. Your plump lips, your wide eyes, full of life and unsoiled by the rot of death. You were the exact opposite of what he encountered on his missions and tasks, and though he loved his life alongside his trusted Lord, he wanted something to do it all for. And that something was you. He would make sure of that.

As both of your feelings nearly spilled over each other, it was time for someone to do something.

It seemed like you had wasted your whole day, silently waiting for the evening to come, when finally, you heard some commotion - your heart sent flashes of longing through you. You felt somewhat pathetic, watching the door of your alehouse for that specific person to come through. But, when you know, you know.

Suddenly, a stream of townsfolk walked in. Some came holding hands, some even came with their children, which you didn't mind, offering them some meat pies and ruffling their hairs. You spoke with some of the women, delighted to have their husbands back and eager to get you away to spend time with them soon. You joked about being stuck behind the brewery, handing out copious pints of ale. Within the next twenty minutes, your hands were so sticky that you started flapping them furiously.

Finally, you made your way outside, wanting to do a round of everyone sitting on the benches. There, you found Finan and Osferth. Sihtric was over in the corner, with his wife, the two of them beckoning you towards them.

Giving them quick greetings, you drunk in some of the news from Sihtric, who informed you that Uhtred was still in Winchester for some time with Hild, and that he had suffered a great loss. Your head bowed at that, not wanting or needing to know any more. You wished the both of them and their children well, before granting a weak smile to the two men now before you.

Osferth gave a weak smile, fondly remembering happier times in the alehouse and wishing he could match his previous energy. You hugged him tightly, knowing he was more sensitive and newer to the trade of being a warrior, though you didn't expect him to hold on so tightly to you. You sunk into his unfamiliar embrace for a moment, before Osferth pulled away.

And there he was. Finan. You had never seen him looking more tired, slightly long hair giving him a dishevelled look. Though equally, he was beautiful. No amount of sadness could take away the kind, observant look in his eyes. He seemed to be in his own world, and you didn't want to disturb, but then he looked at you, and the faintest smile stretched onto his lips.

You wanted Finan to hold you. You wanted his warm embrace then and there, but something told you it would take a little more time. His brows are furrowed and a strong wrinkle emerges between them, telling you that he is far from relaxed. You gulp slightly, the promise of a meal still hanging in the air.

With a hand still on Osferth's shoulder, you said nothing as you gave him an empathetic nod, tilting your head and smiling as best as you could. Your chest filled with relief when his little wrinkle disappeared. The shadows lifted just slightly, and there he was. He understood you somehow, an unspoken look flittering between you, and then you were gone.

There was so much you wanted to talk to Finan about. You ached to have your friend back, even if that dynamic did pain you. He still came to the tavern, even when Uhtred returned, though he was unusually silent as weeks flew by. Even as things picked up and spirits were back to normal, Finan seemed to be stuck somehow.

You entertained mostly Uhtred and Sihtric most nights, helping them heal ever so slightly with perhaps a little too much ale. You had even begun watering it down less, which did not go unnoticed by them. You prayed with Osferth too, mostly to keep him company.

It wasn't until a whole month had passed that you could no longer take it. Finan's usual loud voice could no longer be something of the past. You needed to tell him how you felt. You knew that you had to do something tonight.

You spent far too long in the mirror during the hour before you would open. You knew it would be a busy night, as the snow had finally ceased, and people were no longer cooped up in their homes. They would want warm drink and entertainment, and you would give them just that.

"Come on, Y/N." You nudged yourself, looping two ribbons into the two braids that you had meticulously gathered with your unruly hair, pinching your cheeks before letting out a slight laugh. You hadn't realised just how much you truly valued Finan's entire personality until it changed whenever you came near. Surely freshening up a bit would impress him?

Meanwhile, as though he was mirroring you, Finan ran his hands through his hair, sitting patiently in his own company. He had been surrounded by his loud companions all day, laughing and working, enjoying any semblance of peace that he could. The Irishman thought of nothing but you, however, and felt that if he did not do something soon he would combust into a million pieces.

Truthfully, after his last visit to Mercia, he had pulled back from you slightly. He needed you so deeply, but couldn't bear the thought of making you wait around for him, worrying if he would come home or not. There was also the additional danger of his weapons everywhere, his being at Uhtred's side constantly, and the threat of having something so precious to him be so targeted. He wanted you more than he wanted to breathe.

After that first day where you had been babbling to Hild in your alehouse, he was stunned. He was in awe of how you ran the place, even with the death of your father, never allowing anyone to step on your toes, even though he would have been more than willing to help. He admired your trust in things, never fearing of the worst, unlike he had. Since his days on the ship, all he had craved was something, anything, to come home to.

Nothing had filled that space until he saw you prancing around the alehouse, clumsily spilling drinks and shaking your sticky hands in his face to annoy him, your loud laughter echoing in his mind even now as he had tried to pull you into the mess you had made.

The memory shone in his mind, so prominent that he quite literally couldn't think straight. He didn't want to be absent towards you now, but his very existence intermingling with yours was a threat to your life, and perhaps your happiness. Could he do that to you?

As the tavern bustled into life, you couldn't stop fiddling with your braids. Some of your friends had offered to touch them up, which only worried you more, but they teased you still, pinching your cheek when you had confessed to them what you were going to do tonight.

You would your hands into the handles of at least ten cups, delivering them to the table of several hefty warriors who barely fit on your stools, making a mental note to get some warrior-friendly seating arranged.

"Here you are boys," you greeted them lightly, recognising a few, particularly Uhtred, who looked like he had seen better days. His hair was loose, strewn all over his face, but a smile graced his face, which reassured you.

"You might want to slow down, Lord," you teased, anticipating his reaction. He cocked his brow, piercing blue eyes observing you graciously. "Y/N, you're too good to me. Too good." He raised a glass to you, and you playfully rolled your eyes, a renewed sense of confidence overtaking you.

As you were about to turn around, you collided with hard leathers, belonging to a very firm chest. Towering above you was Finan. You quickly fiddled with your braid, hoping he would be enticed by them. So stupid, you thought to yourself.

"Have you forgotten what incredibly handsome men look like, or are you just surprised to see me?" said Finan, voice just above a whisper. Your eyes widened at his question, hand coming up to slap his bare arms. He hadn't been this perky in a while, and it shocked you, to say the least. You were happy to see him back to normal. Though he always carried an air of dominance with him, the softer side of him was always welcome.

There was a strange determination in his eyes, as if he had woken up. "Trust me, with you in front of me every day, I could hardly forget what a handsome man looks like." Your emboldened state of mind matched his newfound confidence, and the two of you were back to being the same people that you were when you first met. Finan forgot, just for a second, about the reek of death and its hanging in the air.

Instead, he took you in. Your fresh braids, which he suspected you had done just for him. He felt so warm, even in the bitter winter, and your eyes gazing at him as though he was the kindest man on earth brought him more security than anything else in the world.

His presence alone was enormous. You had to shake your head to remember what you were really here to say to him. He had laughed at your previous remark, taking the confident proudly.

"You look so beautiful, Y/N." he stated fondly, content to spend the rest of the night with you. Your cheeks heated at his words, and you looked away, but not before his strong hands found your chin, raising your face to meet his brown eyes once more. He simply could not wait any longer.

"You always look beautiful, and I'm sorry if I've ever made you feel like you aren't", he huffed, acknowledging his own mental absence. You felt the tenderness in his touch, against the rough scarring on his hands. You smiled sadly, wishing he didn't have to be treated so roughly. Your softer hands found his, holding them tightly.

"I suppose I sh-" but before he could finish his sentence, he was interrupted by a loud crash. You were quick to inspect the commotion, not realising that the two of you were still firmly holding hands. It hadn't occurred to you until his grip tightened, dwarfing your entire hand in his. You couldn't help but smile, especially when you discovered what the scene before you was all about.

Two women were having at it, fighting like animals. These were women you knew, and so you were shocked to see them go at one another, enough even to draw blood. You considered for a moment why two familiar faces would be fighting, but the two had recently mentioned their escapades with Osferth, who was a babbling mess at the scene before him.

Finan cursed. Truly, he couldn't help but laugh. Of course, this stupid baby monk would intervene in some way, he thought to himself. You giggled at Osferth's expression as the women were finally separated by Finan, who begrudgingly let go of your hand. He felt so juvenile, clinging to you like a crush, but he simply couldn't help himself.

"Umm, I thought monks weren't allowed to hump," was all he said, before leaving the poor boy to defend for himself, returning to you. As he walked over, you felt the life reemerge within him. He was smiling so much you almost couldn't take it.

"Now that's a hero," you laughed as he spread his arms out, congratulating himself. You couldn't keep yourself from moving about, however, unable to stay still in his presence. Your mind constantly filtered through possibilities of what he was about to tell you, meanwhile your own looming confession was being stuffed further and further back in your mouth. You weren't entirely sure what he was going to say to you. Perhaps he was going to tell you to stay away from him . . .

Any suspicions of his rejection, however, were entirely forgotten when both of his hands came to cup your face. The act felt so intimate that your legs almost quivered, and you braced yourself to fall over. His head leaned back slightly, and he breathed heavily, taking you in. Finan, filled with confidence, had bee brought to his knees by you. You and your ribbon braids.

"Can we talk somewhere, please. Perhaps when it's a little less busy, lady?" you understood, but couldn't help the frustration that grew within you as your conversation was prolonged yet again. You simply nodded, but that didn't seem to be enough for him, judging by his widening eyes.

"After closing, Finan, come up the stairs, I'll be in my room." You hadn't realised just how suggestive that sounded until Finan's eyes widened even more, and he cocked his head with a cheeky grin, retorting something about you being more forward than ever. You slapped his chest, mocking his childishness, though before you could fully manage to hit him, he grabbed your wrist with ease.

His arm flexed, and he quickly pulled you in, your feet stumbling to keep up with his strength, until you felt his breath on your face, and you were close enough to be touching his lips.

"Quite the invitation, lady," he half joked, but in reality, he as already counting down the hours. "I will be there, Y/N."

After what felt like the longest night in history, the last of the crowd finally retreated from the alehouse. You were itching to see Finan. Since the two of you last spoke, you had barely seen him. Uhtred was shamefully taken home by Sihtric, who you were amazed was sober. The rest of the men and women left together, and you said your final goodbyes, closing the doors. This time, however, you didn't lock them.

You trudged upstairs, tiredness hitting your body. After hours, you finally took a seat on the edge of your bed, fiddling with the silly plaits that you had worried so much over. You sensed Finan's presence when there was a slight moan of old wood being pressed as he walked up to meet you. You had so much to say to him you could hardly contain yourself, rising from your sitting position.

Finan gave a polite knock, but didn't bother waiting, bending under the doorframe before returning to his natural state, giving you an incredibly sheepish look. You stuttered slightly, but told him to sit. You quickly realised that a man had never been up to your room. It was spacious enough, with a large bed of furs and enough space for plenty of candlelight.

"Please, sit, Finan." you held your hand out as if to show him the way, guiding yourself to the edge of your bed. Finan let out a small laugh at your sudden formality, bending as if giving you a mocking bow before sitting next to you.

Even though he had been the one to initiate conversation last time, you made it your mission to get there before him, wanting to get your own point across before he said anything to you.

"Finan, I have to tell you," you started, feeling an awful mist of tension heating up your body suddenly, " I just - I hate," you sighed in frustration, groaning as you could hardly get the words out. Finan seemed heavily amused, beckoning you to continue.

"I just really enjoy when you're here." Pathetic. "And I don't like it when you're gone away for weeks. And I worry for you when you're not here, even though I have faith in you."

Once you break the seal, you can hardly stop. Finan takes in every word as though it is gospel, but you hardly notice as you babble on.

"Obviously you're strong, and umm, and handsome, and you speak well enough to get yourself out of trouble,"

"Oh, do keep going, lady. I've never been so flattered." he raised a hand to his chest, feigning shyness. You glared at him, embarrassment curling itself around your neck, blocking any clear thought from entering your head. Finan quickly sensed your frustration, placing a hand on your thigh to steady you.

But that just made it worse.

"And then I think we're good, but you don't speak to me f-for weeks, Finan. And then you touch my thigh like this!" You could almost laugh at yourself, truly, "and I just want you all of the time, and I think we . . . I think we should be together."

With your final declaration out of the way, you feel a fatal sense of worry overcome your body at his shocked face. The hand on your thigh doesn't move, however. It tightens.

"Y/N," he starts, and you brace yourself for the worst, "Please, I want to be with you too. I stayed distant, because, well because I didn't want anything to happen to you. If I am with you, then I'll have something to actually fight for," he looked down as he continued, clearly stressed, "but then if I have something to fight for I'll have something to lose as well."

You began to understand him clearly. With what he had seen, particularly with recent events, there was always a risk involved. Perhaps what made him so good is that everything he previously needed to protect was always on the battlefield with him. The two of you together would be a constant source of worry for him. You could be kidnapped, taken hostage, injured while he was away.

"But, Finan, every time you've left, nothing has happened to me. I'm here, aren't I? Entirely whole."

"But it's different, or, it would be different," he stressed, hands flying up as he spoke.

"The only difference is I'd be yours. And I want to be yours, Finan."

He looked at you then. Really looked at you. His hand ran through his beard, and any semblance of composure that he had snapped when you bit your lip. Perhaps he was being ridiculous. Perhaps he was thinking about things too deeply. After all, he was an entirely competent warrior. If anything happened, he would be able to solve it.

He could barely control himself any longer, when your hand came to fiddle with the ribbons weaved into your loosening braids. You had never looked more innocent and enticing - he physically couldn't stand what you were doing to him.

Meanwhile, you took note of his chest heaving, feeling your own heartbeat gain speed. You decided to let even more out, noticing his gaze shifting to your hair.

"I plaited these for you, I thought they would impress you." The sheepish truth had you looking down, realising that the two of you had been stupidly restricting one another whilst simultaneously trying to impress one another in a hideously drawn out back and forth. Sorrows had settled, and now you wanted him. You needed Finan.

"They do impress me, most definitely," he assured you, teasing you slightly with his reaction. He found you utterly adorable, that you had done some little change to please him, "but you already caught my attention without the ribbons, Y/N."

The cross around his neck gleamed as it dangled, moving slightly as he leaned down to meet your face as you sat beneath him on the bed. The tenderness of the moment had been replaced by burning passion.

"Finan, I-"

"Say my name again."

"Finan-" You couldn't even finish before his lips crashed into yours. Everything melted away when you kissed. Every semblance of a problem disappeared, and it was just you and Finan. He revelled in the idea that you were his woman, spoiling himself with the very thought of it.

You, meanwhile, were growing incredibly impatient. The man in front of you was something else, his muscles straining as his hands trailed down to your waist and picked you up. You instinctively wrapped your legs around his strong waist, arousal beginning to leak from within you as his grip tightened. He couldn't get enough of you, and he never wanted to let you go.

"I hope you know, love, that I'm keeping you forever." He smiled, adjusting you a little so that you felt the bulge of his crotch just underneath your sex, friction causing you to whine slightly. You weren't entirely sure if Finan was aware that you were a virgin, but the feeling of his body against yours prevented you from saying anything.

"Let me hear you." he demanded as he looked up at you, and thought he was still the Finan you knew, an air of seriousness had overcome him, and the words that came from him were dominating. You understood now how he managed to control armies the way he did.

You buried your head between his neck and shoulder, drooling slightly as you let out a moan at Finan's undying strength. With your undergarments pulled to the side by the stretch of his fingers, he made sure to move you up and down ever so slowly, rubbing against his crotch even more until your naked sex could take it no more.

The fabric of his trousers was an obstacle that you needed to be removed as soon as possible. Though the friction created waves of pleasure, the way he was holding you had you panting for more.

"Please, Finan, take them off." you looked into his eyes, which held an amused stare. He took your worn out image in, unable to believe how lucky he was. Any negative thought about the relationship between you two could be dealt with later, right now he had you securely in his arms, entirely fucked out without him even properly touching you yet.

You fastened your legs around his waist, which made him laugh. "You're telling me what to do now, is it?" truthfully, he would let you do or say anything you wanted. He was wrapped around your little fingers, and he knew it well.

"Love, I can't do what you ask if you continue to cling to me like a pup," he wore a toothy grin on his face, amusement growing in time with your own frustration. You loosened your thighs from his hold, and he set you down gently on your own bed. You fidgeted when you realised what would happen once his trousers were off, if you even managed to wait that long.

You watched him undo his breeches, only to around halfway, not even letting them slide down his legs before he came to you again. You leaned your head into his arm, nuzzling instinctively into his hold like some trained animal. You felt you would burst, declaring "I love you," before he could say anything else.

"I love you too, you and your ribbons." he flicked your braid with his finger, drawing you in to a loving kiss. You were slightly stunned at his lack of hesitation, any precaution having been abandoned by him. Finan felt it as well, the swell of pride that filled him as he announced his love for you, not even questioning the words. He knew them to be true, and he knew that with you as his woman, he was entirely complete.

Your next words, however, did catch him off guard.

"I've never been with a man, Finan." you confessed, maintaining eye contact with him as you waited for his reaction, worrying that he would be less eager to bed you with your inexperience. Finan tried to fight the impure thoughts as they wavered in his brain, unable to keep his hands off you as he thought of a way to reassure you without sounding too patronising, as he usually managed.

When he still didn't say anything, it prompted you to finally look away from him, wondering if he really cared about it as much as you thought.

"Hey, where's my lady gone?" he moved to sit beside you, feeling somewhat of a fool that his bulge was straining against the half of his breeches that still hung from his hips, and you with your dress bunched up so high that all he could think about were the stockings slipping down your delicate thighs. You didn't have the faintest idea of the impact you had on him right now.

He wasn't entirely sure how much more restraint he could exercise. "I don't care about that, I want to be the only man that ever gets to touch you from now on, anyway." he buffed his chest to try and make you laugh, but you didn't give him the satisfaction of laughing, too engrossed in lulling over the words he had just uttered.

"I want to be your only woman, Finan." and with that, you kissed him forcefully, adjusting your body so that you could straddle his frame, his heavy arms wrapping around your waist, bringing you further into his kiss. His hands moved down to your ass, squeezing firmly. Your mouth remained open when he allowed them to slip further down your thigh, toying with the hem of one of your stockings. They were cheap things, made for you with the purpose of convenience, and yet he was treating them like they were pure gold.

"I don't think I'll be sharing you with anyone anytime soon, love," he managed to whisper into your ear, your hands finding his hair and gripping tightly when he inserted two fingers into you, the promise of 'getting you ready for him' hanging in the air. The feeling was unlike anything you had experience, a welcome intrusion to your core. You felt his fingers curl, pushing up as far as they could go, meanwhile his thumb also occupied a space on your clit, rubbing ever so gently whenever he could to bring you pleasure.

You felt your thigh muscles trembling as you still straddled him on your knees, his head on your shoulder, occasionally kissing your neck, creating his own little mark on you. Finan knew he was possessive. He had to remind himself to be gentle with you, however, removing his fingers and inserting them again, wanting to tease you slightly.

You gave a quick tug to his thick hair in retaliation, which he seemed to like as he groaned and leaned back in order to see your face. You couldn't help a satisfied grin, otherwise looking rather empty as you thought of nothing but pleasure.

"Careful there," he said, returning his attention to kissing your neck, marking it with a slight bite. His warm lips on your skin affected you in ways you hadn't thought possible. You wondered why he hadn't put his fingers back inside of you, but you felt him fidget beneath you, until his cock was fully out, brushing back and forth against your sex. The two sensations together, of his lips and his cock, very nearly sent you over the edge embarrassingly soon.

The ghost of pleasure kept pulsating at your core, his hand moving his cock back and forth ever so slowly, sometimes seeming as though he was about to slip in and then releasing altogether from you. You hated it, the absence and the longing, playing tricks with your mind and turning you into some kind of depraved whore.

"Finan, I swear-"

"You swear what, lady?" he taunted you, still not close enough as his arm adjusted its claim around your waist, your breasts squishing into his own chest as you practically kneeled over the top of him, wanting to push him down to finish the job yourself.

"If you don't hump me soon, I will personally ban you from this very alehouse." shocked at your own feistiness, you hadn't imagined Finan to take your word so literally. Before you knew it, your back hit your bed of furs, and Finan now kneeled above you, playing with himself, tugging back and forth, his hard cock so prominent you felt it would break you.

And break you it did. His tip finally breached your walls, before his entire member felt your insides. Your core was so full, so unbelievably full. The pressure seemed to build before he even began to move, and you released several short pants, biting back a moan that he seemed to want to encourage out of you as he moved his hips just slightly, his muscled core meeting your soft, pliable thighs, now up in the air, hanging from his grip.

You were entirely at his mercy, so pliant for him, and so good for him. "I hadn't expected you to listen well, and you proved me right," he started, moving in and out once, so tantalisingly slowly that you felt every curve, vein and pulse going through him, "I told you to be careful, didn't I sweet girl?"

Though he was teasing, he still wanted to make sure you were okay. He didn't move until your face lost the scrunch and your eyes opened to look at him, heavy breathing turning into moans as your impatience move.

"Move, Finan." And that was all he needed to hear, moving in and out of you with some force, his hands clamping into the soft flesh of your thighs, still admiring the stockings that you wore, reminding himself to ask you to wear them more often.

Your lips fell open in a gasp when he sped up even more, soft 'good girls' coming from his lips in murmurs. He let go of one of your thighs, letting your leg fall to the bed, while his free hand now moved to your stomach, pressing down on your core and feeling exactly where he was inside of you. He pumped so rhythmically that you began to think you'd truly reached heaven, the additional pressure applied by his strong hands becoming too much for you.

He watched your face, assessing you to ensure you were still comfortable. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt you in any way. You felt funny, a strange tingling, almost like a warning, reaching your core.

"F-Finan, I think . . ."

He shushed you, understanding what you meant. Who was he to deny such a lovely maiden what she wanted? "Just breathe, Y/N, don't fight it, sweet girl," he guided you, the pressure of his hand increasing. He maintained his pace, feeling your walls tighten and squeeze around him, clamping so hard he struggled to keep up.

"Come on, there we are," he further encouraged, and normally, you'd tell him to shut up, his words embarrassing you slightly, but you were so filled with delicate pleasure that you couldn't risk losing it. The immense pinch in your core finally snapped, and you were coming around him, pumping him for all he was worth as your arousal came to its peak. Your face made him positively weak at the knees.

"There we go," he cooed, his hand coming to your clit to stimulate you more, though you began begging him not to, trying and failing to grab his wrist in the process. You bit your lip instead, eyes all glossy and strained as you looked at your lover as though he was God. Perhaps he was, because no mortal man should have been able to make you feel so good.

"Please come, Finan." you whined sweetly, and he could never deny you as he had done before. He would listen to you if you told him to do anything, let alone come, which he did gladly, pumping you full of his seed, thinking briefly about the pups you could share. The pups that you would share.

His heart pumped ten times as fast as he bred you, vowing to be the only man to touch you ever again. His possessiveness had seemed to grow in the last hour, and he lifted you suddenly onto his lap, caressing the top of your head as you panted in unison.

"We'll speak properly tomorrow," he began, stroking your now undone hair. Your ribbon barely hung on, and you wound it around his fingers, the fabric reminding him of your sweet confession, something that he knew he would tease you about for years to come, but secretly loved, "sleep for now, love."

He stayed awake for most of the night, observing you every now and then, mostly focusing on the sway of the candlelight. He had seen his lord go through so much, and now he had something too precious to lose, he vowed that the same would not happen to him. Even if it cost him his loyalty.

[agreyraincloudd]

Could you do a Sihtric x reader with the promo “don’t act like you don’t know I’m in love with you” ??? ❤️❤️❤️

Sihtric x Reader

Prompt 22. "Don't act like you don't know I'm in love with you"

Words 1.6k

Season 5 spoilers

Thank you to @mrsaugustwalker who also requested this I hope you like ittt

Lots of you requested this with Osferth too but I felt it just fit Sihtric more and I have loads lined up for our baby monk dw

Finan and Uhtred imagines are on their way too you thirsty people

It was Aelfwyn and Cynlaef’s wedding day and your face ached with the pain of smiling so much. You were close friends with the late Aethelflaed and had sworn on her deathbed to protect and guide her child as if she were blood, a task you were willing to die for. Following the battle of Bebbanburg and the safe retrieval of your Queen’s daughter, you returned to Mercia before a Dane messenger sent word of your Godchild’s nuptials. A horrid storm in the midlands had kept you on the road longer than anticipated causing you to miss the vows but as you rode into Bebbanburg, the night creeping in, you realized the festivities had only just begun. 

The city glowed bright with the amber of bonfires and lanterns, tables lined the courtyard piling out from the ale house and the streets were filled with people dancing in arms while others raised their tankards to the happy couple laughing besides who you recognized as Lady Aelswith and her son King Edward. You swallowed, your throat grew tight as you were reminded of your lost friend, how happy she would be at the sight of her family together, her daughter happy. 

“Are you going to stay up there all day?” You looked down from your horse at the voice. Sihtric stood tall, his fingers clasped around your horse's bridle as he pulled you to a stop. Seeing him now made a flood of emotions drown you in seconds. You knew him well having fought beside him many a time. You could recall every moment you spent standing watch with him while Aethelflaed and Uhtred reunited and you could almost recount the various drunken nights Finan had shoved you into him at a table or in an Ale House, but how those evenings ended were left a blur in your memory. 

“I’m trying to consider whether you’re all real standing before me-” You pulled your leg overs your horse and slid down. Both of you knew you could easily manage such a task by yourself, but it didn’t stop Sihtric bringing his hands to your hips, helping place you on the groun as you slid down. Your eyes met his, your expression untelling. “I feel as if we should all be ghosts by now”

He laughed and as if realizing his hands remained on your side, he took a step away and tucked them behind his back. 

“You know we’re all too hard to kill”

“Oh I know” Your face was growing warm as he kept that stupid smirk on his face.  

“Y/N” A drunken voice bellowed from the otherside of the courtyard. 

Finan.

Both you and Sihtric turned as you took a step past him. 

“Trust me, I’ve tried to kill you all many a time now” 

Finan strode over to you, the ale you presumed he drank offering a more loose and smiley warrior as he met you half way with a hug. 

“You’re late. A certain someone hasn’t stopped asking for you all day” He pulled back and attempted a wink.

“Aelfwynn? I tried to send word I’d be late” 

Finan laughed as he looked behind you, smothering his smile with his ale cup. 

“Yeah-sure”

You went to question who he was on about when Sihtric shoved his way between the two of you. 

“Come, I’ll get you a drink. You’re already several behind”

“I can see that”

Sihtric led you through the crowd and with a few stops in between to reunite with friends and congratulate your Godchild, you finally made it to a barrel. The cold liquid rushed down your throat and it felt as if the ale had breathed a relief of life back into you as you looked over the crowd. 

“It’s nice isn’t it?” 

“It is Uhtred” 

The Lord engulfed you in a strong hug that squeezed you into a laughed. You had grown close with him over the years and a strange bond had formed from your protectiveness of Aethelflaed and the loss of both your friend and his lover, only your joint memories left standing. 

“You look well” He smiled as he held you back to fully take you in. 

“I am. But of course the last time you saw me I was caked in blood attempting to help retrieve your homeland”

“And for it I am eternally grateful”

You both smiled as you looked upon a dance circle formed around the biggest fire. 

Aethelstan had his arm looped with Aelfwynn as they circled each other through laughter. Their grandmother stood beaming at them from the edge of the crowd. Finan and Cynlaef’s were doing a similar sort of movement but it resembled more of a strange stumble of drunken old men as they danced. And then your stomach dropped. Sihtric became clear in the firelight, a woman you didn’t realize with her hand in his as she tried to teach him the steps. 

“You should dance with him” Uhtred took a gulp of his ale as you both watched, your arms crossed. 

“He is already dancing”

Uhtred chuckled “So go and take him. He is yours, is he not?” 

You choked on your drink, attempting to cover with a laugh.

“He is not. What makes you think that he was?”

“You are in love with him and he is you”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not-”

“I can see it with your eyes. The first moment you saw him all those years ago in Wessex, your heart burns for him”

You tried to act nonchalant “My heart does not burn-”

“You can lie to me Y/N but I can see it. The way you search for each other during battle, how he stays close to your side whenever he can, how you look at each other. You both breathe for one and other Y/N. It is about time you saw that”

You shook your head.

Uhtred sighed loudly, smiling in disbelief. 

“Why is it Saxon women always give such retaliation to the confession of men? My friend is in love with you, you know that. He has told you many a time-”

“You are both fierce warriors but it seems your bravery falls short when it comes to words Y/N”

Those drunken nights at the ale house. 

You scoffed. Questioning your bravery? You’ll show him. 

You chugged the rest of your drink, slamming the cup down on the barrel behind you. 

Uhtred smirked. You took the bait so easily. 

The ale led you through the rows of people as you joined the clearing around the bonfire. You made your way over to Sihtric but changed in the last step, linking your arm with another man as you spun. 

“Lovely to see you again Pyrlig” 

The monk laughed at the sight of you. 

“Y/N my God’s child. I’m glad to see you have safely returned to us once more” He laughed as you both changed directions and spun away. 

“Good to see you too Father”

Pyrligs smiled as he looked over your shoulder.

“I’m afraid for my safety you must change partners”

Your brows furrowed as you turned to where he looked over your shoulder. 

“What-”

Sihtric appeared once more behind you. He stopped short before linking his hand with yours, pulling you against his chest. 

“I didn’t know you could dance?” You laughed but his face remained void of tells as he looked at you. 

“I don’t but-” God’s the way his hand slid down your back, pulling you closer. “I will dance if it means no one else will get a chance with you besides me”

“You so suddenly want to dance with me?”

He notched his head to the side trying to hide a smirk. 

“ Don’t act like you don't know I'm in love with you”

You froze. 

“Sihtric”

He pulled his hands out of yours, snatching the ale of some bystander, downing the liquid. 

“Why do you never answer me back when I say such things?” He questioned, his eyes saying far more than his forced smile did. 

“Every time you have confessed you have been drunk. How am I to believe your word?”

He pulled you out of the way of the moving dancers. 

“Because you make my mind fog. Every time I look at you it’s as if the words melt away in my mouth. I do not know fear of battle or blood” You moved further through the crowd until you both stood under an archway separating two buildings. -”But every time I have tried to tell you how I feel, I get swallowed by this this breathlessness. But it turns out drunken me forgets all about that when he sees the way you look at him”

You tried not to smile, taking a step toward him.

“And how do I look at you?”

“Like you love me too”

You responded with your lips on his. The kiss was desperate and breathless. His hands fell down your sides and held you tight as he walked back against the wall. Your fingers curled into his hair as you moved. 

“They're kissing” A cheer sounded. You broke the kiss to see Finan with his arm around Uhtred as the two of them raised their cups, the rest of your friends joining in with laughs as they looked upon you and Sihtric. 

The man before you buried his head in the side of your neck in embarrassment before trying to shoo off the others. It was only when Hild appeared, ushering her boys away, did they all disperse leaving you in the arms of the man you loved. 

“Have you really loved me since Wessex?” You looked up at him. 

He went to deny the accusation when he realised it was a lost cause and smiled, red blushing his cheeks. 

“Since the very first moment you pointed your blade at me when we met”

“And everytime after?”

His lips met the skin of your throat, moving down. “I love you more and more” 

[assortedseaglass]

Lacnunga, or, Remedy

Osferth x Reader

Request: i would love to request something for our dear baby monk. maybe reader is a healer and takes care of his wounds and everyone sees that there's something between them but both osferth and reader are too shy to act on it and continue dancing around each other. until that one day when he saves her from drowning or some danes (please pick whatever you're comfortable with) and he realizes he nearly lost her without telling her what he feels and kisses her right there.

I’m so sorry – I lost who requested this!

[Masterlist]

Word Count: 5K

Warnings: One use of bad language. Other than that, none. It’s Osferth.

The thundering of hooves tore apart the dark night’s silence, and your hand instinctively moved to grip the shoulder of the small boy before you. He looked up. Slowly, not daring to breathe, you brought your finger to your lips. He nodded and inched a little closer to your skirts. 

Wintancaester had been on edge since the very word that men of Northumbria had ridden through Mercia, terror left in their wake, and were descending on Wessex’ borders. The King had dispatched Uhtred and his band of warriors to investigate the oncoming horde, but that was weeks ago and no news had come. Nor had the men returned.

The ensuing days were those of dread, the nights full of visions. Bells rang from inside the castle gates at the merest approach of anyone on horseback, sending the city scattering into their dwellings. So why, this night, were the bells silent?

The lad at your knee tugged your skirt. 

“Stay close,” you whispered, heart racing beneath your breast. The hooves were growing louder, so much that you felt the very ground beneath your feet tremble. As the racket neared, the little boy held your legs tighter. It was not until they had passed, their canter quietening, that he let go.

“Come,” you edged to the door of your home, beckoning the child. You opened the wooden it a crack. You could not see the men. Across the way, a few people were peering from their homes, the boy’s mother included. “Straight to your mother now. Run and don’t look back. Go!” 

He ran as quickly as his little legs could take him and you shut the door as swiftly and silently as possible. Hand at your chest, you listened. If they caught him, surely you would hear. You tried not to imagine his poor cries as they wrenched him away. The face of his mother when she confronted you. Why didn’t you keep him safe? And still the bells didn’t ring. What if the northmen had already taken the castle, unbeknownst to its subjects beyond its walls?

Silence.    

The horses' hooves were running no more. There were no cries from neighbouring dwellings. The bells didn’t ring. Perhaps it was just someone passing through. Maybe the poor soul on watch had fallen asleep. The hour was late after all. 

You were just relaxing against the wood of the door, your heart rate slowly returning to normal as it pounded in your ears, when the door jolted.

BANG BANG BANG

Your body jumped with the movement of it. A trap. A rouse of silence to trick unsuspecting victims. Tears pricked at your eyes as you held the door with your hands. If you were to die at the hand of some Northumbrian brute, then you would die fighting.

BANG BANG BANG

“Lady! It’s them!” 

Whatever strength you mustered to fight the northmen left as quickly as it had arrived. 

“They’re back! Come and see! Lady?” 

“Caen?” You opened the door. There he was, small and jumping up and down. Behind him, a few paces off, his mother smiled at his antics, her hands on her hips. “What do you me-”

“Uhtred!” Without another word, and seemingly embarrassed at your slowness, he darted along the grassy path towards the stables. Four horses, three dark and one white, were drinking heavily from a trough. Their riders, each tall and strong like their mounts, worked to remove their saddles.

You watched as Caen bounded towards them. They had yet to spot him, small as he was, and instead each man chatted to another. 

“Come,” it was Caen’s mother. “Quite the fright they gave us. At least we have visitors, and handsome ones at that, to settle our spirits.” Laughing, she took your arm in hers and led you towards the group. 

“A fright indeed,” you muttered, your heart still beating its violent tattoo. Up ahead, Caen was nearing the band of men.

“Uhtred!” He cried and, when the man turned, the small boy all but flung himself into the warrior’s arms. 

“My, my, look at you! You have grown taller and stronger since last I saw you. It won’t be long until can wield a sword yourself-”

“I’ll not have you encouraging him, Lord.” Caen’s mother said, her voice firm.

“Ma says that I will be just as able to help the kingdom with my learning. And she’s started teaching me about the plants!” Caen pointed at you.

“She!?” Caen shrunk at his mother’s words, correcting himself by using your name. 

“You can never have too many healing hands,” the man beside Uhtred said. His head was bowed a little, eyes peering over the furs he wore to keep warm but even in the dark night, you could see the alertness of their blue. He watched you gently. Something about the small smile playing at the corners of his lips stirred your stomach.

“Osferth,” you said quietly.

“Lady,” 

“Can never have too many healing hands indeed!” The burlier of Uhtred’s men winked and gave Osferth’s shoulder a shove. 

“Finan,” you said, and he nodded with a smile. “I take it you aren’t in need of healing.”

“She says that when people make a fuss they don’t need so much help,” little Caen spoke up. “It’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for.”

Your eyes flicker to Osferth.

“Caen!”

“Sorry, Lady.” He eyed you a little but smiled cheekily all the same. Finan ruffled his hair and Caen giggled, swatting his hand away. In the lightness of the moment, you almost forgot that these men had been on the road for weeks and potentially battled their way home.

“Are you alright?” You addressed the gathered troupe, casting an eye over each of them. “Do you need anything? Sihtric?”

“Nothing ale and a good night can’t fix, thank you.”  

When you first encountered the group, it was the Dane with the shorn hair and bicoloured glower that intimidated you most. A man of few words and calculated grace, something in his manner set you on edge. It increased tenfold when you saw him wield the sword, for the movements were violent, aggressive, quick as lightning.

It was not until he came to your small home, the flesh of his cheek split like ripe fruit and bleeding, that you discovered in truth the man was considerate and still. Almost gentle. Almost.

As you tended to his skin, he asked quiet questions about the plants hung from the rafters of your home, told you of the girl he intended to marry. Spoke with near reverence of Uhtred, told tall tales of Finan and fretted over Osferth. In the years you had known the men, it was Sihtric Kjartansson who scared you the least.

Now, it was the young man between he and Uhtred that sent your heart hammering. He, with his hard face and gentle soul.

Your fear was in the knowing glances he gave to his friends, and to you, as if he knew your thoughts before they even entered your mind. It was the stillness that he invoked upon the air whenever he neared you. It was in the simmering heat that built within you each time he returned bolder, stronger, braver. It was the way he was looking at you in that moment, as though seeing you for the first time and coming home.

“Osferth?” Your voice was hoarse and you coughed. “Are you well? Do you need anything?”

Before he could speak, Sihtric cut in. “He took a blow to the back, Lady-” He reached out to show you where but Osferth brushed him away.

“’Tis nothing, only a bruise,”

“I should still like to see it,” you said quickly.

“And I can help!” Caen piped up and you smiled down at your little apprentice.

“After, perhaps.” Osferth said. “But first, would you take a look at this old thing?” He patted the flank of his mottled horse. “She took a sword to her leg. It was only a scuffle!” He added upon seeing your worried face.

“Caen, fetch the bute you collected, and a pitcher of water.” The little boy ran away at your instruction. You turned to the group at large. “You are certain I cannot help with anything else?”

“Nothing,” Uhtred said. “Other than direct us to an alehouse. One who has boarding at this hour”

“Bron will have rooms,” you pointed down the way. “And he’ll be glad to welcome you.”

The men gathered their meagre belongings and, leaving their steeds at the stable, began their tired way towards the alehouse. Osferth remained at your side, following you towards your home. Unbeknownst to the both of you, Sihtric watched your progress with a small smile, distracted only when Finan clapped him on the back and dragged him away.

Seeing it was not the northmen but Uhtred and his men, many of the townsfolk had returned to their sleepy dwellings, and the night was quiet as it had once been.

“You have been to see the King, then? They did not ring the bells when you arrived.” You asked Osferth. He walked beside you, hands clasped firmly behind his back and head bowed. You wondered for a moment if he had picked up this behaviour at the monastery, or if it were his natural proclivity for pensiveness.

“Yes. Well,” he kicked a stone from the path. “Uhtred did.”

You said no more. It had no doubt been a long and tiresome journey, Osferth surely would not want to talk of the father that didn’t acknowledge his very existence.

“Was it terrible?” You asked, pushing open the wooden door to see Caen already setting cloth and water on the table. You winked at him. “Good lad.”

“The reverse,” Osferth smiled. “By the time we arrived in Mercia, the Angles had reached the northmen first.” Caen gasped and begged Osferth tell him more. “You could not see the ground for bodies, and-” Osferth looked at you, arms folded across your chest and eyebrows raised. “-and, that was it, really.” He finished weakly.

Caen glanced between you as silence fell. “Pop your clothes off, if you please.”

“Caen,” your voice was warning.

“If you would, Lord, remove your upper layers and sit on the table.” Caen said.

“Better,” you mouthed.

Plucking comfrey and ribwort from the plants drying around your home, you took your pestle and mortar in hand and worked them into a poultice. You daredn’t look at Osferth as he undressed, and shame began to work away at you fear of him. It is just Osferth. When he spoke, however, it was impossible not to turn, for his voice caused you to jump from your thoughts and face him.

“My horse-”

“Caen will see to her,” you placed the mortar on the table, looking anywhere but his naked torso. “He has been harvesting bute today and could do with the practice.”

“I’ll look after her, Lord.”

“Osferth,” the monk corrected.

“I’ll look after her, Lord Osferth.” Caen grabbed the bute, a small bowl and a cup of water, and dashed into the night. He returned not a minute later. “Forgot the cloth.”

Osferth chuckled as you returned to mixing the poultice. “He is a fine little apprentice.”

“Yes,” you added a dash of water to the mixture. “I just hope he isn’t distracted by the sword.”

“As I was?”

Your head snapped up and there was no going back. He was looking at you, blue eyes sad, pale skin glowing in the light of the fire. “That’s different.”

Osferth hummed, and the silence resumed. Firewood and sage crackled in the hearth, and beyond your home a tawny owl called.

“Where did Sihtric say you were struck?”

“My shoulder,” Osferth tried to indicate but winced as he moved.

“Rest,” you placed a hand on his and pushed his arm away. “Let me.” Moving to stand behind him, you saw the plum bruise that spread across his shoulder blade. It was already mottled and blackening, a few days old at least. Tentatively, you reached out to touch it. Beneath your fingers his skin was warm, similar to those first spring rays of sunlight on the face. You blushed. Beneath your touch, Osferth stiffened.

He had been coming to you for years. When his ribs were bruised and cracked during his first proper skirmish. When he had broken his arm escaping from the sea. After his first few kills he came to for a remedy for night visions, his mind rattled by the sound of tearing flesh. Sometimes, he found excuses to end up at your door. Stiff necks, headaches, insomnia. Those nights were his favourite. You made him dandelion tea and offered your bed. There, as you hummed a slow tune, he would drift into a sleep full of flora and delicate touches.

“It’ll be cool, the mixture, but not cold,” you said. “The bruise is already healing well, but this will reduce the swelling and some of the pain.”

“Thank you, Lady.” He whispered.

Placing a hand on his shoulder to steady yourself, you gently began rubbing the poultice into his skin. Osferth hissed.

“I’m sorry,” you said.

Osferth shook his head. “Is it tender, that is all.”

“I can see the outline of the pommel where it hit you,”

“What a shame it didn’t bleed, would have made a handsome scar-” You saw his cheeks rise into a smile.

“Trying to be more like Finan?” Your hand moved from his shoulder blade to the valley of his spine.

“I haven’t the volume.” This made you laugh and, at hearing the bright noise, Osferth joined in, for a moment only before doubling over.

“Try not to laugh,” you said through your giggles.

On and on you rubbed the poultice into his skin until the merest slither was left in the mortar. Osferth fell into a contented silence as you worked, your mind caught far away and, simultaneously, in the intimacy of the moment.

You watched, mesmerised, as your medicine highlighted the curves and contours of his back. Even when Osferth first joined Uhtred, he was tall. But then he began to train with the others, surviving on meagre rations and growing from boy to man. His broad shoulders and lean muscle were evidence of that. Drifting from the bruise, your fingers brushed over his upper back, the broad expanse of it now golden in the firelight.

His frame was exciting to you, yes. But what you hadn’t expected, or hadn’t anticipated would stir the fire still alite in your belly, were the freckles speckling his back. The outline of his ribs as he breathed, or the base of his spine ridging his lower back. They were the evidence that he was human. Living, breathing, warm flesh and bone right there beneath your fingers. Not just some imagined being you dreamt up during the long days and nights that he was gone.

Your fingers had left the bruise fully now but you didn’t worry. Osferth couldn’t see, and you let them wander under the guise of treating his wound. When they met the juncture of his neck and shoulder, you paused before laying your hand flat against the plain of skin. The action must have been soothing, for no sooner had your hand settled there was Osferth tipping his head forward, exposing more of his strong neck to you. You squeezed the muscle and he groaned. The sound sent blood rushing from your ears to the meeting of your thighs and you squeezed your legs together.

Breathe.

With a sharp inhale and slow exhale, you relaxed your body, hands straightening on Osferth’s shoulder. Your fingers grazed the shorn hair at the back of his head and once more, Osferth sighed.

This time, though, it was not the sound of released tension. Of a knot begin worked from deep within a muscle or the stretch of the back after a long day’s work. This time, it was the sound of pleasure.

Slowly, tentatively, you curled your fingers, dragging your nails ever so lightly over his skin and running them down the length of his spine. Osferth shuddered beneath you, arching his back as you reached its base.

“Lady-” his voice was ragged. When he looked over his shoulder and whispered your name, you saw his blue irises eclipsed by black.

“Osferth-”

The door banged open.

“Horse is fixed, Lord!” Caen shouted happily as you jumped back from the table.

“You don’t ‘fix a horse’, Caen.” You pinched the bridge of your nose. The heat that was rising to your cheeks burned.

“Thank you, Caen.” Osferth smiled at the boy and hopped gracefully from the table. He dressed quickly, tucking his cross into his tunic and collecting the remainder of his possessions; breastplate, leather gauntlets, sword and furs.

“Come,” Osferth steered Caen from the door. “Let us give the good lady some peace. Goodnight.” 

“Goodnight,” you could barely speak the words as Osferth glanced at you with a solemn smile. When the door closed behind the him and your apprentice, you leant against the table, dipped the cloth in the pitcher of water and held it against your head. You looked to the ceiling.

“Thank you for sending him, Lord.” For what would have happened had Caen not burst through your door, you dared not imagine.

You did not need to leave your home next morning to know the day was a happy one. Beyond the door people were yelling freely, someone was playing a pipe and you could hear children scurrying after one another.

Getting up, you stretched broadly and felt the sunlight through your small lookout window on your face. Wandering to add logs to the fire, you paused mid-step. There, on the table, was evidence that last night you almost disgraced your honour and dignity. Osferth’s honour and dignity. He was a warrior now, brave and noble, and would surely be a Lord like his leader one day. He would not throw himself at a common healer like you. No matter how much you wished it.

Once again, your musings were broken by the banging open of the door.

“What have I told you about knocking, little master!?”

“Well if you will leave it unbolted,” Caen waggled his finger at you. “Are we going hunting today, Lady?” ‘Hunting’ was what the young boy called foraging and, since he began his lessons with you, was fondest when in the field.

“Not today I’m afraid,” you said, wrapping a woollen shawl around your shoulders. “I am in need of arrowhead- do not interrupt, Caen. I’m sorry but the river is still too dangerous for you, and the plants are not so easily discernible. What would your mother say if I had you picking hemlock instead of water parsley?”

Caen hung his head in disappointment. Then, when a little boy ran past followed by a gaggle of even younger children, Caen called a hasty goodbye to you and ran after them. Stood in the doorway, you watched as they sprang down the grassy path. It truly was a happy day.

Dew glimmered in the long grass, little beadlets of iridescence sparkling in the spring light. Birds called gaily to each other from the treetops, much like their human counterparts on the ground below. Merriment seemed the order of the day. What wonders Uhtred and his men could perform by their appearance. The city seemed to sigh in relief.

After foraging, you planned to call at the alehouse. That was if you didn’t see the men in question about the town. Despite the previous night’s distractions, Osferth’s bruise truly was a nasty specimen and though it was healing, you believed his comfort greatly affected.

That was why you found yourself, an hour later and full of freshly baked bread, treading the damp earth along the banks of the river Icene in search of ingredients. It had been your mother who taught you the properties of the world around you, given you her stolen copy of the Lacnunga and taught you to read its pages.

The daughter of a nobleman, she was a fearsome and bright woman. Known for her learning and curiosity, she was beloved by all he knew her. Or so your father said. In the end, it was her curiosity that led to you. Foraging on the banks of that very river, she met a young fletcher gathering reeds for arrow tails. A month later, she married him. Cast out for loving a commoner, she took naught with her from her old life but for the clothes on her back, an embroidered sheet of damask and the stolen Lacnunga from the physic.

It was she who had taught you about the medicinal powers of the river plants, and of their terrifying toxins. Smiling as you meandered through the grass, thinking of your lost parents, and reciting the nine herb charm.

“Mugwyrt, una, wegrade, atterlothe, maethe, wergulu, apple, fille, finule. Mugwyrt, una-”

It was not those that you sought, but arrowhead. That bright, dart-shaped leaf which sprang from the water surrounded by delicate white leaves. Pressed in a sling against his shoulder or massaged in a poultice-you shook the thought from you head-it would surely aid Osferth’s discomfort.

There. Nestled amongst water-crowfoot and starwort, arrowhead leaves dazzled green in the murky water where the chalky river met the farmland of the city. There was just one problem. It was on the opposite bank.

There was nothing for it. Removing the wicker basket from your shoulder and setting it on the ground, you took off your worn boots and woollen socks, stowing them with the still warm bread you brought for your lunch. You looked left and right. No-one. Taking your skirts in hand, you tucked them into your leather belt and proceeded to a worn patch of scrub. An otter’s slipway.

A gravel bank rose at the centre of the river. Here, it was shallow and slow moving, but it was not the current you feared, but the cold. The sun shone in spring but the water retained its chilly bite. You would make for the gravel and assess the route to the arrowhead from there.

Slowly so as not to slip on the muddy ground, you stepped into the water.

“Fuck!”

Needles of cold shot through your legs as they entered the river and your toes curled instinctively under foot, seeking any warmth they could find. You stood there awhile, acclimatising to the water, or waiting until they were numb from the pain, you weren’t certain which.

Eventually you pushed out into the inky green water, letting it lap at your knees until you reached the gravel bank. From there you saw the arrowhead was just a few steps from reach. A great number of the leaves waved to you as their stems were bustled by the water and taking a deep breath, you stepped back into the water.

Your lungs tightened as, without warning, you sank waist-deep in the water. Well, that was a bother.

It didn’t take long for you to find your footing amongst the river weeds and, keeping your arms above the water, you waded forwards. A few stumbles here and there didn’t matter, your body was used to the cold by now and the arrowhead leaves were in your grasp.

For a few minutes you gently plucked the leaves from their stems, careful to leave some intact for the next harvest and the few little creatures you found living in the plant’s shelter.

With a handful foraged and a poesy of watercress for good measure, you turned back for the gravel bank. Your first step was clumsy as you slipped on some slimy stones underfoot and, as your chin hit the water, you jolted backwards. Just above the riverbed some long-grown pondweed had encircled your ankle in the current, tightening its grip with every kick of your foot to free yourself.

You tried not to panic, shoving the arrowhead and cress into your bodice. Your head was just above the water; you wouldn’t drown if you kept calm. But you would freeze. Over and over you fought to free your foot but the weed wouldn’t loosen. Your only remaining hope was to kick as hard as you could to uproot the plant or break its stem. With great effort, you flung your leg out as hard as you could. It didn’t work. You lost your footing once and for all, your head finally dipping beneath the river’s surface.

You came up spluttering and swallowing lung-fulls of water and air.

“Help,” you called out pathetically, your throat burning as you inhaled the river water. What was the use? You had come alone. Hadn’t you checked no-one was around before you entered the river? One foot trapped in pondweed and the other fighting for purchase, your body lolled at an awkward angle. The current of the water clapped in your ears, and when it rose to meet the side of your face, you found it wasn’t cold anymore. Letting your head float there, you found it a comfort and, like your rapidly numbing body, relaxed.

What a stupid way to die, you thought. The daughter of a renowned healer, and a healer in her own right, drowning while harvesting ingredients. In the spring, no less.

“Mugwyrt, una, wegrade, atterlothe, maethe, wergulu, apple, fille, finule. Remember, Mugwyrt, what you brought to pass, what you readied, at Regenmeld-”

When thoughts of your mother, of Caen and of Osferth faded, only the nine herb charm remained.

“Mugwyrt, una, wegrade, atterlothe, maet-” It was like drifting into sleep, resting in the river. Your words became mumbled, slow, your memory weak.  

“Mugwyrt, una, wegrade- mugwyrt-”

The sinking was slow. First, you arms lolled behind you, the gentle river current moving your fingers as though they were combing through hair. Next, it was your chest, the cold water warming the barrel of your ribs. The strangest part was your ears. As your head began to sink, a great roaring rang in your ears as they broke the water. Just the flow of the river and your own breath could be heard under there. The water edged across your cheeks-

Your body burned as you were rent harshly from the water. Compared to the water, the day burned every inch of exposed flesh. Two hands, firm and strong, gripped your waist and dragged you backwards. Your back hit the hard ground and you moaned as weight returned to your body.

As though still trapped in the river, every sound was amplified. The birds in the trees above you, the wash of water against the riverbank, the man calling your name. Blinking in the harsh light, you looked up at him. His hand was at your face, his warm fingers near searing your sensitive skin.

“Osferth?” You said meekly. The man above you hung his head in relief. “Why are you here?” You smiled stupidly, reaching to grip his shoulder and check he was real.

“I came to your home,” he was out of breath and panicked, that was clear by his wide eyes and pinched brow. Even in your state you could see it. “-and Caen told me had gone to the river. You told him it was too dangerous for him to accompany you and yet you went alone? What were you thinking?”

“I needed arrowhead,” you touched the waist of your bodice where the plants lay. “For your bruise,”

Osferth was flabbergasted, and tt was he who spluttered next. “For my-for my-” He stared down at you. There you were, in his arms, soaked to the bone, hair in tendrils adorned with weed, gazing up at him so happily. Words failed him, and so he did the only left in his mind.

Raising you gently, he ducked his head and placed a tender kiss to your lips. You sighed. He was tender and soft and oh so warm. When he parted from you, a look of apprehensive pride on his face, you laughed quietly.

“I have imagined that so many nights, but it was never like this,”

“I could say exactly the same.” He laughed and held you closer. When you curled a hand into his tunic, he looked down at you and frowned.

“What?”

“Lady, your lips are blue.”

Notes: My first reader insert, please be nice.

The Lacnunga (which means remedy) is a real text, believed to have been written in the 10th century, and that is where the nigon wyrta galdor, or nine herb charm, comes from. Galdor means healing spell.

And obviously, don’t use plants when you don’t know what they do or how to use them. Common plants can be very hard to distinguish and yes, I did once mix up water parsley and hemlock…However! Ribwort Plantain is great for inflammation, rub the leaves on sore joints or bites and it works a treat, trust me!

Tags: @babyblue711 @arcielee @ewanmitchellcrumbs @bookwyrmsblog

[city-of-ladies]

“In discussing all these diverse images of armed and actively fighting women of Old Norse literature, and in critically acknowledging that many of the accounts that concern them were created several centuries after the events, it is easy to relegate them all to the sphere of fiction and to regard them as having no basis in historical reality whatsoever. But if we turn to other medieval sources, created independently of Old Norse literary tradition and stemming from different cultural milieus, we will find within them very similar patterns of the occasional female participation in martial activities. The two case studies reviewed above – namely that of Æthelflæd of Mercia and of the women who fought in the siege of Dorostolon – strongly support the idea that there could be some reality behind the stories of armed women that survive in Old Norse literature. Also other historical women of the Viking Age, especially those who stemmed from the highest echelons of society, were occasionally compelled to engage in endeavours associated with warfare and would oversee military operations. For instance, the great Princess Olga, who was the wife of Igor of Kiev, led her army against the Slavic tribe of Derevlians, devised her own impressive strategies and through all these initiatives gained recognition among her companions, regardless of her biological sex.

It thus feels highly unlikely that all these medieval accounts, including the famed descriptions of female warriors in Saxo Grammaticus’ Gesta Danorum, were only inspired by legends of the ancient Amazons and served as curiosa and literary embellishments to entertain the audience. As we shall see in the following chapters of this book, archaeological finds from across Scandinavia provide support for the idea that some Viking Age women did wield weapons and in one way or another found their place in the martial sphere.”

Women and Weapons in the Viking World: Amazons of the North, Leszek Gardela

[whencyclopedia]

Edward the Elder

Edward the Elder (r. 899-924) was the son of Alfred the Great (r. 871-899) and the King of the Anglo-Saxons in the early 10th century. He is known for his military victories over the Vikings of East Anglia and the East Midlands and for consolidating his dynasty's control over southern England.

In 865, about a decade before Edward was born, the Great Heathen Army invaded England, destroying the royal dynasties of several English kingdoms, including East Anglia, Mercia and Northumbria and establishing Viking rule across these territories. It fell upon Edward's father, King Alfred of Wessex, to lead the English resistance. He defeated the Vikings at the Battle of Edington in 878 and agreed to a peace treaty with their leader, Guthrum (d. 890), who retreated east to rule over much of the territory conquered by the great army, commonly referred to as 'The Danelaw'. Alfred would spend the next two decades fortifying Wessex, reforming the army and promoting learning and literacy amongst his subjects. He also brought Mercia under his overlordship, after which he took the title 'King of the Anglo-Saxons', denoting his rule over both the Mercians and the West Saxons.

Edward succeeded his father in 899. Most of what we know of his reign comes from a collection of land charters and the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, which presents him as a relentless and successful warrior-king. His epithet, 'the Elder', was not used during his life but was later used to distinguish him from his great-grandson, Edward the Martyr, King of England (r. 975-978). Though well-regarded as a ruler by medieval chroniclers and modern historians, Edward often remains in the shadow of his more illustrious father. However, there has been more interest in Edward recently due to the TV series The Last Kingdom, in which he is portrayed by Timothy Innes. Yet, the show depicts Edward as a king struggling to step out of his father's shadow, with many of his achievements being accredited to the show's protagonist, Uhtred of Bebbanburg.

Early Life

Edward was born c. 874-877. His parents, Alfred and Ealhswith (d. 902), a Mercian noblewoman, were married in 868. In addition to Edward, the couple had four more children: Aethelflaed (d. 918), who married the Ealdorman of Mercia and later ruled Mercia herself; Aethelgifu, who became the Abbess of Shaftesbury; Aelfthryth (d. 929) who married the Count of Flanders and another son, Aethelweard (d. 920). The earliest mention of Edward in contemporary sources comes from Bishop Asser – a Welsh priest and scholar at Alfred's court – in his work the Life of King Alfred. Asser recounts that Edward spent his youth at the king's court, studying religious and secular texts and was taught to show "humbleness, affability, and gentleness towards all." Edward was also trained in warfare, and while still in his teens, led the West Saxon army to victory over the Vikings at the Battle of Farnham in 893. Around the same time, he appears to have become a regular member of the king's council and married a woman named Ecgwynn, of whom we know little about, although the couple had a son, Aethelstan (d. 939), and a daughter, Edith.

Great Viking Army in England, 865-878 CE

Hel-hama (CC BY-SA)

In the final years of his father's reign, Edward was granted the title 'rex' (king), suggesting he had been appointed co-king alongside his father or, more likely, was given his own kingdom in Kent to provide him with experience ruling before he succeeded his father. Primogeniture (father-to-son succession) had not firmly been established in Wessex; succession was still elective to a certain degree, with the crown passing to the aetheling (prince), favoured by the nobility. Edward's main rival for the throne was his cousin Aethelwold (d. 902), the son of Alfred's brother, King Aethelred of Wessex (r. 865-871). As much of the West Saxon nobility owed their position to Alfred, they were naturally inclined to support Edward's succession, but his experience in warfare and royal administration went a long way to secure their support.

Continue reading...

[ewanmitchelll]

Imagine Taylor Swift’s songs (XVI): Love Story.

Imagine you are the Lady of Mercia and Osferth is your knight.

Warnings: soft smut, drama, angst.

Warnings 2: slightly divergence with “The Last Kingdom”’s events, with you being the daughter of Æthelflæd and Uhtred, prepared to the role dutifully.

***

• We were both young when I first saw you. I close my eyes and the flashback starts… I'm standin' there on a balcony in summer air. See the lights, see the party, the ball gowns. See you make your way through the crowd and say, "Hello". Little did I know…

It all starts when you two are young. Osferth has just recently met Uhtred, promptly embraced by this warrior who is to be half Dane, half Saxon, when lady Æthelflæd thought wise to prepare you to succeed her.

By then you and him are in your late teenager days. You do not know yet, though you may suspect, that Lord Æthelred is not your father, a man who inspires no sympathy of his subjects, dismissing you a paternal concern that, how curiously, Uhtred doesn’t hesitate in giving you.

“Lady Y/N”, Uhtred side smirks when seeing you. He can tell this growing beauty has his eyes and the man takes pride in gazing at you. But the secrecy must remain what is, a secret. “What a delight is to see you again.”

Due to recent events, which are a mix of your father’s death and the treachery of some of the Mercian aldermen, this infamous pagan warlord comes to protect your mother as part of his vow to the House of Wessex.

“My lord Uhtred”, you nod your head, unable to explain the instant sympathy the man inspires you, notwithstanding the differences in your creed. “I pray to find you well, my mother has been looking a great deal to seeing you again.”

He laughs, a sound you are most familiar with. It is a secret to none that he is your mother’s lover.

“Likewise, young lady. This is Osferth, by the way”, Uhtred presents one to the other, unknowing he’s planting a deadly seed.

Osferth steps forward. This tall man inspires you butterflies in your stomach, a feeling that you, however, promptly dismiss.

“My lord”, you curtsy graciously.

“Lady”, he avoids your gaze, nodding his head. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Osferth is a very good warrior, Y/N”, says Uhtred, amused by the teenager awkwardness. “He’s proven his worth and thus is here with me. Osferth, stay here with lady Y/N all the whilst I have matters to attend.”

Just like that he leaves you both. There is an awkward silence hanging between you two, so you opt to make things easier by breaking it:

“Is this the first time you stay on Mercia?”

“Nay, lady”, he slowly raises his eyes only to meet a pair of y/c irises staring at him. “I’ve been at Uhtred’s service for a few years since…eh… since I left my order.”

“Order?”, you repeat, rather intrigued. “Is my lord a priest?”

Osferth chuckles. You particularly swoon at his smile, at how handsome he is, but the pride that comes with your station prevents you to show it.

“I was, or rather am, a monk, lady.”

A small exchange of smiles occurs between you and him.

“How a monk then came to serve the great warrior Uhtred Ragnarsson?”

“This is a long conversation, lady.”

“Well, Monk Osferth, I have the time.”

***

• That you were Romeo, you were throwin' pebbles and my daddy said, "Stay away from Juliet". And I was cryin' on the staircase. Beggin' you, "Please don't go, " and I said…

Æthelflæd raises her eyebrows when seeing how all of a sudden you are engaging in a conversation with Osferth when you have never had eyes to somebody else.

“You should not be so demanding to her”, says Uhtred, as they all gather at the table for a supper. “She found in Osferth a good companion, is all.”

“I can see the way she looks at him”, says the lady in a disapproving tone. “She will, when God wills it, be my heiress. She should know where this will lead her to.”

Uhtred limits himself giving her a look that she understands well. At times he wishes he could be more… present in your life. But in many ways he is.

As he observes you and Osferth cautiously now, he thinks wise to interfere.

“Y/N…”,Uhtred calls you. “Your mother wishes you to be more focused in your duties.”

“I do what she asks and more”, you sigh. “She is never pleased with anything I do.”

“It is the way of things. Kings and queens put duties over their sentiments”, says the warlord. “Most times they require personal sacrifices.”

You are tempted to argue, but seeing reason in his speech, what else is there to speak? You nod and giving Osferth a meaningless look, you depart without saying anything.

Osferth watches you go and, when noticing where his eyes follow, Uhtred clears his throat.

“Be careful, boy. Some prizes are too high to aim.”

The monk blushes at once.

“What is it you say, lord? I am but a bastard, a monk who, by chance, follows you in your wars.”

Uhtred side smirks in response.

“Youth can be misleading, this is all I can offer as an advice.”

But some part of the younger male wishes he’d have more time with you… however impossible it is.

***

• Romeo, take me somewhere we can be alone. I'll be waiting, all there's left to do is run. You'll be the prince and I'll be the princess. It's a love story, baby, just say, "Yes"…

You do not see him again. It takes years until tragedy reunites one with the other. Until then you slowly grow into a different woman.

Your mind is well versed in politics and languages, at least knowing enough of Latin to understand the scriptures. You try to follow your mother’s steps, but this comes with a price.

Even Lady Æthelflæd is aware of the subtle changes in your personality. Where’s that characteristically joy that used to spark behind your y/c eyes? She misses it. As well as your innocence. Would time steal it from you?

At first she opts to ignore it. But not even her loyal adviser is blind to the loneliness you go through.

“It would do well if Lady Y/N had some companions to spend her time with. However is her position now or in the future ahead, she must not live isolated.”

Æthelflæd considers. But whilst she asks him to look for suitable companions, the role of a mother, which she often mistook as the same of a queen, leads her to a shadowy road.

“Y/N”, she comes to your chambers and doesn’t like seeing some sort of melancholy in you.

“Yes, my lady?”, you stand and curtsy.

Æthelflæd swallows the hurt when seeing it’s the queen you greet, not the mother.

“We must speak.”

“Have I done any wrongs?”

“It is not about that. I fear I have isolated you. I was… concerned you might suffer mundane influences which I attempted to prevent you to succumb.”

A flash of anger is perceived in your eyes. To your mother this is better than apathy.

“I am never good enough for you, aren’t I? You take the few friends I have and send them away. If I recall your words, all was done under the pretense of following duty.”

An argument is inevitable. There is only so much you can do to hold back the temper that is an inheritance of your mother and your father, though Æthelflæd credits the latter for it.

She hears the accusations in silence. An explosion is better than a cold storm, so the queen judges.

In the meantime the royal household is trembling, Osferth has been living quietly, fighting his wars and drinking his ale. The monk clearly breaks any celibate oath by getting himself involved with women.

“It so appears that our baby monk is not a baby anymore”, so Finan cackles.

“A man does what he does”, he shrugs his shoulders.

How can it be, though, that his thoughts never left aside the only lady he’d commit his heart to? Remorse soon comes when thinking that you’d not do what he did, knowing your character. Glooming soon comes… washing away what he judges to be weakness of his flesh.

As Uhtred likes to quote, though, destiny is all and soon it works to tie his life to yours.

*

Despite amending relations with your mother, you have never been the same. Duty has forged you into an iron lady prepared to embrace the arduous task to inherit a crown that deep inside your heart you’ve never wanted it.

Nonetheless, once you prove how dutiful you are and how sharp is your wit, the witan somehow feels at easy when looking at you as your mother’s heiress.

And the day where you are expected to become Lady of the Mercians comes sooner than expected.

“I have to deliver grave news to you, child”, and without wasting time, she tells you that she’s dying.

Naturally, you are shocked.

“This cannot be!”

“It is the will of God and we must respect it. Soon, transition will occur as we have planned all these years. Listen to me, Y/N, you are ready.” For the first time in a while she looks a mother to you. “I am proud of you, my daughter.”

You lean against her forehead and, letting a sob escape, you say:

“I shall not disappoint you, mother.”

“You could never”, and she kisses your forehead, thus reconciling permanently with you.

As she secretly requests the presence of Uhtred, you are going outside to fetch a messenger when you are surprised by his presence.

“My lord!”

“Where is she?”, by the grave expression on his face, you know he’s already been informed of her condition.

“At her bedchambers”, and it’s when you see him.

Osferth stands in the corridors, his eyes reminding you of those of a lost puppy’s. Courties come and go but you two freeze in time and space.

He knows and you know. With a movement of your head, you indicate him to follow. Discreetly he does, going after you somewhere that you know it’s not well guarded—in the past it used to be the spot where your mother welcomed Uhtred.

“Lady Y/N”, Osferth isn’t sure how to address you, how to even look at you.

For one moment neither do you. It seems as these last years turned one stranger to the other, and perhaps to avoid this odd sensation, you are the one to take his hand in yours.

“My lord”, you speak in short breath. “Osferth.”

“I thought we would never meet again”, says he, daring to raise his eyes.

Studying you, Osferth sees how grown you are. How beautiful you have become with eyes dark as coal and softened features, with y/c locks falling in one long braid. There is sadness behind your y/c eyes and God knows how he wishes to take it away.

When leaning his hand to stroke your cheek, you lean it against his palm, searching for comfort. For the very first time in years you shed a tear.

“I am alone in this world, Osferth. My life is not mine. They forbid me to nurture sentiments of any nature. I am caged.”

“This is not true, lady. I’m here and will never leave your side, this I vow. I did try to forget you in the past”, he admits. “The deep affection there is in my heart admonished my weakness. I cannot nor will I ever be so blunt in letting you to yourself.”

“I am expected to remain chaste”, you sob. “Or at least to marry someone else. Save me, my lord. Save me from my fate.”

“There is little need to protest against destiny”, says Osferth. “You were born for this, lady. God has put you where you should be. I’ll be here for you. Whatever comes, I’ll be beside you.”

You bury your face to his neck, bursting into tears. Osferth is tensed at such proximity, but when he embraces you, his concerns dissipate. Your smell brings him peace and as he rocks you in his arms, he realizes how much he loves you.

Oh, what a misfortune to love a star that is too high to grasp! But Osferth has been accustomed to the night to be drowned in hopelessness. What is he but a moon in search of the sun, contemplating the vast of the galaxy?

Nevertheless, the love he feels for you is inexplicable, inexpressible, irreversible.

“My lady”, he speaks in his husky tone, reluctantly parting from you. “We must go. We cannot take so long. I wish we had more time…”

“Osferth.”

“Yes?”

“Can you do at least one thing for me?”

“Anything, lady”, he takes your hands and presses a hand in each.

“Stay with me. Never leave my side, no matter the circumstances. Be the knight I want you to be.”

Osferth knows what you ask is too much of him. Especially now how acutely aware he is where came from this pair of dark coal eyes that stares at him.

Nevertheless, he’s been too weary to stay far from you. Even if he cannot have you, the warrior monk knows he has no strength to stay away from you anymore.

“I will do as my lady commands me to.”

That being said, Osferth does a bold move that surprises you both. He takes you by your waist and kisses you at long last.

***

• So I sneak out to the garden to see you. We keep quiet, 'cause we're dead if they knew. So close your eyes, escape this town for a little while, oh oh…

You are promptly acknowledged as Lady of The Mercians, the rightful successor of Lady Æthelflæd. Duty compels you to act as honorably as you can, showing the witan and your royal uncle how sharped is your wit.

There present is Lord Uhtred, who ensures his natural daughter is safe, that the transition to power occurs smoothly.

But at the end of the day you wish to see only one person. And when everyone else is sleeping, your loyal friend lady Ælfgifu brings him to your privy quarters.

“Lady”, Osferth is surprised at your summon. “Is there something wrong?”

He drinks the view of you, trying not to succumb his lust. Years have passed since he took the oath of not letting be slaved by his flesh, especially regarding his feelings for you.

Now, the sight of your long loose hair and the nightgown that covers poorly your body, letting be captured in glimpses your firm breasts, makes Osferth face an internal battle.

“There is nothing wrong, my love. Fear not”, you short the distance between you two feigning a confidence you lack. “I am my own mistress here, Osferth.”

He gives you a cautious look.

“Time has played with us, has it not?”, the monk muses. “However, my lady, we must not be imprudent. I stand here as you wish, but I am not going to be unwise and put you at risk.”

“I understand my mother has done a vow which I intend to keep. In the meantime she has met the man I know now as my father in secrecy. We could do the same.”

“If you are certain this will not…”

But his words die at how close you two are. What time has repressed, no iron is suffice to hold back now it’s loose. Osferth himself forgets reason when his lips collide against yours and his arms are all around you.

Sighing in content, never before you felt a mistress of yourself as in that moment. When his breath and yours are combined, his strong body warming yours, your fingers let loose in his face, his features, his hair.

All the whilst his tongue dances with yours, his long and callous hands play with your hair and work quickly to remove your fabric. Once he leads you to bed, he pauses a moment to hold your face gently:

“My lady wife.”

“My lord husband”, you beam at the secrecy with which you and him express at last the true sentiments and desires to each other.

Even if this love story is not having the end you’d like, it is already written more pleasant than you’d conceived.

As his mouth drinks in your skin, his tongue twirling around your neck, his hands gently spread your legs, placing himself in between as his mouth starts to cup each nude breast. Devouring your nipples like a hungry man, Osferth for few seconds forgets he is the one experienced…

“Why did you stop”, you moan in protest when seeing this handsome and strong man right where you want him to be.

Osferth smiles at you, a smile that brightens his face which in turn makes you beam at such a view.

“I remember my lady that I must have utmost care with you, considering you are a damsel.”

You narrow your eyes at him.

“Is it a way to remind me you have had others in your bed, lord?”

Osferth’s smile quickly dismisses as he crawls over you.

“Lady, whilst it is true I have not behaved well in the past, I am being careful to you. We are already doing it unlawfully…”

“Oh shush! This is not the moment nor the time to…”

And here you are pleasantly swallowed his fervent kisses. Where Osferth is shy and discreet when he’s with others, right here with you he’s every inch the man you’ve read in books. Even more.

When his hand slides to your womanhood, there is no shadow of doubts or jealousy, but two hearts united in one purpose. And this is as holy as mundane, as sacred as profane, from the moment he slides in you only soon to seed you, providing a new delight never before you considered proving.

***

• Romeo, save me, I've been feeling so alone. I keep waiting for you, but you never come. Is this in my head? I don't know what to think. He knelt to the ground and pulled out a ring and said, "Marry me, Juliet. You'll never have to be alone. I love you and that's all I really know. I talked to your dad, go pick out a white dress. It's a love story, baby, just say, "Yes". Oh, oh, oh. 'Cause we were both young when I first saw you

You receive a visit of Lord Uhtred, who’s been too suspicious of the reason you’ve been keeping Osferth wherever you go.

“Lady Y/N, may we have a word?”, he is somewhat surprised to see you fitting well in your new role.

In spite of the burden that being the sole ruler of Mercia carries, you’ve been continuing with the hard work of your mother. Some advisors, already perceiving that you hold a favourite in the person of your dearest knight, who does not meddle in politics, keep a blind eye to his person. But will others do the same notwithstanding your utmost discretion?

“Yes, lord Uhtred. You know you are welcome here”, you dismiss the council and receive him like a daughter receives a father.

The tender gesture does not go unnoticed by the man, who softens before you.

“So much like your mother”, Uhtred whispers, a sad smile crossing his lips. “Even in temper.”

“We had our differences”, you say, leaving a hint of a resentment that never truly healed. You wish you had been better as a daughter, more committed to the cause she stood for. You try amending the remorse by doing what she’d do… though this does not mean you forget your secret vows exchanged with Osferth.

Uhtred studies you for a moment and it’s almost as if he can tell what’s been left unsaid.

“We all did, but you are doing a good work here. She would be proud of you. Leaving these matters aside, I am not here to discuss the rather unpleasant businesses King Edward’s been having with Mercia.”

You ask servants to fetch yourselves wine and food before gallantries are set aside for politics. To your surprise, however, what Uhtred comes to discuss with you is in regard of your relationship with Osferth.

“Lord!”

“There is no need to protest. I am not here to admonish you for what I’ve done myself”, says he. “Whoever you lies with is your problem, Y/N. But the point is…the oath your mother took was only performed after you were adult and well looked after. You need to continue the lineage if you do not wish that Mercia falls onto the hands of Wessex.”

“I do not think the aldermen will accept Osferth as my husband”, you hesitate.

“There may be some elements they might consider”, Uhtred strokes his chin. “Do you love this man, Y/N Y/LN?”

You smile at the question posed. Uhtred can tell you do love his baby monk, unbelievable as it is that Osferth conquered the lady of Mercia’s heart. He scoffs at it.

“I do”, and then as if hesitating, you ask: “Will you give us your blessing?”

Uhtred never considered that you’d outwit him and your mother, but looking at the sagacity with which you’ve been conducting Mercian affairs, is it really difficult to believe you’ve known all this time?

“I personally think you deserve better”, the warlord teases you. “But alas, aye! He will look after you, I’m sure.”

You nod your head, thankful for his blessing. Then a moment of silence passes before Uhtred says:

“How long have you known?”

“Long enough”, your smile spreads. “What a shame is that I will never be able to acknowledge you as my father in public.”

“It matters not”, he says. “What is more relevant is that you are well and conducting your affairs properly, something of which I’ve never harbored doubts. I’m proud of you.”

A delight this reunion proves to be, giving your heart the balsam you need.

*

You are lawfully married to Osferth before selected witnesses on a sacred day. You ensure to bring your half-siblings for the ceremony, particularly bonding to Stiorra, who, despite the differences in creed, proves to be the sister you wish you had back in your youth.

At the feast, the aldermen present themselves. Not many are content with the choice, but if the blood of Ælfred does not meddle in Mercian matters, then all is well.

“You look beautiful, lady”, Osferth smiles as you two dance beautifully in your own ways after receiving the blessing of the priest. “I never thought I’d see this day come.”

“It did, husband”, you smile back and he notices the old glee once spotted in your eyes long time ago have now returned. “I’ve always had my faith this would somehow end well for us.”

“Praise the Lord”, says he.

An exchange of loving glances is enough before the bedding parade is announced. You see Uhtred is sighing heavily, opting for not partaking of the boasting. Some aldermen snort at it for its pagan nature.

But some traditions survive the time. Therefore, you play the role of a damsel, whose gown is stripped on your way to your bedchambers, as Osferth does the same. He laughs as Finan teases him, as well as their other mates, considering they were more than familiar with Osferth’s history before you came along.

Now here you two are, alone at last.

“It brings me great relief, in all honesty, that we are no longer hidden in secret”, he admits, lying on his elbow as he admires you openly.

“As it does to me, though what we have is not a burden, never was.”

“I know”, he takes your hand and brings it to his lips. “I only wish we had not taken such a long time.”

“It all happened in due time”, you smile before pulling him to you.

One kiss is enough to make Osferth’s mind go blank as well as yours. Thus it is this love story is sealed with a carnal union that mirrors that of the soul.

***

• Epilogue.

Some years later…

You pat your growing belly, watching with concern as Osferth teaches Edgar how to manage a sword.

“You must first learn how to unsheathe the sword, boy”, he speaks patiently. “And only then you will swing the basis like this…”

Edgar has the dark eyes of your father, but the hair of your husband. Except by these features, it’s a common consent that Mercia’s next ruler is very much like you.

“Be careful, husband! Edgar is not yet five”, you say, at the same time keeping an eye to the maids who look after Ædyth, 3, and Osbert, 2.

When Osferth meets your gaze, you still freeze, mesmerized by the unique kind of joy only a man like him could make you feel. After all these years? Always, you’d say to your sister.

“I will, my love. I assure you that, whatever has Finan told you about me, I’ve grown prudent”, he chuckles.

“I’m just assuring you, this is all.”

“You are fussing”, you hear a familiar voice that makes you turn your head to. It’s Stiorra, the happily queen of York. “You didn’t think I’d miss your labor, would you?”

At times you forget your belly is heavier…

“With many matters to attend, my sister, I honestly wouldn’t expect you to. But you know how grateful I am by your company.”

The thread is briefly interrupted as you are distracted by the shout of your youngest children. Osbert is crying for a reason and Ædyth is claiming she can hold a sword.

You give Stiorra a look before playing the role of a mother. As Osferth fussed with his son’s hair, thus finishing the training, his eyes linger at the familiar scenario.

“Who’d ever known we would come all this way?”, when he turns it’s Finan who speaks.

Today, he came with Uhtred for a familiar visit that has, however, political implications. It appears that Brida has been planning a vengeance at Uhtred, so the northern warlord came to ask for Mercian aid—specially when your royal uncle is not excited at the prospect of borrowing your father some men to impede this alleged Danish invasion.

“God writes in mysterious ways”, says the former monk.

“You deserve this, my friend. You have a wife who loves you, and she is rich, possessing lands and enough silver for a lifetime”, both friends laugh at his remark. “And what about your children? I’ll ensure that Edgar is training by my sons’ side when time is come.”

“You can always bring them here”, suggests Osferth. “Y/N doesn’t want to acknowledge but in due time our boy will have his own household, so he must be surrounded by good and loyal friends.”

“I’ll consider it with my wife. It’s an excellent suggestion”, Finan agrees.

As the day turns into night and the guests, as well the children, are set to sleep, Osferth and you finally have a moment to yourselves.

“What a day”, says he in the moment he slides at his side of the bed.

“Indeed. Grandmother has been very, uh, busy with our children. I fear she might spoilt them too much”, you shake your head, in reference to the King Ælfred’s wife who’s been with you since your mother’s premature demise.

Osferth is on his elbow, stroking your hair as he ensures you are comfortable.

“She enjoys a privilege few do: meeting her great-grandchildren, another generation of the old king’s blood.”

You lean into his touch, locking hands with his, watching your husband blow away a few candles.

“You bring me great delights, my love.”

“The seed is strong”, he teases you, making you chuckle quietly.

“Don’t be silly, Osferth.”

With moonlight finding its way stubbornly through half closed curtains, you see the gaze your husband casts at you. You lift your hand to play with his short hair before stroking his face.

No words are needed.

As you smile and he smiles too, you peck his lips. It is a love story and both of you said yes to it. Such is what the pens of future scribes will register.

Others will write songs. The Lady and Her Knight will echo through the centuries, with your descendants still on power somehow by the 18th century…

[humanpurposes]

From Eden

Chapter 1: Little Novice

Danes attack Wincombe Abbey and a young novice crosses paths with a group of mercenaries and their Baby Monk // Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Osferth x Original Female Character

Warnings: bit of violence and death, suggestive themes if you squint, there will eventually be smut

Words: 4000

A/n: not me starting another series oops but i can't resist the baby monk

Today saw the first snowfall of the year. A few flakes landed on Bridget’s sleeves as she sauntered past the hard and frosted soil of the vegetable garden, past the pigsty and towards the stream that circled Wincombe Abbey. She swung an empty pitcher back and forth as she hummed the least melancholy hymn she could think of.

They had guests currently. Lady Aethelflaed of Mercia had arrived two days ago, bringing with her a group of guards who were camping at outside the Abbey. Bridget had been tempted to walk past the men on her errand, but the Abbess was already in a foul mood and she didn’t fancy testing her temper. Not unless it was for something interesting.

She had spent her morning as she always did. Prayers first. Her knees were never not bruised by the flagstone floor of the chapel, but with winter settling in they were numb too. Then she saw to the goats and the pigs. Then she helped in the kitchen. Finally, she got to eat in the hall with her Sisters. Bread with some winter preserves and slices of cured ham.

When she got to the stream, she placed the pitcher by her feet. With a final glance over her shoulder to the solitary stone building of the Abbey, she hopped across the water on a sparse path of rocks and made for the line of trees ahead of her.

The woods were the only place she felt like a living person and not simply a novice in a habit.

Bridget couldn’t stand how quiet life the Abbey could be. The Abbess, a stern but fair woman, told her it was because she was restless and unappreciative, but perhaps she was simply not well suited to mindfulness and prayer. Sometimes she could find things to laugh about with the younger girls, but then the Abbess would scold her for her “impiety”.

Once she was amongst the trees she tugged at her habit. In the summer she might take it off, but it offered some extra warmth in the colder months.

Her preferred weapon was where she left it, leaning against the trunk of a young oak tree. A broken bit of a branch, small enough for her to wield and heavy enough to hit against the trees.

She twirled it through her hands, just as her brother used to show her. From the few memories she had, she remembered he could do all sorts of impressive tricks with his sword. He could spin it and slice it through the air in controlled and precise movements.

It had been a decade since she had seen her brother, but she tried to keep his teachings with her, swinging branches at tree trunks, imagining she was a great warrior, like David slaying Goliath. Technically David had slayed Goliath with a rock and a sling, a detail the Abbess insisted was important. Bridget could invent a thousand reasons why, but she didn’t care to.

Especially when she was younger, she liked to imagine herself as a warrior when she was tasked with cutting wood or slaughtering and butchering the pigs. They were both hard work, but she was always willing to do it, if only to have an excuse to be destructive for once. She found it could be quite cathartic.

After a particularly harsh blow against a tree that cracked the branch almost in two, she froze. She heard horses. She hoped they would move on, but she made out a few figures in the distance, figures who appeared to have spotted her and were moving closer.

She dropped the branch and fixed her habit, to find a lock of her hair hovering over her forehead. She tucked it back in as the faces of the riders came into view.

There were five who rode at the front, four men and a woman with pale, blonde hair and strange markings on her face. A larger group, no more than twenty, hung back a little.

“A nun,” one of the men called. He rode in front of the group, their leader, she supposed.

“There we are then, you’ll feel right at home, Baby Monk,” another said. He had a gruff voice and an Irish accent. One of the other men laughed. The woman didn’t react at all.

“Is the Abbey nearby?” The leader asked.

Bridget frowned. He had an accent she could not place. “You are Danish?” She looked amongst the rest of their group, and they each seemed to find her accusation amusing.

“What is my religion to you, girl?”

“I would like to know if you would seek to do us harm.”

He raised a brow. “And you believe the best measure of a man to be the gods he follows?”

“I believe the best measure of a man is his intentions,” she said, meeting his eye and determined to keep her expression stoic.

But apparently he was pleased with her response. “You and I are similar in this respect,” he said, loosening the grip of his reins. “We seek the Lady Aethelflaed.”

“Would you seek to do her harm?”

“Only the good kind,” the Irishman mumbled with a smirk.

The leader rolled his eyes. “She and I are friends. I have come to offer her my protection.”

Bridget looked into the eyes of each of their group, the leader, the Irishman, the one who from his hair also looked to be a Dane, and the younger man riding at the back of the group. The woman had an unsettling gaze, she was the only one Bridget felt she felt compelled to look away from. The Abbess would call the markings on her face the markings of a heathen.

“There is a bridge over the stream,” she said, pointing through the trees. “Cross there. There will be room for your horses in the stables.”

She watched the men move away, each of them offering thankful smiles. She concealed her own, and headed back the way she came, across the stream and to the abbey with the empty pitcher.

Lady Aethelflaed welcomed them warmly and named their leader as Lord Uhtred. After it was agreed that they were decidedly not Danes (not the kind who would attack an Abbey anyhow), they settled in the hall, where Bridget and the nuns brought them bowls of stew and bread.

She expected them to eat like the Mercian guards, wolfing down bread and stew like they hadn’t seen food in days, but Lord Uhtred and his men thanked her graciously as she placed bowls on the table and went round to ladle out more stew for them.

Until she came to the man sitting at the end of the table, beside Lady Aethelflaed. He was the youngest of the group, with wide blue eyes and a sharp jaw. He kept to himself, slightly hunched over his stew.

She was rather fascinated by his robes and the small silver cross around his neck. If he had a slightly worse haircut he would look like a monk. But that was ridiculous, why would a monk be travelling with a group of mercenaries?

She approached him and waited for him to notice her. He looked up at her a smiled vaguely.

She indicated to the pot she was carrying.

“Please,” he muttered, holding out his bowl.

She dished a few spoonfuls for him and he smiled again, a little wider this time. She smiled back.

She wondered where he might be from, why he served a Dane if he wore a cross, how far their group had travelled and how many tales they might have.

“May I ask your name?” He asked.

She had been so distracted trying to think of something to say that his question took her by surprise.

“Oh… Bridget,” she said. “And you?”

“I am Osferth,” he said. He was very softly spoken, she thought. There was something so gentle and subdued about him.

“Are you a monk, Osferth?” She asked.

He glanced down at the cross hanging from his neck. “I was, I left my order to serve Lord Uhtred.”

“And now you are, what, a mercenary?”

Osferth chuckled to himself and shook his head lightly. “I am not much of a fighter just yet.”

“But you have a sword, and your friends are warriors.”

“I am still learning. In the meantime I can only practice and pray to God for courage and strength.”

She felt a light feeling in her chest she was sure she hadn’t felt in years. That’s what she prayed for too, even when the nuns told her she should be praying for patience and forgiveness.

“How did you—”

“Bridget.” The Abbess called, glaring at her from across the table.

Bridget nodded her head to Osferth, a farewell, she supposed, and headed back to the kitchen. One of the girls followed behind her, with a now empty pitcher of ale.

“The Irishman is handsome,” Bridget whispered into her ear once they were through the doors.

The other girl’s mouth fell open.

“What? Surely it is not a sin to look?”

The next morning, the Abbess ensured Bridget stayed in the kitchen. “So you might not be so easily distracted,” she warned, leaving her to peel and slice an endless amount of vegetables.

The Abbess seemed rather distressed at hosting Lord Uhtred and his men. “Ravenous permanently,” she grumbled, marching in through the kitchen with the remains of their breakfast. “They are eating into our winter stores.”

“So why let them stay?” Bridget muttered, dragging the edge of her knife over the skin of a few carrots.

“Because it is our place to show kindness,” the Abbess insisted through her teeth. She emptied the plate into a bucket by Bridget’s feet. “Take that out to the pigs.”

Bridget made no verbal protest. She placed the knife down and left through a small door that led out to the side of the Abbey, just as she had done the previous day. The skin of her cheeks stung when it met the icy morning air. The snow was heavier today. She blinked a few flakes out of her eyes and marched quickly towards the pigsty.

She made sure to scratch them behind the ears, poor things, left out in the cold.

She made her way around the building, to the front doors of the Abbey, and blinked.

And blinked again.

No, there was defineately an army of Danes lined up on the other side of the bridge.

“Good morning, nun!” One cried from atop a grey horse.

“Who are you?” Bridget demanded, but her voice came out a little more broken than intended.

The man chuckled and nodded to the bridge.

They had three hostages, each with a knife being held to their throats.

But with the order from their leader, the first hostage’s throat was sliced open, his body carelessly left to fall to the floor.

Bridget couldn’t bring herself to scream and choked out a broken sort of gasp.

They made no demands, made no moves towards her, and there was no indication they intended to kill the other two hostages. Not yet.

She slowly stalked towards the doors, unable to keep her eyes away from the danger.

“We will wait!” The man on the horse called, “for Aethelflaed!”

She ran to the kitchen first.

“To the hall!” She cried, moving to shut the windows.

The others all stared at her for a moment.

“Now!”

“What is the meaning of this?” The Abbess asked, bolting the door to the gardens as the others fled the kitchen.

“Danes,” Bridget breathed. She hadn’t realised her lack of breath or the restless feeling creeping under her skin.

The Abbess’s skin turned pale. She placed her hand on Bridget’s shoulder and ushered her towards the hall.

The nuns and novices had raised alarm amongst the men. Half of them were already reaching for their weapons.

Bridget and the Abbess slammed the doors of the hall with an ominous thud.

“What is it?” Lord Uhtred demanded.

“Danes. Outside.”

Every man was on his feet in an instant, and the sound of unsheathed swords rang through the hall.

“How many Danes?” The Irishman asked.

Bridget faltered. She hadn’t thought to count them. “More than twenty. Less than fifty.”

A few men moved towards the doors and the windows, but Lord Uhtred ordered them to hold for the time being.

He turned to Bridget. “Do you know what they want?”

“He asked for Lady Aethelflaed.”

“But they may not know we are here,” he said to his men.

“They know someone is here,” Osferth’s voice came. He was still sat at the table and had not drawn his sword.

“But they have hostages,” Bridget said. “They killed one man and they have two more.”

“We remain inside, and we remain silent,” Uhtred ordered, coming towards Bridget and the Abbess. “They must believe you are unprotected,” he said.

He looked between them for a moment, and turned back to Bridget. “Would you speak with them?”

Her heart must have stopped for a moment. “What?”

“We cannot save the hostages, but you can save the lives of the men and women here.”

“And Aethelflaed,” Osferth added.

“You must deny she is here; convince them you have nothing to offer.”

Her restlessness was starting to feel like fear, but she understood Lord Uhtred’s plan, and she could not say why, but she was inclined to trust him.

Until the Abbess interjected. “No!”

Bridget’s heart sank a little. “Abbess, I can do it—”

“No, child, this is my house. This will be my responsibility.” She turned to Lord Uhtred. “I will do it.”

Bridget followed Uhtred and some of the other men into the entrance hall. She stood by one of the windows, out of sight of the Danes, occasionally stealing glances of the Abbess as she stepped out to attempt a negotiation.

“We know him,” a voice muttered beside her. She looked up to see Osferth’s jaw hovering over her. “His name is Haesten.”

The Abbess made her plea for mercy.

In turn, a second man had his throat slit.

“Deny her presence again and a third man dies. And I will burn down your nunnery, and everyone in it.”

Bridget placed her hand on her throat. She could feel her heart pulsing.

A hand gently came onto her shoulder, but Osferth said nothing. His hands were larger than she realised. It wasn’t exactly calming, but she liked it.

True to the words of the Dane, the third man was slain, and when the Abbess reached for an axe she was met with a spear to her chest.

Bridget flinched into Osferth’s chest, keeping her hands over her eyes.

“Aethelflaed!” Haesten cried. “How many more men and women must die to save your bony arse?”

“To the hall,” Osferth said, taking one of her hands in his.

When she glanced once more out the window, Haesten and his men were moving past the bodies of the hostages and the Abbess, towards the doors.

Bridget, Osferth and Aethelflaed gathered the nuns and novices to the back of the hall, while Uhtred and his men lined up behind the doors with shields, spears and swords.

“Will you not fight?” Bridget asked Osferth.

“I told you, I am not much of a warrior,” he said solemnly, as he and Lady Aethelflaed positioned themselves before the others.

Bridget frowned, but tried to distract herself by whispering assurances to some of the younger girls.

When the doors finally burst open she felt utterly helpless. The fighting was kept by the doors and the entrance hall, while Osferth and Lady Aethelflaed watched with their swords drawn.

And when two of the Danes broke through the line protecting the door, they moved together. Lady Aethelflaed fought better than the monk, she thought.

She watched as a third man fought through, overwhelming Osferth while Aethelflaed was still preoccupied.

Bridget couldn’t stop herself. She darted towards the table and grabbed a knife. She supposed the man could have easily turned to her and lodged his axe in her chest, but he didn’t get a chance to even look at her before she rammed the knife into his neck, sending a spray of blood through the air.

The rest of the room was a haze. Something warm and wet landed on and dripped down her cheek.

Suddenly she felt two hands against her shoulders. She blinked.

Osferth’s blue eyes were glaring at her. “That was foolish,” he said.

Three men lay dead on the floor. Swords continued to clash in the entrance hall but Haesten and his men were retreating.

Osferth and Aethelflaed moved out to join Uhtred, while some of the nuns came to wipe the blood from Bridget’s face.

She told them of the Danes and the Abbess’ death. Some of the girls cried, some prayed. She came to clutch her own cross around her neck. But her hands would not stop shaking and her heart would not rest.

She killed a man. Really, it hadn’t been much harder than slaughtering a pig, but at least it felt a little more justified.

If the Abbess were not dead, she would have screamed at her, told her she was ungodly, no better than a cold-blooded murderer, or any of the Danes who ravaged villages and stole from innocent Mercians.

They stayed huddled in the hall until dusk, when Lord Uhtred seemed to finally come to a resolution.

The woman with the markings on her face, Skade, was a seer, and Haesten agreed to take her in Aethelflaed’s place.

Bridget watched the exchange from the doors to the main hall, and a shiver slipped down her spine when Skade turned to Uhtred with a dark look in her eyes.

“You are cursed once more, Uhtred of Bebbanburg.”

Bridget had hardly slept that night. She lay eyes closed, still in her robes and the white headscarf she wore under her habit, listening to the gentle snores of the girls in the beds around her and aware of the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed.

The moment she heard the first whistle of birdsong at dawn, she was up. She pulled on a pair of boots and looked around her bed. But it occurred to her she owned nothing, save for her little silver cross.

She hurried through the abbey, past the open doors of the hall, now empty.

The men were outside, securing their saddles and mounting their horses.

She spotted Lord Uhtred as he was helping Lady Aethelflaed pack her own mount.

Osferth was by his horse, talking to the Irishman.

“Lord Uhtred!” Bridget called over the noise of the horses.

He turned to her with a small smile. “Fear not, we have not emptied your food stores—”

“I want to come with you,” she said.

She had the attention of the others now.

Uhtred chuckled to himself. “I already have a stray monk, I have no need for a little novice.”

Bridget’s skin still felt strange where it had been stained with blood. “I fought better than him.”

“Not a particularly high standard,” the Irishman joked. Osferth’s head sunk, but he was smirking too.

“So you killed one man and now you offer yourself as a warrior?” Uhtred asked.

Her breath caught in her throat as she finally realised the ridiculousness of her proposition. She could swing a branch, cut firewood and bury a knife into an unsuspecting man, but that would hardly help her in a true battle.

“With practice, perhaps?” She said, pressing her nails into her palm. “But I have some skills as a healer also. I’ve assisted the Abbess with all sorts of ailments, no doubt you encounter your fair share of injuries?”

“She’s got spirit, Uhtred, at least give her that,” Aethelflaed said.

“Please,” Bridget said, “give me the chance and I will prove myself to you.”

They each shared a few pointed glances.

“I admire your determination, but I cannot bring a girl onto the battlefield against armies of Danes. I cannot guarantee your protection and I cannot even offer you a horse.”

“Lord? She can ride with me,” Osferth said quietly. “With your permission of course. I can look out her.”

Uhtred raised his eyebrows. “Very well.”

Bridget felt herself smile, wide and showing off her top row of teeth. It felt uncomfortable but she didn’t try to stop herself.

The others were already starting to move off as she approached Osferth as he stroked the nose of his horse.

“Have you ridden before?” He asked.

“No.”

“You’ll sit behind me; I’ll help you up.”

Bridget nodded.

She watched as he placed his left foot in the stirrup and swung his leg over to the other side. “Easy,” he insisted, holding out his hand to her. “Don’t be afraid to use your strength.”

She followed his movements as best she could, but her skirt wouldn’t allow her to bring her leg to the other side of the saddle. She fell back onto her feet with a disgruntled huff.

“Other foot then, and slot both legs onto one side of the saddle.” He held out his hand again. “Ready?”

“Wait.” Bridget looked back to the space around her. The stream, the woods, the doors to the place that had never really felt like home. She reached for her headscarf and pulled it off her head, letting it fall to the ground. She didn’t suppose she would have any use for it now. Her hair fell down her back in a messy braid.

She looked back up at Osferth, between his hand, his eyes, and briefly to the curve of his upper lip. She held his hand tightly and hauled herself up onto the horse, her arms and legs trembling slightly at the effort.

Once the horse was settled Osferth gave it a gentle kick and they began to move. Bridget latched onto his shoulders as they began to sway with the movement.

“What if I fall off?” She asked, suddenly horrified at the prospect.

“You won’t fall off,” Osferth said, “use your thighs.”

“What?”

“Grip with your thighs,” he said.

She did so instinctively. Something about it felt… strange.

They cantered to catch up with the group and Bridget gripped Osferth’s shoulders a little tighter. Until he took one of her hands and placed it on his waist, so she wouldn’t impede on his arms. She muttered an apology and unsurely placed her other hand around him.

A few days ago she hadn’t so much as spoken to a man in years, except an incident where a nearby farmer had broken his leg, and even then she only wordlessly assisted the Abbess to bandage his limb.

Now she had her arms around a man’s torso, close enough to feel his warmth from under his winter cloak as her body rocked against his back.

“You’re frozen,” Osferth said, briefly brushing his thumb over her hand.

“It’s winter.”

“Did you not have anything warmer to wear?”

“We don’t attach ourselves to material items,” she said in a mockingly wistful voice.

He huffed a small laugh and pulled the horse to a stop before swinging his leg around the its head, landing on the ground in one smooth movement.

He undid the clasp on his cloak and held it up to her.

“Thank you,” she said, wrapping it around her shoulders, “but I don’t want you to get cold.”

He mounted again, a little awkwardly with Bridget already in the saddle. “Hold it around me. We can keep each other warm.”

She shuffled closer into him. Osferth brought one hand off the reins and pulled the corner of the cloak around his arm as Bridget settled against his back, resting her head at the base of his neck.

Thank God he couldn’t see her as her cheeks started to burn against the cold and the snow.

[lord-aldhelm]

Recommended Fic List

I honestly haven't read very many fanfics (I know, shame on me! 🫣) in The Last Kingdom or otherwise. I am starting to go through AO3 and actually read the ones I had bookmarked. I thought it might be nice to make a rec list of the fics that I really enjoyed. Most of these are rated M or E so be forewarned when you read them. I will add to this as I actually read more stuff.

Aethelflaed x Aldhelm:

Come Go with Me by Perennial (restricted to accounts only): A lovely post Season 4 fic that gives them both what they, and Mercia, deserve. Rating: M (@vinca-majors) More than Mercia by ToBebbanburg: Another lovely post Season 4 happy ending fic. (@torch-the-throne) Clever-Tongued by TheBrokaryotes: a very poetic and descriptive exploration of their first time together. (@tsukkinami) Day Out by cocchamscrew: Aldhelm has a nice day outside the castle away from Aethelred with Lady Aethelflaed. (@osferth) Duty & Decency by ToBebbanburg: Aldflaed in the universe of Pride and Prejudice. (@torch-the-throne) Meanwhile in Mercia by adamwhatareyouevendoing: A wonderful multipart series with a happy ending! (@skatingthinandice and @remembertheskittles)

Other TLK fics:

In His Father's Footsteps by holy3cake: Aethelstan x Osbert post SKMD (@holy3cake) Visions of Helheim by TheNamesWinter99: Sihtric x Reader and learning about his past and mother (@thenameswinter99) Wolf-Heart by Gemini_Mama: Finan x OC, part of a series, Wolf Warrior is the second part. (@gemini-mama)

[kassandras-one-braincell]

Oathsworn brainrot: Soma

This doesn't even scratch the surface, and there's 2000 odd words under the cut. This entire AU was built around Soma. I am unwell. As a big supporter of women's wrongs, the fact that in the game's canon, she allegedly managed to piss off the entirety of Mercia within a couple of years of being in England appeals to me greatly. That's a nefarious feat. Her hands are bloody.

The whole Oathsworn premise post is linked here.

The King isn’t a tactful man, and managed to piss off a very powerful nation overseas just a year after his coronation. They’re cunning merchants, and equally as cunning on the battlefield. The Danes are governed by a war council, led by Guthrum Jarl, with formidable politicians and warriors seated beside him.

Guthrum does not like the acting King. But neither side would profit from an all-out war. Your kingdom has money and connections from trade that the Danes (creatively named) didn’t want to compromise. And in terms of prowess in battle, your army didn’t stand a chance. Tensions were high, with neither side willing to escalate things past sanctions, a few shot messengers, minor sieges of neutral territory, and a lot of threats.

Three years ago, the King – bored of current circumstances – acted against the advice of the court and ordered a disproportionately sized infantry unit to attack a very small encampment flying a Dane banner on neutral ground, breaching the peace. He smiled while the council were left to develop one hell of a contingency plan. Thirty men sent to kill three or four Danes, according to the scout.

One soldier returned, his right leg dragging limply behind him, utterly harrowed. He trembled, wide-eyed and halfway retching as he recounted how the one Dane who survived the ambush sprinted into the swamp with thirty men on her tail. With a single axe, murky water and the darkness of the night, she cut down the infantry. She sliced the sole survivor’s heel and forced him to watch her butchery of the twenty-ninth soldier. Then she escorted him back to her camp. Cleaned and dressed his wound, purely so he’d live to tell the tale.

The court froze with dread as he gave a description of the woman. Specifically at the scar, ragged and deep, cutting through her face from her ear to her nose. That woman was Soma: one of Guthrum’s most trusted councillors, and something of a nightmare to your kingdom’s soldiers.

Your court anticipated full retaliation. However, they were met with diplomacy. Despite the breach of unspoken contract, Guthrum had no intention of returning the gesture, still believing that the price of a war wouldn’t be worth its rewards. He arranged to visit the kingdom with his war council after sending a draft of a new peace treaty, full of mutually beneficial trade outlines, but pending one unfinalised condition.

Soma, looking like Soma does, caught your immediate attention upon the Danes’ arrival. She immediately recognised you as the crown princess without introduction, despite the King’s children also being present. She knew something, and that was unsettling, but she was courteous nonetheless. Her smile was warm, her eyes betraying her calculation. You weren’t completely in the dark yourself, though – the scar was unmistakable. This woman could likely take on all the Kingsguard in the room without the help of her colleagues. Whatever their game was, she was an integral player.

Guthrum said he was content to forgive the King for his misdeeds, and while the phrasing angered his Majesty, the animosity was silenced by the treaty’s very generous terms. The Danes saw profit in an alliance, but needed a reason to believe the King would honour it. After this, Guthrum nodded to you and bowed politely; word of your stride towards free public education had reached their shores, and he found it an admirable goal indeed. No wonder your kingdom spoke fondly of their heir, he remarked.

His caveat to the treaty was simple. Your court, by now, was familiar with the capabilities of Soma. Guthrum had heard of the Oathsworn tradition. Soma was prepared to abandon her port and her seat at his council in favour of swearing the Oath. This way, if the King was to lash out again, she would be within striking distance to take the life of the kingdom’s crown jewel – and your death wouldn’t be painless. The oath would be sworn with him and a noble of your choice present as witnesses, and it would be sworn.

Very few people in the court were aware of the King’s intention to eventually dethrone you, and he was in no position to refuse the treaty. The Danes did not come without reinforcements. He agreed to the terms, signed the papers, and you asked your queen mother to bear witness. She was sickened by the thought of the Oath being sworn under these circumstances, suspecting her husband’s intentions regarding his succession, knowing your life was doubly at risk here. But she agreed, because it wasn't up for negotiation.

That same evening, yourself, Soma, a priest and the two agreed-upon witnesses took to the chapel. She recited the sacred vow, never breaking your gaze. Her tone was steeled, but there was no mistaking her contentment to abandon the tenet, should it be asked of her.

The first attempt on your life occurred a mere month after the Oath ceremony. The assassin concealed the family crest of one of your kingdom’s nobles on a cufflink. He struck when you were checking in with the headmaster of a school you recently built, dealt with swiftly by Soma, who shadowed your public appearances. She was professional – positioning herself between you and the attacker in a suit of armour she had yet to adjust to, incapacitating him. The visit was cut short as she wrapped you in her cloak to mask your identity, leaving the other guards to formally arrest the assassin.

She had an authoritative, no-bullshit attitude about her as she used her newfound influence over the royal guard – a perk of the position given the politics – to organise an inquiry, presenting to the King the engraved cufflink found on the assassin. No doubt, she took pleasure in getting information out of him, but how she handled the inquiry made it clear that your life was paramount, and you took peculiar solace in this. The conspiring noblewoman who sent him was soon tried and punished accordingly. Soma insisted upon standing in as her executioner.

You cursed yourself as your defensive, wary demeanour around her cracked over time. There were other attempts on your life, and she took her role as your Oathsworn seriously, seemingly more so with every new perpetrator. Beyond duty, though, she showed you kindness. And as you learned about one another in your close proximity, you grew fond of each other. A profound respect was building, and it was mutual.

At one point, you both had problematic revelations. You had never felt safer around the woman tasked with taking your life, should the causal circumstance arise. And Soma realised she had no desire to act on that kill order. You made a promise to her: when you were queen, you would grant her deeds to the kingdom’s port, because she had once confessed to you how she mourned that part of her old life, and the gods knew she could bloody run it. She pondered the promise being empty, but dismissed the thought. You listened to her in a moment of vulnerability. This changed things.

A dalliance was inevitable, but this was neither fleeting nor inconsequential. Your affection for one another, your devotion in all its intensity, was a secret well-kept from all eyes, ears and quills.

And it was intense. Fast. Hasty, even. The threat of a sudden awful change loomed over you both, leaving no time for courtship. Butterflies were reserved for the newfound gesture in Soma’s hand on your back as she escorted you through crowds. Her solitary company was filled with dizzying kisses, passionate rendezvous under the moonlight and unbridled laughter.

At first, your mutual desire for physical intimacy was overwhelmed by a sudden anxiety in your closeness. There was the persistent fear that the kill order had been given, and that Soma was waiting for you to be at your most vulnerable before she ended your life. It choked you, frustrated you, but you were honest with her. The first time it happened, Soma assured you that she would sooner cut off her hand than lay a harmful finger on you. She thanked you for your candour, bidding you goodnight with a comforting smile and a chaste kiss to your knuckles. She would not lay with you until you felt safe enough to trust her with your body, and she wanted you to realise this safety on your own. With time, that safety came about. You made love, and confessed that love shortly after.

Your relationship introduced a new variable to the political equation. Until the present, you tried your best not to question any loyalties. Foolish as it were, you were content in the illusion of security.

With his reign coming to an end, though, the King is under pressure to secure the line of succession for himself and his children before he’ll be forced to abdicate. Never having had a penchant for patience, this urgency is beginning to seep into his actions in court. None of the assassination attempts were successful. His co-conspirators are dwindling in their numbers; those who haven’t been convicted of treason are succumbing to fear.

Truthfully, he never anticipated Soma would honour her vow, nevermind with such ferocity. He had hoped one of his carefully organised, bloody fates would befall upon you, and her subsequent execution would bury the evidence of his crime. But she complicated things terribly, and in his frustration, he begins to suggest processions that would put the treaty at risk. Gambling merchandise due to be exported form your kingdom to Guthrum. Proposing a mandatory armistice for all Danes in the kingdom. Inquisitions, the likes. All fortunately talked down by the court, but not without rapidly building concern.

You and Soma begin to see through the cracks. The King isn’t intelligent, but he also isn’t naive enough to accidentally compromise the kingdom’s safety. As your step-siblings begin to look at you through a different gaze, you're forced to navigate court with a pit in your stomach. Conversations with Soma following the string of conspiracies only reinforced the idea that foul play is at work.

Soma caught word some weeks ago that Guthrum’s war council had undergone a few changes of seats, and not all of the new councillors share his ambitions. They seek conquest. She suspects they’re in contact with your King, most likely manipulating him into pushing for political moves that would spiral the kingdom into a war you would certainly lose.

Her fears reside in whether Guthrum could have a change of heart, or if he would be willing to isolate you from the actions of the King with your coronation inbound. There is every possibility that the King could overrule the democracy of the court regarding one of his rash decisions, and the kill order would be given. There would be war, and if she refused to take your life, she’d be an enemy of her people – her family – as well as your own.

Yet when she confides in you, distressed, it’s abundantly clear that Soma doesn’t see a dilemma in all of this. She paces about your quarters and thinks aloud, knowing you’ll always lend your ear and comfort to her. If all negotiations failed, she would rather live as a pariah than betray you. The idea of taking your life is unfathomable.

Amidst a sea of uncertainties, you’re unable to avoid doubt. Those panicky feelings from the early days of your relationship are resurfacing, as much as you want them to stop. Your heart yearns to trust Soma. You hear the truth in her words, the humanity in her voice, but you can’t shake the fear that it’s an elaborate act. Your apprehension hurts her. It wounds you both.

A bitter few days pass by. You’re sick with worry, unable to sleep. Questions of if she’d do it bleed into how she’d do it. Your mind lingers on poison, to the extent where you employ somebody to taste your food and before you so much as touch the plate.

Soma knocks on your bedchamber door one night with a goblet in hand. She lets out a pained breath when you flinch away from it. It’s a sleeping aid, she tells you gently. It’s agonising to watch your health deteriorate under paranoia. You are her heart, after all. As difficult as it is to acknowledge your wavering trust in her, her love for you has not lessened.

You’re exhausted. And scared – not just for your life, but for the future of your kingdom. Apologies flood from your lips as you crumble before her. Soma can’t stop herself from holding you. Tears of her own escape as you sob at the sensation of her embrace, trembling in her arms as your sleep-deprived, anxiety-riddled mind tries desperately to refute that immediate feeling of safety.

It dawns that neither of you have the luxury of certainty in anything but each other.

Tenderly, after a small eternity in each other's arms, Soma asks if she can renew her vow, right here. She wants you to hear her Oath anew, her tenet solemn, devoted, and devoid of political motivation. Fuck the chapel, the priest, the gods. Witness be damned. The only blessing that matters is yours.

You give it to her.

[coloursofunison]

Happy Release Day to Protector of Mercia

Happy Release Day to Protector of Mercia #TalesOfMercia #ProtectorOfMercia #NewRelease

Today is the day, book 5 in The Eagle of Mercia Chronicles is released into the wild. Here’s the blurb: A deathbed oath leaves the lives of two infants hanging in the balance. Tamworth AD833 After successfully rescuing her husband from the Island of Sheppey, Icel hears the deathbed confession of Lady Cynehild which leaves him questioning what he knows about his past, as well as his future. In…

[ms-oswald]

ocean eyes | chapter one

author's note: first chapter to my new Uhtred mini-series. This has some smut(ish), so MDNI please. My first attempt at focusing on Uthred and not gonna lie, this was tough but still fun. hopefully whoever reads this, you will enjoy :) thank you to @itbmojojoejo for being my beta reader 💜 banner credit to @arcielee! lots of love & stay safe 💕

      They were a long way from Cookham when Uhtred and his men arrived at their new settlement of Rumcofa. 

As they made their way through the open gates, they incited stares and whispers, the villagers wondering what troubles such intruders would bring to their quaint homes.  

People were on their guard while the boys provided them with polite smiles and nods at every eye and curious stares that came their way. 

They knew such an alteration would be an adjustment, that a warm welcome to warriors like themselves would take time to digest.  

For Uhtred, moving away from Cookham did not prove to be as hard as he thought.  

Bittersweet memories had been left behind, his attempt to ignore their claws grasping at his shadow. 

The loss of his wife years prior, the end of his affair with the Lady of Mercia – Cookham had bathed in ache, the crimson of its afterglow scarring him, body and soul.  

Rumcofa was a welcome change, he thought, needing the air to clear his mind and start anew. 

He did not care for the strategic significance of this move – whether it was Rumcofa or Cookham, Uhtred needed to be away from Wessex, and from Winchester.  

He was brought out of his thoughts when he halted, his horse by his side letting out a hefty breath. 

“And may I ask, who are ya?”  

His eyes settled on an older man, burly looking with his blond mustache thickening around his upper lip. The Danish accent heavy in his voice, he stood tall - the illusion hiding the slight shortness in his height – with his double-faced sledgehammer balanced between his hands. The stance for attack was at his toes, ready to use his weapon in potential combat. 

A faint snicker whispered behind Uhtred; from the sound of it, he knew his men were amused by the display in front of them.  

He took a quick look around before his eyes settled back on the blacksmith in front of him. “I am Uhtred of Bebbanburg.” He fixed his posture, placing his arms across his chest, his head slightly tilted sideways. “We have orders from the Lady of Aethelflaed that my men and I are to move here and oversee the village. I am to be the new Lord.” 

The Dane scoffed as he lowered his weapon, a smirk resting at the corner of his lips. “You’ll want to see the Lady of the village.” 

At his words, Finan leaned closer to his friend as he whispered, brows arched. “Are ya sure we’re in the right place, Uhtred?” 

The man ignored the Irishman’s comment, his gaze settling on confusion in front of the villager. “The Lady of Rumcofa?” 

The ears itching coincidentally, the woman in question had appeared in his view, her silhouette standing a few feet away from the Dane. 

It wasn’t the sight of strangers with their horses that left her breathless, nor was it the sight of her friend that seemed to have taken on the role of village protector that made her stop in her tracks. 

Her heart caught in her throat, latching on to dear life as her eyes focused on the main figure, her mind unconvinced of such reality. 

It was the grin on his face, the sound of his voice that traipsed across her body, shivering under her dress. 

The instinct settling itself into her nerves, a slight curve slid at the corner of her lips as a short breath finally escaped her. 

She had started walking towards the small hurdle of men, her voice reaching the boys with a breathy smile. “Well, if it isn’t Uhtred of Bebbanburg.” 

They turned towards the new sound; the man in question was left winded, the air knocked out of him in shock. He furrowed his brows, thinking his eyes might be deceiving him. 

“Cwen?” 

“Still alive, then?”  

Reaching them, she approached the blacksmith and gently placed her hand on his shoulder, quietly letting him know all was good and that she would care for the new guests.  

The Dane gave Cwen a nod before slowly walking away, leaving them be though not before disappearing without giving them warning crossing the brown in his eyes. 

Uncaring for it, Uhtred had spoken again with a soft chuckle slipping through at her welcoming words, his attention placed solely on the woman. “You look well.” He stepped forward and leaned in, his arms wrapping around her figure as he hugged her.  

The others, surprised at such unexpected familiarity, had remained quiet – simple observants.  

She had reciprocated the gesture, gently patting his back before pulling away. “And you look old.” 

Her remark got his men quietly sniggering behind their Lord. Uhtred turned to them, raising a brow at their reaction before looking back at Cwen, who was smiling from amusement at the little annoyance sprayed as a shadow across his face.  

Satisfied with herself, she pursued her little taunts, the jesting sparking up old flickers of residue from their past. “Word is, you are the new Lord of Rumcofa.”  

“I am.” Uhtred handed her a sealed parchment without another word, letting the letter speak for itself as Cwen opened it and started reading the content. 

She scoffed, her eyes meeting his again. “Her Ladyship couldn’t find another village for you to terrorize?” The sarcasm in her tone did not go unnoticed, leaving Uhtred to smile again, the rhythm of their exchange becoming a familiar routine for the ages. 

“It’s nice to see you again.” 

She gave him a grin. “You too, old friend.” The softness of the gesture left them to linger for a split second, forgetting for that moment where they stood. 

The interruption came from a little boy; he moved from where he stood next to Finan and partially hid behind Uhtred as he gazed upwards at the two adults, curiosity picking at him.  

She glanced at the boy before tilting her head up to her friend. “Your son?” Without looking away, Uhtred rested his hand on the child’s head. “My ward.” 

Cwen frowned, playfully skeptical of the painting in front of her; she bent down, meeting the little one at his eye level. “And what is your name, darling?” 

Unsure, the boy looked up to the man next to him for permission to speak. With a simple nod from Uhtred, he met Cwen’s gaze, his voice soft and timid. 

“Aethelstan.” 

She gave a friendly beam to the shy boy. “A good, strong name. I like it.” Her compliment made him smile, his timidity silently reaching his cheeks as he leaned closer towards Uhtred.  

Cwen leaned closer, whispering secretive words to the boy, away from grown-ups' ears; Uhtred watched the interaction, a soft curious smile reaching him. 

A moment later, she pulled away from him as he nodded to her. She shared a childish wink and lightly poked his nose – a simple tap of her fingertip, earning a chuckle as the child remained attentive to her. 

Ruffling the boy’s hair as she stood back up, Cwen eyed Uhtred. “I wonder what you slipped in her Ladyship’s water for you to have become Lord of this place.” 

Finan let out a choked cough, his breath stuck in his throat at the woman’s sudden comment – the hidden undertone only understood by him and his friend.  

Unfamiliar with the look in Uhtred’s eyes, Cwen moved on and leaned sideways, greeting the rest of the men that quietly stood by their horses. “Hi, boys.” She then shifted her eyes back to her friend. “Wards of yours as well, Lord?” She bore a teasing smirk, the sided upward curve of her lips making the Saxon smile again. 

She quickly followed by looking back at his men. “You can take the horses to the stable boy, and he’ll take care of them while you get acquainted with the village.” She turned to Uhtred once again, already taking a step back. “You, come with me.” 

He did as told and went her way while Finan and the rest went in the opposite direction. 

By her side, he followed her and looked around, taking in the sight of villagers going on about their businesses while children were carefree and running around, playing with each other.  

She let him be for a moment, watching him before looking in front of her again.  

“Have you ever overseen a village before?” 

Tilting his head to his left, he glanced at her before turning away again. “I have.”  

“A village with people, right? Not just an empty patch of mud and grass?” The sided coy look, the sarcasm enlaced in her tone made him chuckle. 

“Yes.” He turned his head again to her, leaving her to do the same as they stopped in their steps. “We were in Cookham for a long time. People liked me there.”  

She softly snickered, a slight snort catching up to her. “Sure. I’ll get those testimony myself if you don’t mind.” With a mischievous wink, she had started walking again, taking steps backwards as he watched her while shaking his head, amused.  

Turning back around, the lightness surrounding them had lowered slightly, though not completely as to dampen the mood. “How long has it been? Since we last saw each other?” She had asked, nostalgia slowly filling as blood cells in her body. 

He did not think long about her inquiry, not having the heart to answer with the truth. “It’s been way too long.” 

“Mhmm.” A small huff from her, parted as a snicker. She then pivoted to him, her tone into her words meant to be light. “You are only saying that to flatter me, Uhtred.” Looking away, her eyes unfocused on the path in front of them as they kept going, almost reaching the finishing point. “I have not crossed your mind since you left. Do not lie.” 

He did not sense anything somber in her pitch, which was what she was going for. She had not been one for sentimentality, trying to portray herself with a more playful demeanor than bereavement. 

Especially to him. 

Knowing him from their past, or at least the younger version of him – the arrogant, restless, fierce, and at times, slightly egotistic Uhtred – was not helping though, his presence stirring a part of her she had buried long ago. 

They had only met after the battle of Edington; losing Iseult to Skorpa, that period of his life, of his youth, had turned hazy due to his grief.  

And so, Cwen’s words were not a lie. Or almost, he believed.  

She might not have been in his everyday thought, and he might have forgotten about her over the years, but the second he saw her again, the second he heard her voice and laid eyes on her – she had not left him, he had noticed, knocking the air out of his chest.  

It was mouth to mouth resuscitation. 

She brought him out of his thoughts, her remarks letting out a deep breath from his lungs.  

“I do not say that to make you feel bad.” A sympathetic smile across her features, she continued. “You are not the only one who’s forgotten us. You were not very memorable.” 

“I did not plague your dreams, then?” Laced with mirth, he eyed her with a little glint discernable in his eyes. 

She played along, always up for a little bit of jest. “Actually, just this once.” She pretended to go deep in thought, her lips pursing in response. “More of a nightmare though.” 

Uhtred arched his brow, curious and waiting for her follow up. 

She lingered in silence a little bit longer – a split second that seemed to dwell forever. She then bit her bottom lip, proceeding to tease her friend. “You had become Lord of a village. It was horrible!” 

Laughing at her words, she watched and quietly followed suit, content with such response at her attempt at humor.  

They reached the hall, Uhtred’s new house, with the place almost empty apart from a handful of people who were sitting in the main room, drinking and making conversation.  

He watched them, quizzical; Cwen sensed he wanted to speak of what they encountered and so, she intervened, softly speaking to him. “Do not worry. Now that you are here, they will not be coming back.” 

She silently greeted the men at the table as she guided Uhtred inside, showing him around. A sigh left her, small – almost soundless.  

He could see, she had come down from her playful behavior and looked to her, intrigued. 

She chewed the inside of her cheek, trying to bring herself to glance at him in a more serious manner. She had still been on edge, masked by their backchat, unwilling yet to completely trust him. 

“Uhtred...” She looked for words, the pensive look she bore making him wonder what could have changed between them. “This may not be the home you dreamed of, but it is for the people here. So, please, do care for this village as you did with Cookham and as you would have with Bebbanburg.” 

He remained still, his gaze unwavering as he examined her.  

She had been wary, and it was clearly written across her face.  

He could not decipher if discomfort had run him down, or maybe it was her hues staring right back at him as if she looked for the soul that hid behind his own eyes.  

He silently nodded, glancing quickly around him before turning to her once again. “I promise, I will care for this place.” 

She remained still for a second, taking in his words – the sincerity splayed across his tongue. 

“Mhmm.” She nodded as well, taking a step away from him, her arms behind her back. “I’ll be watching you, Lord.” Emphasizing on the last word had brought back the lighter air, her mocking him with his title, giving him back the upward curves of her lips. 

She turned around and walked away, leaving him to chuckle to himself as he watched her go, his blue eyes lingering on her figure until she was out of sight. 

      “She must have been something...” 

Weeks had passed since Uhtred and his men settled in their new home, taking the reins of overseeing the village – from its people to the borders surrounding the land. 

Though things were quiet, peaceful and content even, Cwen remained on her toes, cautious of his presence; she had been paying close attention to him, watching from afar and exchanging quips and words from time to time, but on the occasions they were distant, she kept her eyes on him – on guard. 

She did not mind the others as they did not seem to have whatever affliction was hitting their Lord, leaving them to be merry on their own and bring some enjoyment around them. 

But for some reason, Uhtred had been the one she could not settle on – whatever hung above him had created dreaded heaviness in her chest. 

And so that’s how she found him, sipping on his ale in front of his fireplace watching the flames dance to the percussing sounds of their crackles.  

To her voice, he turned his head to her. “Who?”  

She took a step closer, gently closing the door behind her. 

“The woman who broke your heart.” 

He turned away, shifting in his seat as he leaned against the back of his chair.  

“What makes you think a woman broke my heart?” 

He had been mourning the end of his relationship with Aethelflaed, his mind overwhelmed by the events leading up to their separation. He had been silent about it – grieving in the dark, not realizing his ache was visible to the people around him.  

“You have that look in your eyes.” 

He huffed, not caring for the intrusion; he turned his head again to her, showing her the slight bothersome gaze he wore. “It is none of your business.” 

She sucked in a breath, rolling her eyes, she looked up at the ceiling, her hands on her hips in annoyance. She then turned to him again with a soft scowl, her head falling slightly sideways. “It is when you are scaring the villagers with that face of yours.” 

For the true nature of her visit, she had received grievances. Words dripped in bourgeoning fear as people came to see her about him, revealing their hesitancy to make contact with the man, partially afraid of him; whatever gripped at him, Uhtred could not see it had been affecting his day to day, his state visible through his mannerism and facial stance. 

She ran her fingers through her hair, sighing as she took a seat next to him; he had been staring at her, not understanding her complaint. 

She softened, gentle for him. “I understand the pain of heartbreak. I know what it does to someone.” She turned to face the fire, unable to meet his gaze just as he caught her profile, her skin timidly glowing against the light. She gathered her breath and spoke again. “Just... don’t let it affect your duty as Lord.” She tilted her head to her right, catching sight of his blues. “You have people who need you, who depend on you to be the lead of their village.”  

He could only nod, agreeing with her words. He took another sip of his ale with his eyes falling onto the cup as he remained silent.  

She let out another breath and stood up, her steps already leading her to the exit. 

“She must have been one hell of a woman...” 

She lingered, slightly leaning against the door as she gave Uhtred one last glance.  

“She is.” His response was somber, nostalgic. He did not turn her way, unable to look at her; he did not have the strength to be held by her gaze.  

Instead, he kept staring at his fire as he followed the flames’ routine, an intimate dance meant just for him. 

He was hurting and it broke her heart.  

She did not push, not wanting to disturb his tormented peace.  

Instead, she quietly walked out, gently closing the door behind her before making her way back to her home, contemplative. 

      The hassle of the people had become background noise as Uhtred and Cwen walked, with the Lady adding insight to the comings and goings of the trades happening by the edge of the village. 

His ears were tickling at the sound of her voice, the vibration seeping through and warmly coating his insides; he chased for it, taking in every single way the words would spill out of her, the syllables smoothly running down her tongue and painting her lips.  

He found himself smiling as he listened to her guide him on the workarounds of the trades happening by the port, the names of the people passing through knowingly spoken by the sweetness in throat. 

Over time, they had been growing closer.  

Cwen took notice of Uhtred’s behavioral change; he had been trying to put his grief behind, sealing his heart tightly against his chest.  

He held his head high, holding his promise to her and wanting to prove he could be counted on, not just as a warrior, but also as a Lord who people could turn to in times of need – as he had been in Cookham. 

As for that night, the subject was never brought up again. Cwen did not push on it, out of irritating him, as well as out of disinterest in the matter. 

But even though she believed he was putting in an effort, it had not stopped the thoughts at the back of her mind, pushing her to remain guarded by his side. She still lent a hand where she could, the villagers still regarding her as their Lady, ignoring the mismatch between the title and her person. 

Uhtred did not mind it; it was fitting to her persona, and found he enjoyed calling her this way – the first time he did, in jest, he had noticed the way her cheeks blushed, her skin turning a shade of red from shyness. 

“You tease too much, Uhtred!”  

“I apologize, Lady.” He was holding back his laughter, loving her fluster. She hit him, a simple slap across his chest, unable to contain her own cackles, making him smile as well. “Stop it!” 

This might have been the moment that changed things between them. 

They could not tell. 

Either way, he tried ignoring whatever sentiment gnawed at him from her presence – for fear of loss again, his heart had decided.  

It proved difficult though, unbeknownst to him. Even sealed in the dark, wanting to remain away from experiencing amorous grief all over again, wonder pricked at him the way a rose pricks at your finger; it had not hurt, but curiosity was holding its own, desperate for some shade under the light. 

They were now standing at the top of the tower overlooking the river. Cwen had been detailing the when’s and where’s from each present boat that lied underneath them; she had not realized Uhtred earned some of the knowledge of Rumcofa’s trade through Finan, the Irishman having studied the routes as well. 

He did not want to interrupt her – so he let her be, staring at her as his subconscious mind shadowed the movements of his hues while they followed her silhouette, observing the way her soft blond locks flowed with the gentle autumn breeze, the way her tongue would subtly lick her lips for refreshment, or how her fingers would pick at her sleeves, pulling them to cover her palms while she had been facing the waters, names of traders spoken with delight.  

His icy blues remained stuck to her, a soft smile picking up at the corner of his lips – unknowingly. 

She leaned against the wooden railing with her arms stretched out as she looked ahead, enjoying the way the light puff of wind gently traipsed through her hair – increasing the floral scent that danced around her. It caught Uhtred’s breath, leaving him to deeply inhale, the fragrance coating his inside in pure contentment. 

His eyes, unfaltering, followed the form of her dress, taking in the subtle ways the thick dark green linen hugged her; it had been mended, noticing the seam along the sleeve of her inner arm. 

“You are not married?” He already knew the answer to his question, as he had not seen her attached to another man since his arrival, nor did he think she was promised to another, his eyes keeping to the gentle re-work of her dress, the different color thread laced intricately and subtly into the existing fabric.  

He could not understand why he was pushed to ask her such an inquiry. 

From the small horizon, she turned her head to him, a mellowing smile to her lips. “No, Lord.” 

The question did not seem to faze her, he thought. But her answer only pushed him into wanting to know more. “I think my father gave up all hope of having me married.” 

He frowned, curious. “What happened?” 

She tugged the inside of her lip, a smirk forming across. She pivoted to lay her back against the railing with her elbows resting on top while turning her head back to him. 

“I bite.” 

He let out a small chortle, making her grin – she had grown used to hearing the quiver of laughter in his voice, not realizing she had grown attached to it, warmth settling across her chest at the sound of it. 

He approached her, leaning sideways against the edge of the tower, his expression softening. “And your mother? Is she faring well?” 

He had not seen the other woman, making him wonder if she had remained in Cetreht with only Cwen moving to Rumcofa. He remembered his initial encounter with her mother, the woman having quickly grown fond of him – which not all Saxon women had. Cwen’s mother had been one of the rare exceptions where she used to push her daughter to him as a prospect wife. 

Her smile faded, avoiding his stare as she looked in front of her, her eyes reaching the village. “She... passed on a few years ago.” Her shoulders slightly depleted as a heavy breath escaped her. “With my siblings away with their own families, I am the only one left.” 

“No children, then?” He did not mean to pry, but he wanted to know more, to re-discover a lost friendship that had been pushed into the mud long ago. She may have had a child tucked somewhere in the village he had yet to meet, he thought. She could still be holding some parts of her life secrets to him, secrets for her to keep her own. 

“No. Not for me.” Relief might not have been what he felt, but he let a sigh out. Silent to her ears, she gave him a sympathetic smile before she pushed herself to stand up, taking the downwards steps to leave the tower. 

As they reached the bottom, he was about to speak again when they got interrupted by another woman looking for her. 

“Cwen!” The intruder was almost out of breath, her feet having forced her into a run. “It’s time!” 

Before Cwen got the chance to answer, Uhtred intervened, standing taller – his stature almost imposing to both ladies. “I am Lord here. Anything that needs assistance, I can take care of.” 

The Danish woman stared at Uhtred, growing impatient. “Sorry, Lord, but I do not think you can help with this one.” 

Cwen was restraining a snicker as she stood in the middle, watching the duo close to battling it out.  

Uhtred eyed his friend before looking back to the other woman. “Why do you require Cwen, then?” 

Cwen looked at the woman. “Ingrith, you can tell him.” She spoke with an amused grin on her face, holding back her laughter.  

Ingrith sighed, looking towards Uhtred. “We need a midwife.” She spoke with a straight face. “We have a woman in labor, and she has requested Cwen’s presence. Unless you know how to birth a child, Lord, I believe you are not required for such task.” 

Uhtred’s face dropped, slightly embarrassed while Cwen giggled again. He tried not to let Ingrith’s words rough him up and instead looked back at Cwen, swallowing his fluster. “You are excused.” 

She was still grinning, her voice sweetly speaking his name. “Thank you, Uhtred.”  

She started walking away, giving him one more head turn his way. “Later, then?” She had sounded hopeful, almost. 

He nodded and watched her as she took Ingrith’s arm in her own and left, both ladies laughing between themselves. 

Uhtred had not moved, entranced by Cwen as she gave him another last look, a simple glance as she tilted her head before disappearing to the other side of the walls. 

“Everything alright?” Finan having left the traders and found his friend, stood next to him, following the line of vision the other man was plagued with. 

“Yes, just a birth.” 

Finan frowned, paying closer attention to the other woman. “Who’s the lady with Cwen?” 

Uhtred eyed him, a look of surprise on his face. “Has someone finally caught your eye, Finan?” 

The Irishman chuckled, shaking his head. “I could say the same to you.” He patted him on the back, knowing Uhtred had grown smitten with Cwen.  

      “Sulking again, I see?” She was leaning against the entrance to his home, finding him sitting in front of a warm fire, ale in his hand. 

He smiled at the sound of her voice, the softness of her words sweeping gently through his ears. 

He did not answer her question – instead, he turned to her, changing the subject. “How is she?” 

“She is well. Just tired, as any woman would be.” Night had fallen by the time Cwen helped deliver the newborn. The village was quiet, safe for the household that welcomed the baby into their home. 

It had been an arduous delivery, but the results had been worth it. 

“And the babe?” 

Cwen smiled, appreciative of the care he placed in his queries. “The babe is well. A healthy baby boy.” 

Uhtred acknowledged her answer with a nod before he turned and leaned against the back of his chair. 

Carefully closing the door behind her, she quietly approached him, taking a seat by his side before pouring herself a cup. 

He did not mind her presence – feeling a little better already. Tension would wash away whenever they were near; she had turned out to become one of the very few people he kept close to his heart. 

“Uhtred.” The way his name spilled out, cautiously and caringly – as if she was afraid to break him; he kept it, already carrying it within him, the letters to her cords tied to his ribcage. 

He met her gaze, noticing the worry etched across her features. “Do you want to win her back?” 

A sadness across his lips, he felt his heart squeeze just a little bit at the thought of Aethelflaed. 

He sighed, his head falling against the top of his seat. “I cannot... She has...” 

She quickly caught on, the syllable of his response striking her like lightning, the realization of his loss reaching the pit of her stomach. “She did not choose you.” 

He tried to hold his lips upwards. “Something like that.” But she could see he was only doing it for her, as if he was attempting to hide behind it – like a shield. 

“I am sorry.” She looked away, her mind swirling in front of the hearth while her fingers traced the cup that rested on her lap.  

She was lost in thought, trying to find ways to lift his spirits.  

She did not know who this woman was, but she swore to herself that if they ever crossed path, she would not be so gentle towards her. A bitter aftertaste had simmered at the back of her throat to that imagery. 

Cwen did not understand the strange feeling that boiled in her; unfamiliar and bothersome, she tried to let it go, her focus placed on the feel of her fingers against her cup. 

She bit the inside of lip, speaking once again where her soft voice carried intimately within their space. “Have you thought about being with someone else?” 

The puzzling look on his face pushed her to proceed with what infested her mind. 

“I don’t mean giving your heart or to marry, even.” A small sigh left her as she leaned against her seat, gripping tightly onto the ale on her lap. “But to share your bed with another woman. To ease the suffering of your grief and simply find yourself some enjoyment.” 

He fixated on her, taken aback by her words. He placed his cup on the table behind him, before tilting back to Cwen.  

“It is not often Saxon women tell men to hump whoever they please.” He sported a smirk on his face as he spoke, inciting a chuckle on her end. She got up from her seat, placing the mug back on the table, ready to leave – the grin unable to leave her cheeks. “I did not mean to pry. It is just...” 

A small huff of laughter escaped her, cringing to herself as she pinched her nose bridge, regretting bringing up such a subject. 

She took a moment, all the while Uhtred watching her patiently – he found it too amusing, relishing in the way she seemed to be looking for tact in such conversation.  

“Have you seen the way the women in the village look at you? Married or not, they are all wanting to climb you.” Her arms crossed over her chest, she was leaning on her hip, imitating the way his lips curved into a smirk – picking up on his enjoyment of the situation. 

He tempted his chance, the way she phrased her words pushing him to his feet. 

His figure – looking taller than usual, she thought, loomed over her despite the distance that separated them. He did not give up the sly grin on his face, pursuing the conversation. “And what of you? Do you want to climb me as you so eloquently said?” 

She suddenly felt unable to swallow. Her throat dried as his eyes intently stared at her, leaving her frozen in her spot.  

She cursed herself at her inability to leave, as if he had been holding her by a rope, tying her to him. She was taken by the way he seemed to have lowered the levity of their talk, everything shifting to a more serious undertone. 

If there was a woman he would tempt Fate with, it would be with her. It was ringing in his ears, his want of her growing by the day, his need to have her close etching itself right between his ribs – like a stomach hungry, desperate for nourishment. 

She rolled her eyes, attempting to hide her blushing cheeks. She had been denying the way she felt for him, the way her body would silently call out for him, in an attempt to fall under lustful bliss. 

The smugness on his face was not helping her; the teasing smile made her heart flutter. 

Approaching her, Cwen tilted her head upwards as he towered over her. 

The air grew thicker by the second, her lungs begging to grasp what it could as it laid heavy under her chest. 

It had been the way he stared at her – how the blues of his irises tightly wrapped around her, like furs keeping her warm, lowering any inhibition that could ignite – inciting a bold response to roll down her tongue, while grasping onto the fallen threads of the playfulness of their exchange. 

“I don’t climb, Lord. Men usually do the lifting for me.” 

“They do?” 

“Or women, if you prefer.” He chuckled, taken by the matter-of-fact light tone she had chosen. “I tend to be swept off my feet.” 

She had no expectation from him for her words; it should have continued as their regular banter, the swift back and forth between them. 

“Like this?” The tone of his voice dropped, the vibration pulling her seductively. 

She did not realize how close he had gotten; his breath swept against her own as his eyes cast downwards towards her, inspecting every spec of the darker blue that colored her orbs. She lost her breath for a moment, unable to comprehend the unraveling of steps as they overtook her, controlling the strings attached to her veins running across her body. 

He lifted her up and wrapped her legs around him before sitting back down, placing her on his lap with her legs by his sides, her toes grazing the ground. 

The tip of his nose brushed against hers, a tickle to her skin as her breath stuttered.  

Slowly grasping at reality, she frowned while trying to catch up in the race between her body, her mind and her heart; all elements moving at separate speeds.  

“Uhtred...” She was uncertain, her heart beating loudly between her ears, she could barely hear herself think. She tried focusing on her breathing, but all that she could do was take in the way his hands felt on her waist, his fingers digging into her as he observed her, waiting for her to speak.  

She placed her hands on his chest, a silent motion to stop him – though, it might have been to stop herself. 

“Am I really the woman you want to share your bed with?” Gathering her courage, she finally looked him in the eyes, the icy shade of his hues leaving her breathless. “There are better options in the whole of this place-” His hands trailed up her back until he cupped her cheeks, his thumb softly grazing her bottom lip. She tried to ignore the gesture, forcing her voice to push beyond her tongue. “I can introduce you to-”  

He cut her off by leaning to capture her lips, silently answering her question and sweeping the air out of her lungs into his own. 

She did not push him back, nor did she pull away to stop. 

She was slowly succumbing to the feel of his lips gliding against her own, the feel of him pressed against her, her body growing warmer by the second.  

A soft frown rested across her face as confusion settled under her chest; lips lingered against one another until she finally slowly pulled away from him, her limbs starving. 

Rendered speechless, she could only feel the flavor of him numbing her tongue as a bittersweet aftertaste. 

They did not move, as if suspended, the strings of gravity pulling and tugging at each other for closeness. 

She leaned her forehead to his, her gaze on his lips. 

She then quietly licked her own before tilting closer until he caught up to her, kissing her fervently. 

His hands wandered her body, retracing the curves hiding under her clothes. The strength of his hold weakened her knees; imagining the ways he could embrace her against him, the ways he could make her enfold within him, fitting every part to one another, had made her dizzy. The thoughts generated a soft moan between tongues, a need to make them come true overtaking her senses. 

With a mind of their own, her fingers reached for his shirt, tugging at the fabric as they pulled him closer, the rumbling of hunger tremoring at the tip. 

They stopped once again, heavy breathing escaping them both.  

She took this moment to remove his shirt, leaving his upper body bare. 

Her fingers rested on his cheeks, tracing down to his lips and further down, looking over the scars he had accumulated over the years. 

She bit down her bottom lip, swollen, as pictures of battles crossed her mind in a race.  

She was brought out of thought when she felt him tugging at her dress; his hands on her shoulders, he pulled down the fabric gently, her sleeves uncovering her arms until she sat exposed to him. 

A chill ran down her spine from the tepid air in the room, the fire burning her back.  

The softening beige of her locks rested around her shoulders, caressing the swell of her breasts. He gazed at her, making her hold her breath in wait, unable to read him. Would he reject her? Want her less?  

Without turning away, his knuckles grazed her skin, leaving her to silently shudder under his touch, her lips parted. 

Uhtred wrapped his arms around her, pulling her upwards before he leaned against her upper body, his lips wetting her chest as he placed teasing kisses along and across her breasts. 

Her head fell back at the sensation, grabbing onto him as his teeth nibbled in the valley between, as if to mark her as his. 

Her scent intoxicated him – the soft floral aroma, the hinted mint interlaced with roses, had left him lingering, breathing her in with all his might as he savored every inch he could taste. She shivered under his tongue, adding to his delight.  

He then reached her collarbone, his teeth gently clashing against the bone underneath her skin. She hissed in response just as he softly tickled her, placing peppered kisses along her shoulders. 

He gathered her hair to one side of her neck, swiftly and quietly, and buried his face in, caressing her skin with every press of his mouth to the pinching of his teeth – famished. 

She sighed, the warmth growing in the pit of her stomach, inch by inch.  

She closed her eyes, focusing on the way he toyed with the column of her neck; being held so close to him, with the friction between their bare chests, how slowly he moved – he enjoyed the slight torture he was putting her through, feeling her impatience slowly growing as it crawled through her blood stream, pumping her vessels with haste. 

He repeated the motion on the other side, pushing her locks away before he nestled against her neck again, cherishing her. 

She hung onto him with her nails biting into his back, softly sighing into the air by his side; her sense of smell heightened, tasting the hint of marjoram – the mild mint and the sweetening woody scent – at the tip of her tongue, thirst budding in her mouth. 

Sitting on his lap, her legs parted on each side of him – in retaliation, she teased him, pressing herself further against him. She earned another nip at her neck, his muted groaned masked behind his teeth. She rolled her hips again, a simple faint movement that made his throat rumble, his muscle twitch in want. 

His hand wandered to her hair, gently grabbing a handful from the back of her head, pulling away to look at her; meeting her gaze, he was stricken by the way her eyes swallowed him. 

He was caught by the depth of her pupils, unable to turn away – enthralled by such a palette. 

He could swim through these waters, drown in them and still feel like he was floating, the drops hydrating his scarred flesh anew. 

The silence behind her eyes, the desire imbued across every wave, had taken the air out of his lungs, his chest unmoving at the sight. 

The ache, emergent, hastened his movements; letting go of her hair, he went for her dress, hiking her skirt from the bottom while he remained glued to her, his stare unwavering. Resting it around her hips, her thighs were now exposed to his touch. 

A stuttered breath left her to the feeling of his warm palms on her while thoroughly rubbing her skin; movements to ensure she remained carved into his hands. 

She noticed a coy glimmer in his blues; she reached for them, her fingertips softly tracing them before leaning to press her forehead against his, wrapping her arms around his shoulders.  

She was parched for his lips, the taste of them having lingered like a craving unable to be sated. His lower lip between her teeth, she gave a light tug before kissing him, catching his breath with the air of his lungs weakening her knees. 

In a trance, relishing in the gluttonous caress of his tongue with her own, she had not felt the tightening grip to her body. 

He rolled her hips, wanting to toy with her in reprisal from just a few moments earlier; she gasped at the sensation, her mouth apart between his, her eyes attached to his own with yearning stitched within her hues.  

He repeated the movement, controlling the motion sensuously as his fingers dug into her flesh. He then pulled her in again, tugging at her mane as he kissed her fervently, her chest pressed firmly against his as his other arm was wrapped around her waist, holding her in place, his muscles molded into her back. 

Nestling in his embrace, she reached for the curve of his jaw, her nails faintly scratching his cheeks with her thumbs retracing his lips. She hung onto him, the chafing of their bodies causing her to shiver as he rolled her hips – firmer than the last, hungrier. 

A breathless moan fell into his mouth, her jaw slack as he repeated the motion, chasing his own incipient pleasure, the claws scraping at the base of his spine; it was the reaction stitched across her features, the wanton look on her face that left him besotted.  

Her fingertips traipsed down his chest as she slightly pulled away from him. Reaching his breeches, she started unlacing them while keeping her eyes on him – he followed her with a locked gaze, unmoving. 

Freeing her from his hold, he reached for her hands, leaving her to think he would aid in her quest. 

Instead, he caressed them before sliding his palm forward, hiding under the scrunched-up skirt that laid around her hips. 

An instant gasp out of her lungs, the feel of his callous fingers nestled between her thighs with his left hand placed at the junction of her pelvis. 

He was toying with her, the fluttered touch grazing her warmth as he watched her intently, taking in every single trait of pleasure that echoed across her face. 

Her knuckles whitened as they held onto the laces of his pants, her strength ready to break them from their confine. The lump in her throat remained stuck, her vocal cords silently shaking at the heat that seeped from his touch. 

He held onto his willpower with all his might, wanting first to have her crumble under him, to taste first such divinity coating his digits. He slid in deeper, his thumb circling her apex while his finger stroked her wantonly; her head fell on his shoulder as her hips chased for his strokes, instinctively rolling her body against him. He lingered in his pacing, purposely, famished by the soft whimpers that left her mouth for his ears – silently begging him, pleading for relief. 

And the more he could hear her, the more her faint voice – the musical strings tying him with every note infused into his veins, blood pumping and coursing with quickened steps – had been inebriating him, impatience was flourishing, its bones and flesh taking hold as it stirred restless in the pit of his stomach.  

He nuzzled his face in the crook of her neck, nipping at her skin and breathing her in; her scent incited a soft groan hidden behind his throat, increasing his pace as he stroked her continuously in such a way her knees were starting to shake – he felt her tremble against him and it only hardened his resolve, to have her fall apart at his touch, to be the reason she needed relief, to watch her and know he was the cause of such desperation. 

With whatever strength resided in her, she started undoing his trousers; she pulled her head away from him, her gaze cast down towards her actions. Glancing at the way his hand and wrist remained concealed under her dress made her shudder, stopping for a moment as her teeth slightly took in her lower lip. She met his gaze again, trying to fall back into focus while his tantalizing ministrations steadied at a now faster pace, the smirk ghostly settling across his face. 

He felt himself slowly unraveling, simmering from the bottom as his body grew warmer against her.  

He was ready to quit mid-task, simply wanting to undress and take her, to feel her take him and melt at her touch. 

She struggled to voice any sort of comprehensible words – she went for his mouth, his lips clashing with hers as she kissed him again, the gesture feeding into the thrill residing between her thighs. The look of concentration on her face, taking in the way his fingers grazed and curled inside her, shook at the back of her throat as they reached for her moans over and over again.  

He swallowed her sound, the euphoric sob warmly settling under his bones. 

A chill then ran up her legs, the sudden loss of contact forcing his name out of her mouth in complaint. 

Her chest expanded from her heavy breaths, a frown ghosting over her brows as she fell into his eyes.  

Uhtred said nothing as his fingers – slick, moved away from her; another whimper left her from annoyance, void intruding and unwanted. 

Stare locked in, she was stuck into the blue of his eyes as her body moved to his whim, his hand resettling her on his lap. His pants had slid down far enough to feel her wet and dripping above him, skin to skin. 

They did not look away from each other as the air thickened around them – opaque in its composition; labored breaths grew, his fingers digging into her hips with a slow shift.  

He used his strength to slightly lift her up until he was guiding her back to his lap as she sunk onto him, ever so slowly. 

She grabbed the back of his chair, her nails grasping at the wood as shivers ran down her spine, the air in her lungs dancing into her chest.  

Her mouth ajar, voiceless, to every sweet inch she could take. The soft groan rumbling at the edge of his throat had only added to the overwhelmed sensation that struck her.  

And he had watched her, enamored by the way she was blissfully taking him, by the way his name had finally reached her lips again – pronounced with longing etched across her tongue. The tremors of her muscles echoed, leaving him to feel every spec of raised skin against his, from the way her breasts stroked his chest, to the way her thighs had tightened on his sides, clutching at her seat. 

Joint hips, he stilled, shuddering under her touch as her arms gathered around him, gently caressing the nape of his neck; he whispered her name, the sound inciting control over her body.  

They were catching their breaths, the suspense of imminent ecstasy nipping at their flesh.  

The minute had hung in the air, in wait – Cwen needed her moment, her limbs adjusting to his presence, to the way he was buried inside her. The pinch of discomfort had faded, heat coiling under her ribs, trapped and dissipating ferociously throughout her blood stream in perfervid greed. 

Uhtred caressed her, gingerly pushing her locks away from her face. She leaned into his touch, kissing the heel of his palm, her teeth grazing the skin – slowly, lingering almost. His fingers lost in her hair, he pulled her in and captured her lips with his own, laying claim to her in an unbridled manner. 

Feeling her throb around him, he was gentle at first as he started thrusting. The rhythm of her hips, rolling – moving in want – was but a taste, a flicker of ember before the fire was set ablaze. A stuttered moan whispered under her breath, rushed an electrical spark to course through his veins, heating his skin with beads of sweat coating his body. 

He was merciful, giving her what she was desiring as he controlled her hips; he was hypnotized by the way her body fitted with his – every muscle knitted together in such sweet harmony – by the way she was taking him, her soft cries thrumming under his chest, rushing down to him.  

Unabashed, he whispered dirty nothings in her ear. The muttering of his words, as he declared how perfectly she molded around him, how enraptured he was by the warmth set between their hips, how starved she was for him – coaxed her teeth into his shoulder, her body shifting accordingly as she gradually hastened her pace, the percussion of his voice leaving her flushed and breathless. 

In response, her tongue was only capable of whispering his name repeatedly, a mantra stuck at the back of her throat as every letter to his lustful lullaby coming out of his mouth came to her in waves. 

The rawness of the act, the unadulterated pleasure seeping to their core – she cursed under her breath, her head falling backwards; she was overwhelmed, her mind clouded by the way he was stripping down her senses. 

She clenched around him at the feel of his fingers finding their way back to her, squirming under her skirt. The added pressure faltered her movements for a moment, getting re-acquainted with the way he toyed with her pearl; her pupils blown, rapture pulsing erratically in her gut, scratched into the marrow of her bones for sweet release. 

Her gaze fixated on him, his icy blues captured her in a haze, in complete wonder. Two oceans collided, dancing side by side as the soft waves wrapped them in a waltz, the caring movements gliding through seamlessly. 

Swallowed into each other’s shades, submerged under the depth of such color, he found himself never tiring at the way she was looking at him. 

Into the months he had settled in Rumcofa, he had stopped denying the way he felt about her – how attracted he had grown to become. He cared for her despite still loving Aethelflaed. 

She would always be holding a part of him, but the woman in his arms, the one that clung to him for dear life as they chased joint ecstasy, had been plaguing his mind since arriving in the village – and he was not good at hiding it. Finan had teased him whenever he caught his friend making coquettish glances at Cwen. For Uhtred, it was not thought about it much – the gazes having intricately become part of their dynamic. 

Yet tonight, drinking her ocean eyes into his own, drinking the cries of pleasure that rippled through their bodies, he wondered if it was time to truly move on from his past, to hang on to the woman who could give him what he wanted. 

Peace and companionship. 

      The growing winter sun was reaching him, pulling him out of his slumber.  

He stretched his arm towards the other side of the bed in the hopes of pulling her back against him. 

He found it empty instead.  

It woke him up. 

He saw the void next to him and pushed himself up, resting on his elbows as he looked around his room; her clothes were nowhere in sight. 

A routine that had been ongoing for the past few weeks – Cwen had taken the habit of waking up early and sneaking out of Uhtred’s home, not wanting to spark gossip amongst the villagers. 

Such a dance had to remain private, an intimate affair between the two friends. 

From the crack of dawn to nightfall, the steps to their serenade had secrecy involved – from the illusion of normalcy in the public eye, pretending as if no strings tied them together, as if Uhtred had not spent the better part of the previous night with his head between her thighs, in the throes of sweet euphoria. 

And as much as they tried to remain subtle, as much as they tried to stay away, tempting danger with lingering stares and knowing looks shared from a distance, subtle smiles hiding behind their cheeks – the false imagery did not go unnoticed to their closest allies. 

And as much for their attempt to remain in the dark, for their relationship resuming only behind closed doors – as much as Uhtred and Cwen cared for one another, their hearts were kept at bay, unable to fully crumble under the weight of their emotions. 

The companionship at their feet was all it was – two people seeking warmth in each other’s embrace, away from the loneliness that pried into their daily lives while ignoring the faint screams singing in the back of their minds. 

They were content with how things were – it was meant to stay easy, matters of the heart to be caged away under their bones. 

But for Cwen, a shadow gnawed at her, unable to hide the way his heartbreak tore at her now that she was sharing his bed – it was worry filling her, frustrating her almost on the days Uhtred seemed to have fallen back into his old ways, on the days where his grief had guided his movements. 

Her own grief sometimes haunted her like a ghost in the night – but with Uhtred around, having him by her side had resolved the ache she had been carrying on her shoulders. 

It had created tension at times, a budding argument between them at the thoughts of their pasts hovering between the sheets. 

“Can I not want you, and still love someone else?” He had protested, leaving her to sigh while looking at him with her frustration dying down, knowing he was right. 

“Yes, you can.” She held herself back from him, her arms wrapped around herself, trying to hide away from him. “Just... I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t look for her – whoever she is – in my bed.” 

He nodded, agreeing with her complaints. “That’s fair.” He tried to lighten the mood, reaching out for her, his fingers grazing the fabric of her dress. 

“Uhtred.” His name was heavy on her tongue. “I mean it.” She ignored his attempt at touching her, needing to get her words out. “I’m fine with whatever this is, truly, but please do not think I am her. Do not hold me and care for me thinking you are holding and caring for her.”  

He looked at her, attempting to approach her again as he caressed her cheek, his knuckles stroking her skin in silent suckling affection.  

She sighed, closing her eyes as the warmth of his touch soothed her.  

“I know who you are, Cwen.” She silently met his irises; he held onto her saddening gaze, desperate to wash it away. “And you are right. As much as I miss her, I do not invite her in my bed, or in yours.” He leaned closer, tilting her head up with his forefinger, closely whispering to her. “It’s just us.” 

He gently pressed his lips against her own, kissing her with softness lingering into his touch – an attempt to ease her ache. 

He then pulled away, just far enough to still feel the tickle of her lips. “I will only ever want to please you.” He smiled to her, his try at seducing her – leaving her to chuckle as she broke away from his embrace. 

“Then you still have work to do, Lord.” She patted his cheek, teasingly, and managed to back away before he could catch her, leaving him to look at her dumbfounded to her comment where the sound of her sweet laughter echoed within the walls of his home. 

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

xoxo

taglist @justanother-sihtricgirlie

[arcielee]

Farewell Wanderlust

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

Chapter 7

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Keavy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you love her, Osferth?”

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

“What keeps you from saying this to her?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I know she loves you.

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

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

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

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

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

Curse be damned. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

+ + + +

“I see horsemen.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You are Keavy?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Father will understand my decision,” he finished.

But Keavy knew that would not be the case.

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

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

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

That she loved him, and she always would.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Osferth?” Her brow quirked. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And they kissed.  

+ + + +

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Deireadh.

previous | masterlist

[persephones-journey]

It was Rare, I was There

Just a one shot about Uhtred and an OC ... and knifeplay....

Listen... I am not an Uhtred girlie but... Man, can get it... Sometimes lol

Eadburg sat in her dining room eyeing the empty chair at the head of the table.

It was where her husband use to sit.

He did not dine anymore.

No, he laid in a wooden casket outside of the walls of the estate, dead, his body rotting away.

Eadburg ran the estate now, for her son was much too young and she refused to allow her daughter to be bethrothed, even if every single man who rode through said at eight, she needed to think of these things.

“Lady,” her head house guard said as he walked into the room. He bowed. “Riders headed our way.”

She sighed. She rubbed her brow and nodded. “Can you tell who it is?” she asked. He eyed her. “Edmund?” she asked.

He nodded. “I believe it is Uhtred, the Dane-Slayer,” he said.

Eadburg's heart pounded in her chest. Memories broke forth from the dam she had built around them in her mind.

“You taste like sunshine,” Uhtred whispered as his tongue licked her inner thigh, cleaning her wetness away. “I will need to bury my head in you more often,” he looked up at her, his ice blue eyes filled with desire.

Eadburg knew she should not be here. She was meant to be in the palace, serving Alfred's widow and Edward's new wife.

Not servicing Uhtred, the Dane-Slayer.

“Please,” she whispered as he stood. She saw his cock out of his trousers, ready for her. She had already had it in her mouth, in her hand, but it would seem Uhtred was finally ready to complete her ruination and take her virginity as well.

“Shh,” he whispered as he kissed her. “I swear, I will not hurt you.”

And he thrusted deep into her...

“YOU SWORE NEVER TO HURT ME!” Eadburg screamed as she shoved Uhtred.

He grabbed her wrists and yanked her close to him. His ice blue eyes cold as they looked at her. “And I didn't.”

“You liar,” she spat at him. “You have hurt me here, right now. Telling me you have moved on.”

“I have,” he insisted. “It is not my fault that you let yourself believe we could be more.”

Eadburg looked at him, tears rolling down her cheeks. The pain tore at her heart. She swallowed it, deep within her. Along with any words she had planned to tell him about the babe she carried.

His babe.

“Lady Eadburg,” Edmund's voice pulled her out of her memories. “Do you wish to let them in?”

She nodded. “I do, Edmund,” she answered. She stood. “Allow them to enter the courtyard. I will go and tell the children to stay in their rooms,” she said.

“Do you not trust them, lady?” Edmund asked.

Eadburg looked at him. She shook her head. “Some of the men, yes, but others,” she thought of Uhtred, “no, I do not trust them at all.”

Edmund nodded and she turned and left the room. She walked down the halls towards the nursery where her two children, Edla, her daughter and, Cenhelm, her son. They were all she had left in the world. Her husband had been killed in Aegelesburg along with his eldest son, which left little Cenhelm as the heir and lord of the estate. Aethelflaed, the new Lady of Mercia, had granted Eadburg custody of her son and daughter and a parchment allowing her to run the estate until her son became of age.

Eadburg was under no illusions though, she knew she was not really safe. A piece of paper would not stop men for taking her son or daughter, kidnapping them away in the hopes and stealing her land, her home.

She would keep them safe.

Even from warriors she had known for years.

“Momma, shouldn't you be eating?” Edla asked as Eadburg leaned in the doorway of the rooms.

She took in her daughter's ice blue eyes and dark hair. She was almost a perfect picture of Uhtred. It hurt at times to look at her but Eadburg would never let her daughter know it.

“I ate already, love,” she said smiling. She walked into the room and stood behind Cenhelm, as the young boy ate his meal. She stroked his dark hair, the only thing he shared with his sister and her. She leaned down and kissed his head. “Visitors have arrived and I-.”

“You want us to stay here,” Edla sighed. She got up and walked over to Eadburg and wrapped her arms around her waist. She was tall for her age; something else she got from Uhtred. “You wish to protect us,” she muttered.

Eadburg nodded. “I do,” she answered. She leaned down and kissed Edla on the forehead. “I do not trust these men.”

“Everyone you trust already lives here,” Cenhelm said as he hung his head upside down to look at them. Eadburg saw his dark brown eyes looking at her. She sighed and patted the four year old on the cheek.

“Yes, Cen, everyone I trust already lives here,” she answered. “Now sit probably before you hurt yourself.”

“Yes, Momma,” he answered.

“All right,” Edla said. “We will stay here,” she added.

Eadburg nodded. She stroked her daughter's hair. “Good,” she kissed her cheek. “I love you, my sweet.”

“I love you too, Momma,” Edla answered.

“I luv you too!” Cenhelm exclaimed his mouth filled with bread.

Eadburg chuckled. She pulled away from Edla and turned towards Cenhelm. She kissed him on the cheek as well. He laughed as she tickled and pinched his side. She pulled away and walked to the doorway. She turned back and watched Edla sit beside Cenhelm and the two of them laughing together.

One would never think they had separate fathers.

Eadburg took a slow breath and closed the door. It was time to go face her past.

***

Uhtred dismounted from his horse and walked over to the cart. He looked over the side and saw Athelstan huddled in Finan's cloak and wool blankets. Finan sat beside the boy and Uhtred saw the Irishman stroke Athelstan's dark hair.

“How is he?” Uhtred asked, knowing it would do them no good to have the son of the king die while they were moving him to safety.

“He fell asleep a while ago,” Finan answered. “He said he was not hungry,” he added as he continued to stroke the boy's hair.

Uhtred could see the worry on Finan's face; the Irishman had bonded quite fiercely with the boy. So had Sihtric. Uhtred nodded.

“Well, hopefully, the lord of this estate can offer us shelter here while Athelstan recovers,” Uhtred turned, “Osferth, you have enough herbs or will you-.”

“I may have to make a trip to the local market, depending on what the lord has in their household,” Osferth answered as he dismounted.

“If you wait for the lord to give you permission, you will be waiting a very long time,” a voice echoed in the courtyard.

Uhtred felt a chill roll down his spine. He saw Finan frown, meaning that he had not schooled his features as much as he had hoped. He took a slow breath and turned around.

Walking towards him was a ghost from his past. A love he had pushed aside to have Aethelflaed.

Eadburg, third daughter of an alderman of Mercia. She had been sent to Wessex to serve Aelswith when Alfred grew sicker, and she was also a friend to Aethelflaed when Aethelflaed took refuge in Wessex from Aethelred on occasion.

She had become a friend to Aethelflaed and Uhtred had even seen her laughing in the company of Finan and Osferth at times.

He had been grieving from losing Gisela. So, when she had whispered words of comfort to him, he had turned and kissed her. And a kiss had lead to more.

That more had lead to Uhtred breaking her heart, and lying to himself about his own feelings, while he went off and bedded Aethelflaed.

“Eadburg,” he said.

“That is Lady Eadburg to you, Uhtred,” she stated coldly.

Finan sighed. “Out of all the estates in Mercia,” he muttered.

Uhtred ignored him and turned his attention completely towards Eadburg. She was beautiful, even then; when she was looking at him wishing him dead.

“Lady Eadburg,” he said softly and carefully. “I would ask you give shelter to myself and my men for a few days. We have a boy with us, who is sick and needs time to recover,” he stated.

She frowned. She walked closer and towards the cart. She smiled when she saw Finan. “Finan,” she said, her voice filled with happiness, “you are looking well,” she said.

Uhtred turned and saw Finan nod at her and smirked. “Lady, you are looking ravishing as always,” he said with a wink.

Eadburg snorted. “I see you are still a flirt, Finan,” Finan laughed and Uhtred felt jealousy course through him as Eadburg chuckled as well. She looked into the cart more. “Who is this boy?” she asked.

“Athelstan,” Osferth answered as he walked over to Eadburg. Again, Eadburg had a smile for Osferth. “Lady,” he bowed his head, “he is King Edward's first born son,” he added softly.

Uhtred heard the curses Eadburg muttered. She turned and looked at him. “You brought Edward's bastard to my doorstep?” she demanded.

“In my defence, lady, I did not know it was your doorstep,” he said carefully.

Eadburg eyed him. “Your men and the boy can stay. You, however,” she stepped closer, “I think you should sleep outside the gate. I might provide you a blanket.”

Uhtred stepped closer to her. He saw her hand reached down to her belt but he glanced back up at her face. “Lady Eadburg,” he stepped closer to her, “perhaps you could move on from our past. After all, you are married and I doubt your husband would be happy to see his wife acting like a common whore.”

He heard Finan sigh. “If she kills ya, lord, I am telling Lady Aethelflaed ya deserved it,” he muttered.

Uhtred glanced at Finan and it was his mistake; he underestimated just how angry Eadburg was at him. When he turned back to look at her, he hissed as he felt cold steel against his neck. He looked down and saw that she had a dagger, with a large ruby stone on it's pommel, held up against his neck. He looked at her eyes.

And all he saw was cold rage.

“My husband, lord Uhtred, was recently killed by the Danes. He took his older son with him and I lost both of them. I am holding this estate and running it for my little son, who is four, all the while trying to stop men from suggesting it is time I betrothed my daughter, who is barely older than her brother. So, lord, if you wish to call me names, continue to do so, but know that it is I who run this estate and I have no husband to answer to,” she stated her voice cold as stone.

Silence echoed around them. Uhtred stared into her eyes. He tried to see the girl he had once known; once loved. He couldn't see her anymore.

He wondered if that was his doing. If him breaking her heart had torn away a part of herself; the soft, kind part that he had fallen for.

“Lady,” Osferth said, his voice so soft and gentle as he stepped beside Uhtred, “Lord Uhtred meant no offence. He is worried about Athelstan and we have been travelling and-.”

Uhtred hissed as he felt the dagger press a tad deeper into his neck. “Do you always let your men apologize for you?” she asked.

“Only Osferth,” Uhtred muttered. “He is the only one it seems who would not like to see me gutted like a fish by you.”

He heard Finan chuckle. “Aye, well, baby monk is soft like that.”

“Do you apologize, Lord Uhtred?” Eadburg asked.

Uhtred looked at her, her once welcoming bright grey eyes were now cold and stormy. He swallowed and knew that she would cut him. Finan might not think she would but form where Uhtred stood, he could see that she truly would slit his throat if he said the wrong thing.

“I do, lady,” he whispered. “I apologize for my crude remarks, I meant no harm,” he added.

She snorted. “I doubt that,” she muttered. She pulled her dagger away. “Come, Finan, I will show you where you can bring the boy to stay. You, Osferth, and Sihtric are welcomed to stay in the little cottage I have beside the main manor house as well. It is well maintained.”

“And I?” Uhtred asked.

Eadburg looked at him. “I told you where you were staying, lord. The barn has an extra side room. I am sure you will enjoy it.”

And with that, she turned and walked back towards the main house. Uhtred turned and saw Finan climbing out of the cart. He lifted Athelstan in his arms and held the boy close.

“Uhtred-,” he started.

Uhtred held up his hand and shook his head. “Go, stay in the little cottage. I will give her some time to cool and go plead my case again,” he looked around and saw servants and men watching, “and perhaps when most of her people are asleep. I will have a serious conversation with her.”

Finan snorted. “Ya are going to end up with that dagger in ya chest, lord,” he muttered. “I know what an angry scorned woman looks like, and Eadburg looked scarier,” he added.

Uhtred patted Finan on the shoulder. “I can handle Eadburg.”

Sihtric snorted. “Famous last words,” he muttered as he walked by.

Uhtred watched them go. He turned and saw Osferth watching him. “Please be nice to her,” Osferth whispered. “She is a kind lady and I would not want her to be hurt more when we leave.”

Uhtred grabbed Osferth's shoulder. “I do not wish to hurt her either. I am just trying to make sure that we can all get along while we stay here.”

Osferth gave him a look. “You said that last time right before you broke her heart and Lady Aethelflaed arranged for her to be married off,” he said. He looked down and glanced back up at Uhtred with a sad look on his face. “She was kind before, lord and now,” he shrugged, “I do not see that kindness any longer.”

Uhtred let Osferth walk away. He closed his eyes and cursed. Osferth was right. Eadburg's kindness was gone and Uhtred had a feeling deep down that he was the cause.

He felt the urge to fix it.

***

Eadburg sat in the chair by the fire in the hall. She was in her thin silk nightdress with a knitted shawl draped over her as she sipped her wine and watched the fire.

Her mind wandered to Uhtred and the men. They had been there going on three days. Osferth and her healer had worked together and little Athelstan was getting better. Finan was like a mother hen as she expected watching over the boy. Edla and Cenhelm had heard their was a boy in the estate and wished to befriend him. Eadburg had allowed them to visit with Finan and Osferth keeping watch; if either of them noticed how Edla resembled Uhtred, they said nothing. Sihtric busied himself with helping Edmund do repairs that he had not had the man power to do before, which Eadburg knew he had worried about but did not wish to trouble her with it.

She could not sleep though. Every time she closed her eyes, she fell back into memories of before; of her and Uhtred together humping in dark corners of the palace of Winchester and in the inn. Before he had broken her heart; and in the process broken her.

She had avoided him, and the barn by extension. Finan had tried a few times to get her to speak to Uhtred but she had brushed him off and to his credit, he had smiled bowed his head and muttered a “Trust me, lady, I understand” under his breath.

She stood and her shawl fell to the floor. She hugged herself with one arm as she finished her wine. She heard the doors to the hall open and she closed her eyes and cursed.

“Edmund, whatever it is, it can wait until morning,” she muttered as she opened her eyes and looked at him.

Except it wasn't Edmund, who stood there; it was Uhtred.

She snorted and turned back and placed her empty wine glass on the large wooden mantle her husband had commissioned; one of the last editions to the manor house he had oversaw before he had left for Aegelesburg. She knew she was lucky to live in one of the older Roman villas that was still standing and in excellent shape. It meant that she had gorgeous large fire places that kept the rooms warm even in the coldest of winters.

Beside the wine glass, was her dagger. She picked it up and turned to look at Uhtred. He saw the dagger in the fire and lantern light of the room and sighed.

“I am not a threat to you, Eadburg,” he whispered as he walked closer to her.

Again, she snorted. “Oh, you are a threat,” she muttered. She walked over and bend down to pick up her shawl. She draped it over her shoulders, trying to cover her breasts; she knew that the thin silk meant if he got close enough, he would be able to see her nipples through it. “A threat I should have recognized earlier.”

Uhtred walked closer to her and stood in front of her. “I have never been a threat to you, ever,” he looked at her. His eyes raking over her from the top of her head down to her feet. His eyes focusing solely on her; it felt she was naked in front of him. He looked back up, his cold ice eyes looking into hers. “You use to know that,” he whispered softly.

He sounds hurt and it caused her anger to rise. She clutched the hilt of her dagger and held it close to her. “I was wrong,” she spat out at him. “I was so very wrong about you,” she added.

His eyes filled with sadness. “What happened to you, min søde?” he whispered using the nickname he had given to her; the one he had whispered in her ear when he had been buried deep inside of her. My sweet one. “Why are so so cold and distant?” he added as he stepped closer to her. He reached up and gently took her hand, the one not holding the dagger. “You use to be so kind and caring. So soft and-.”

She brought the dagger up and pressed it, the blade up against Uhtred's neck again. He stilled and held her hand tighter. She pressed the dagger more and he backup so she pressed it more. On and on it went, him backing up and her pressing the dagger harder into his neck. He backed up to the table, kicking a chair with the back of his foot; he had no where else to go.

“You wish to know what happened to me?” she demanded her voice low but filled with rage. “You, Uhtred of Bebbanburg, you are what happened to me,” she stated coldly.

“Eadburg-,” he started.

“NO!” she said pressed the dagger harder against his neck. Uhtred hissed and she saw blood trickle down from a nick she had caused. Her shawl, once again fell to the floor. She kicked it away. “You happened to me!” she stated again. “I was one of nine children, the third daughter. I knew I was never meant for greatness, I would be lucky if my father did not place me in a convent and forgot I existed,” she stated. “When I was called to serve Lady Aelswith, and later Aethelflaed and Aelflaed, I felt like perhaps I could have a good husband. I could have a good life. And then,” she looked at him, tears rolling down her cheeks, “there was you. The Dane-Slayer and the pagan. Everyone whispered how I needed to stay away from you, but you were nothing but kind to me. As were your men. You tried me like I was, some precious jewel,” she laughed coldly, “and I fell for it. I fell for you.”

She felt Uhtred's fingers stroke the back of her hand that he still held. “Do you not think I fell for you as well?” he whispered softly. “That I did not see you and think of how kind and loving you were and wish for-.”

“Wish for what?” she demanded. “Marriage and children?” she asked. “Because that is what I began to wish for. But then you pushed me away so you could bed Alfred's daughter,” she hated how filled with hurt and pain her voice became. She had spent years telling herself she was over it; she was over him. But apparently she had been lying to herself; just as he had lied to her years before. “And I was reminded once again, that I was no one special. Especially not special enough for the Dane-Slayer.”

“Stop,” he ordered as he looked at her. “You were special to me, min søde. Too special,” he whispered. “It was why I let you go.”

She snorted and laughed. “You truly expect me to believe that, Uhtred?” she demanded. She shook her head. “You never called it love,” she whispered to him. “I did. I remember whispering in your ear as you plowed me how much I loved you, how much I loved the feel of you against me, the feel of you in me, but you never said the same. So how was I special exactly? I was not special enough for you to whisper you loved me, no Aethelflaed was the one who no doubt got that as well.”

“I love you,” he told her. She looked in her eyes and wanted to tell him she could see he was lying. But she couldn't; because it appeared that he was telling her the truth. He let go of her hand and pressed his hand at her side. He pulled her closer and she pressed the dagger harder against his neck, the blood still trickling, a few drops at a time, from the cut. Uhtred did not seem to care. “I loved you then as well,” he whispered. “But I knew your father would not let me marry you so I did not even try to ask. That was my mistake, Eadburg, I will admit that. I am sorry I did not tell you that. I should have but I didn't. I am sorry that I didn't and broke your heart instead. If I could go back, I would do it differently. But I cannot go back. I cannot erase your hurt.”

Eadburg felt herself wanting to give in to him. She felt herself leaning in towards him, her face moving closer to his. She saw how sincere he was, how much he hurt that he had done that to her. She closed her eyes when her nose brushed his.

“It is in the past and I do not care any longer about any of it,” she found herself whispered.

Uhtred, chuckled a bit at that. “You have a dagger at my throat, Eadburg, I do believe you care about it still.”

She opened her eyes and looked into his deep ones. “I am no longer that girl and I do not believe in love and happy endings any longer.”

She saw Uhtred's eyes fill with sadness. “Pity,” he whispered. “I was about to show you how much I still ache for you,” he added.

Silence echoed around them as did the tension; this time not angry tension, no sexual tension. Eadburg's eyes looked down to his lips and she was lost. She found herself leaning forward and pressing her lips against his, still holding the dagger against his neck. He kissed her back, not caring about the dagger any longer. She felt both of his hands grip her hips and he pulled her forward.

“Uhtred-,” she started.

“Shh,” he whispered as his lips kissed her harder. His hands grabbed her thin nightdress and pulled it up. He slotted a leg between her thighs and she whimpered as she felt him press it up against her wet cunt. He pulled her down and moved her back and forth on his thigh. His finger dug into her hips as he held her. “It does not matter. Let us just have tonight,” he added.

Eadburg kissed him harder at that. That was her agreement to it all. She began to move her hips, causing friction that she ached for. She ran her other hand down his chest to his trousers. She grabbed the ties and pulled on the ties, needing to feel him inside of her once again. She moaned as his hands grabbed her bare ass cheeks.

She kept the dagger at his neck as he moved his lips to her neck. His teeth nipped her skin there as she snaked her into his trousers and stroked his cock. He lifted her, holding her against him. She stroked his cock as she nipped at his ear, her dagger still against his neck. She was not going to move it.

She still did not trust him.

But this time, she was using him as much as he was using her.

He sat on the chair and placed her on his lap. She moaned as one of his hands slipped between them, stroking her cunt, rubbing his hand against her pleasure nub. Pleasure flooded through her and she grinded down on his hand. She reached down and pulled his trousers open more and he helped her with his free hand. Once his cock was free he grabbed her wrist and held it.

She rested her forehead against his and looked in his eyes.

“Tell me you need my cock,” he ordered.

She raised an eyebrow. “I do not need to tell you anything,” she whispered as she gently pressed the dagger against his neck more, “this makes sure of it,” she added with a smile.

He smirked. “You are going to keep that at my neck the entire time?” he asked.

She nodded. “I am,” she whispered. She leaned in and kissed him. “And to remind you that this time, I am using you for pleasure, not the other way around,” she added. “So, Uhtred of Bebbanburg,” she breathed out. “Tell me you need my cunt.”

She felt him move his hand from between her folds and gripped her hips with both his hands. He leaned in closer, his lips almost touching hers.

“And if I don't?” he asked softly.

She leaned forward and bit his bottom lip. She smiled and tugged on it. “I will nick you a tad more and call Edmund in here to have you thrown back in the barn,” she whispered. She grabbed his tunic with her hand and moved her hips so her wet folds brushed his hard cock. “It's one little sentence, Uhtred.”

She felt his hands move down to her thighs. He lifted her and she felt the tip of his cock press against her entrance. “I need,” he whispered as he pulled her down so his cock slid into her, “your cunt,” he finished as he thrusted up into her, filling her completely.

She moaned and kissed him hard as she began to move against him and he thrusted up into her. She kept the dagger at his neck as she rode him and rode him hard. Uhtred knew her body better than her husband ever did. He knew exactly how fast and hard to thrust up into her, where to press his hands on her body to stroke the fire that was building inside of her. And his cock, it filled her in a way her husband's never had.

“More,” she breathed into his mouth.

He understood. He reached between them and his nimble fingers, calloused from years of fighting and carrying a sword, but also so skilled and rubbing her pleasure nub. His other hand cupped her breast and squeezed it. She shoved him with her hand on his chest back against the chair back. He, in turn pulled her closer to him and she kissed him deeply.

She rode the wave of pleasure and the fire that was building and building inside of her. She pressed her face into Uhtred's and felt his cock pulsate and twitch inside of her; she knew he was close as well. She began to move faster moaning loudly into Uhtred's face. He thrusted up into her harder, reaching behind him with one hand and grabbing the back of the chair for leverage, leaving her breast missing and aching for his touch again.

Her legs began to tingle and shake. Uhtred rubbed her nub faster and she finally moved the dagger so she could grab his shoulders with both hands. She griped them tight as she moved up and down on his cock, feeling it press hard into that spot inside of her that only Uhtred had ever been able to find.

“Yes,” she moaned as Uhtred's cock pressed hard into that spot one more time and her world shattered into pleasure.

She closed her eyes as she saw a bright white light. Her whole body shook. She slowed in her pace of moving up and down on his cock. She felt Uhtred's body begin to tremble as well. A moment later, he filled her with his seed; the warmth spreading in her womb. She slumped against his body as he sat down in the chair holding her tight.

They breathing echoed in the now silent room. Huffs and puffs. Eadburg blinked and felt her body beginning to stop trembling. She moved, lifting herself off of his cock and pressing her bare feet on the cold stone floor. She moved off of Uhtred, feeling his seed and her wetness drip down and smear on her inner thighs. Uhtred stood and grabbed her. She pressed her dagger to his chest and he leaned down and kissed her. She kissed him back and smiled as he hissed when she dragged the dagger up and down his tunic, scraping the skin where he had left it open and untied at the neck and chest.

“Can I stay in the little cottage now?” he whispered against her lips.

She shrugged. “I do not care where you sleep,” she nipped his bottom lip, “just know it will not be with me.”

She pushed him away and turned and left the room. She smiled as she walked away.

She had what she wanted, she didn't need anything else.

***

Uhtred walked into the small cottage. He smiled when Finan glanced up at him from his spot by the fireplace. Uhtred saw Athelstan's tunic in Finan's hands along with a needle a thread.

“Mother Finan mending her little chick's tunic?” he teased as he tossed his bags of belongings in the corner.

Finan snorted and shook his head. “I would ask ya how ya got Eadburg to agree to allow ya out of the barn, but I don't think I wanna know,” he muttered as he went back to mending.

Uhtred shrugged as he walked closer to the fire. He rubbed his hands together and held them out. “What can I say, Finan, I have a way with women.”

Finan chuckled. He stood from the chair. He patted Uhtred on the shoulder. “Lord, ya seem to have cut yourself,” he added as he pressed his finger against Uhtred's neck when Eadburg's dagger had cut him a couple of times. “And ya have bled on ya last clean tunic,” he leaned in closer, “next time tell Lady Eadburg to hold her dagger at ya cock. Ya might learn ya lesson better and it will be less washing for Osferth.”

Uhtred shoved Finan but Finan laughed more. Finan turned and left him standing there as he walked into the back of the cottage. Uhtred reached up and pressed his own fingers to the cuts. He pulled his fingers away and looked at them and looked at the blood. He rubbed his thumb in it.

“If there is a next time,” he whispered to himself.

But oh if there was...

He smirked.

He might like being stationed in Mercia after all.

[idkyetxoxo]

Twelve | Vagabond | The Last Kingdom

"Keep your filthy hands off her!"

"You are impressive... and extremely flexible,"

<- prev || masterlist || next ->

─── ✦⋅ ☆⋅✦ ───

We had narrowly evaded Lord Eardwulf and his men, skirting perilously close to capture. Now, there was cause for celebration. The news that Uhtred had accepted the offer to become the new king of Mercia filled the air with a newfound sense of hope. For once in my tumultuous life, I dared to imagine a place I could call home within these lands.

"Here's to Uhtred," I declared, lifting my cup amidst a chorus of clinks as others joined in, their voices ringing out in unison "And to Osferth, for not killing Aelfwynn," Finan chimed in.

As swiftly as our revelry had begun, it came to an abrupt halt with the revelation that Uhtred had relinquished his claim in favour of Aethelflaed. An undercurrent of disappointment swept through me at the thought of Uhtred's sacrifice, a nagging sense that he deserved the power and respect just as much as any other.

However, the unease that had gripped me dissipated as swiftly as it had come. Learning that one of my dearest friends had finally achieved something she had longed for brought a sense of contentment that washed over me. If anyone else deserved the title, it was her.

"I know you believe we've lost out on wealth and power," Uhtred began returning to the celebratory table, his voice steady and earnest "But we have something far more valuable."

"Do not say our friendship" Finan interjected, his tone filled with playful exasperation, eliciting laughter from around the table. In that moment, any lingering reservations and disappointments melted away.

── ✦⋅ ☆⋅✦ ──

We now found ourselves in Tacham, tasked with setting up camp for Lady Aelswith, who promised prayers of thanks on our behalf upon her arrival in Bedwyn. As we tended to the fire, I couldn't help but vent my frustrations to Finan.

"If I have to endure her prattle much longer, I'll fling myself off a cliff," I muttered, nodding towards Aelswith, who stood nearby, her back turned to us. Finan chuckled in response, prompting me to recount my past grievances with the lady.

"She branded me a witch upon learning of my history thanks to Uhtred," I explained, though Finan's amusement only deepened, earning him a playful shove from me. "It's not funny," I insisted, though the shared moment brought a fleeting smile to my lips.

Our banter was abruptly cut short by the rustling of nearby foliage, sending us into a tense alertness. Before I could draw my sword, a knife pressed against my neck as a body enveloped me from behind, and a familiar, gruff voice pierced the air.

"Uhtred and his pretty boys," Haestan chided and I sighed, rolling my eyes as I caught sight of Aelswith positioning herself protectively with Stiorra and Aethelstan. 

Haesten delivered news of Sigtryggr's arrival from Irland, his intentions to rally the Danes, and the capture of Winchester by Brida and him where Haesten planned to take Aelswith, Aethelstan, and Stiorra. 

"Tie them to the trees where they can die slowly," Haesten's voice dripped with malice as his men obediently set about binding Uhtred, Finan, Sihtric, Osferth, and Pyrlig to the sturdy trunks that surrounded us.

I fought against the brute behind me, his grip like iron as he pinned my arms painfully behind my back "And what of her?" his voice slithered in my ear, laden with contempt as he gestured toward me with a sneer.

Haesten turned, a twisted grin etched across his face as he regarded me. "Ah, female warrior," he jeered, his words laced with mockery.

"Shall we take her as well?" he goaded his men with his vile suggestions. "Shall we leave her to rot alongside the men, or perhaps," he paused, his tone dripping with lechery, "shall I have my way with her, right here, with all of you as witnesses?" The air was thick with the raucous cheers of his cohorts.

"Touch me and see what becomes of you," I snarled, my words cutting through the charged atmosphere as the man behind me tightened his hold tauntingly gripping my body with a smirk. 

"Didn't you once express pity for all the women who fell beneath me?" he retorted, "Well, how about we make you one of them?" he hissed hatred blazing in his eyes.

"Do that, and I'll ensure you never have the chance to wield your wretched cock again," I spat, the words seething through clenched teeth, though my threat was met with only cruel laughter.

"Leave the bitch to meet her end alongside the men," Haesten commanded, his words dripping with contempt as his minions set to bind me, suspending me upside down from the gnarled branches above.

A shroud of discomfort enveloped me as Haesten closed in, his presence ominous as he approached. His fingers grazed my cheek, and I recoiled instinctively, but his grip on my hair was unyielding, forcibly turning my head to meet his chilling gaze.

With a cruel whisper, he uttered words of malice, his touch sending a shiver down my spine. "I hope you die a slow painful death" his breath ghosted over my skin as his hand trailed down my neck and then chest keeping a firm place there tauntingly, a sinister caress that made my skin crawl.

"Keep your filthy hands off her!" Finan's voice cut through the tense air, his anger palpable as he finally intervened, though Haesten merely scoffed in response.

"What you're with the Irishman now?" Haesten's words dripped with disdain as he turned his attention to me, but my only response was a defiant spit in his face.

He shoved me away harshly, wiping the spit from his cheek with a disdainful sneer before retreating to his horse. "Now you'll witness just how tough she truly is," he declared, issuing orders for two of his lackeys to remain and keep watch over our impending demise as he rode away.

"Calm down Sihtric you will need your energy," I urged, watching with growing concern as his condition deteriorated, while the two men assigned to watch over us chuckled callously from a short distance away.

Unable to bear the thought of succumbing to such a grim fate, I whispered urgently, catching Finan, Pyrlig and Uhtred's attention. "Let me know when one of them turns our way," I instructed, determined to seize any opportunity for escape.

Without hesitation, I summoned every ounce of strength within me, stretching upward to reach the knot binding my feet, practically folding my body in half. With gritted teeth, I meticulously unravelled it, painstakingly freeing one leg from its restraints. 

"Now," Uhtred's voice pierced the tense silence, prompting me to return to my hanging position before continuing my efforts. Each movement felt like a herculean feat, the strain on my muscles unbearable, but I pressed on, driven by sheer determination.

Finally, the last knot gave way, and I plummeted to the ground with a resounding thud. With no time to waste, I sprang into action, facing off against Haesten's men who rushed towards me with malicious intent.

Despite the disorientation, I fought with fierce resolve, using every ounce of skill at my disposal. A flurry of blows ensued, culminating in a desperate struggle that saw me pinned beneath one of his men as the other suffered a severe head injury.

But with Finan's encouragement ringing in my ears, I summoned the strength to retaliate, delivering a fatal blow with my dagger pushing him off me.

I ran towards Sihtric beginning to cut off the rope suspending him and freeing him from his bonds.

"Hurry!" Uhtred's urgent cry pierced through the chaos as Sihtric collapsed to the ground, his strength waning. "Behind!" Finan's voice echoed, and I instinctively ducked, narrowly evading the lunging attack. We tumbled to the ground in a tangled heap, his weight bearing down on me, threatening to crush any hope of escape.

"Get him, Sihtric! Kill him!" Finan's rallying cry spurred him into action as I strained against the weight pinning me down, desperately trying to fend off the looming threat of the dagger poised menacingly close to my face.

Then, with a sickening sound, Sihtric's blade found its mark, burying itself into the back of the man's skull. Blood sprayed in a gruesome arc, splattering across the forest floor, some even finding its way into my mouth, a bitter reminder of the brutality of our struggle.

As Sihtric rushed to assist Pyrlig and Osferth, I seized the opportunity to cut through the ropes binding Finan and Uhtred with trembling hands. Yet, amidst the triumph of our escape, the taste of blood lingered in my mouth, a nauseating reminder of the violence we had just endured.

"You are amazing," Finan's words were a mixture of admiration and concern as he gently grasped my face, his touch a fleeting reassurance amidst the turmoil raging within me but as the realization of what I had unwittingly ingested washed over me, my stomach churned, and I doubled over, retching uncontrollably.

"I drank his blood... Oh God," the words spilt from my lips in a rush, my horror palpable as I wiped the remnants of the gruesome encounter from my face with shaking hands.

Finan offered me a canister of water, and I gratefully accepted, though the act of swallowing felt like an impossible task. "You are impressive... and extremely flexible," his whispered praise brought a faint grin to my lips.

"We need to get to Stiorra," Uhtred said and I straightened up, I forced myself to push aside the overwhelming sense of exhaustion and fear. 

Despite the victory we had achieved in the moment, the safety of Stiorra remained our paramount concern.

─── ✦⋅ ☆⋅✦ ───

Uhtred and his pretty boys 😏

Tag list - @jasontoddorjasongrace

[alexagirlie]

Fandom: The Last Kingdom

Series: Danger Days Series - Part 2

Pairing: Finan/Sihtric

Rating: E

Words: 3,753

Warnings: aftermath of battle. battle rage. beserkr. dom/sub. oral sex. face fucking. minor breathplay. anal fingering. anal sex. rough sex. teasing. begging. marking. mild painplay. spanking.

Summary: Finan looked forward to helping his lover settle his battle rage with a good thorough fucking as had become common practice after the first time following the battle at Bedanford. Where after their forces had defeated Cnut and Uhtred had avenged Ragnar's death the two warriors had snuck off in the woods and Finan had finally acted on the suspicions about how he could help his Beserkr.

Tags: @gemini-mama

Another battle, another Danish raid foiled across the river from their home in Coccham, and Finan was cursing the uselessness of Mercian Lords, one Lord in particular getting the brunt of his complaints. If Aethelred would do his duty as Lord of Mercia then Finan wouldn't be trekking through the night to fight his battles for him. At least the extra silver would help to pad his purse, winter was approaching and he would need it.

Luckily the fight was quick if a little brutal, the invading Danes had not been expecting them, they never were, and the fight was over almost before it began. In the end over 30 Dane men lay dead and the village and its inhabitants were safe.

As Finan sought out his lover in the aftermath he could see right away that the fight had not been long enough for Sihtric.  Had been just enough for him to sink into his battle rage but not exhaust him enough to climb back out. The look in Sihtric's eyes was wild and his muscles remained coiled and ready. He would need an outlet, and Finan knew just what he needed. 

He was just reaching out to grab Sihtric's arm and halt his relentless pacing when Uhtred announced they would head back to Coccham immediately after they had finished looting the bodies of the fallen warriors. Finan bit back a groan of frustration and frowned as his plans were delayed and he hoped that maybe the time spent at the oar would calm some of the restless energy in his heathen lover.

Finan rolled his neck with a sigh and reached out again to grab Sihtric's wrist where he was wearing a path in the grass between the crop of trees at the edge of the village, “Let's go get paid,” he spoke softly, rubbing his thumb against the soft skin at the edge of Sihtric's bracer. 

Darken mismatched eyes met his and Sihtric huffed a breath out before he nodded and Finan released his arm so they could separate and go collect their loot. 

The bodies of the Dane raiders had already been dragged to the edge of the field surrounding the village and arranged in a haphazard line so it only took a few minutes for Finan to collect his share. He added several rings to his collection, most were pewter but 2 were silver and 1 appeared to be gold, a bronze armband and a handful of silver coins. Not the best haul he had ever gotten but will still go a long way toward provisions over the winter.

He helped some of the men gather up any weapons worth scavenging and load them up in the back of the boat along with several shields to be added to their armoury before he joined Sihtric who was already seated at the oars. 

As they set sail back to Coccham Finan was too focused on his own place at the oars to keep track of his lover's mood but once they had arrived back home and had finished helping unload the boat they were able to slip off together and Finan could see that the exertion had little effect. 

The beast that woke up in Sihtric during battle was still there and Dane was practically vibrating as they made their way through the winding path back to their modest home in Coccham. It was a simple wooden structure near the edge of the village but within sight of Uhtred's hall in case the Lord had need of them.

Finan looked forward to helping his lover settle his battle rage with a good thorough fucking as had become common practice after the first time following the battle at Bedanford. Where after their forces had defeated Cnut and Uhtred had avenged Ragnar's death the two warriors had snuck off in the woods and Finan had finally acted on the suspicions about how he could help his Beserkr.

Finan had been correct then and Sihtric had responded beautifully to a firmer hand and he submitted so effortlessly each and every time since. He would get so pliant and his eyes would go hazy and he was always such a good boy for Finan. It took the Irishman's breath away to see the level of trust the Dane had in him and to watch that inner beast curl up and go back to sleep.

It felt like forever until they made it into their home and Sihtric found himself slammed against the closed door hard enough that the frame rattled. He groaned as Finan immediately crowded into his space and yanked his head back by his hair so the Irishman could bite at his throat. He moaned at the sharp press of teeth and the burn of his lover’s beard dragging across his skin. 

He cupped the back of Finan's head and held him in place and he bit and sucked at the skin under his mouth and Sihtric knew the marks would be dark and red. The possessive gesture helping to curb the urge to kill and main and turned it into a desire to get fucked until he couldn't walk. 

Sihtric gasped at a particularly hard nip of teeth and he grabbed a handful of Finan's hair to rip the Irishman's mouth from his neck and crashed their lips together in a heated kiss. It was hungry, more teeth than lips or tongue and Sihtric removed his hands from Finan's hair to grip him around the waist and draw their bodies tightly together.

Layer of leather and furs prevented them from feeling each other properly and after several minutes of frantic kissing Sihtric pushed Finan away so he could attack the laces holding his lover's armour together. They stripped each other hurriedly, hands tugging on laces and buckles, blood stained armour and clothing being left in a pile on the floor in their search for bare skin. 

Mouths explored each inch of revealed flesh, sucking and biting more marks to join the one Finan had already left on Sihtric's throat. Sihtric threw his head back and keened as Finan teeth clamped down on a perk nipple, the jolt of pleasure-pain going right to his cock which was already hard and dripping between his thighs.

Finan didn't linger on his chest and Sihtric whined in disappointment as the older man pulled away and spun them around so he could lean against the door with Sihtric in front of him. The Dane didn't fight as Finan grabbed a handful of his dishevelled braids and pulled him roughly to his knees. Sihtric's mouth watered as Finan took his ruddy cock in one hand, and stroked himself from root to tip, a thumb smearing the beads of fluid gathered there across the head until it glistened.

“Open up Boy,” Finan's voice was deep and hoarse with arousal and Sihtric shivered with excitement as he immediately followed the command and opened his mouth wide, letting his tongue hang out. 

Sihtric trembled and clenched his hands atop his bare thighs as Finan lined his cock up with one hand and teasingly ran the head across Sihtric's lips making the younger man whine. The sound was loud and desperate and he trembled harder as he fought the desire to move and take what he wanted.

Finan rewarded Sihtric's obedience by finally pressing the length of his cock into Sihtric's mouth. He was frustratingly slow and gentle to start, just pressing his cock in nice and easy. The salty bitter taste of his cock burst across Sihtric's tongue and he groaned as Finan fed him one inch at a time until he was buried all the way inside. He paused with Sihtric's nose pressed to his pelvic bone and the Dane struggled to swallow around his girth and not choke, just keeping his lover's cock warm in his tight throat.

Eventually it was too much and the Dane choked softly and tapped Finan's hip, signalling that he needed the older man to pull out and let him breathe. He took several wet, gasping breaths then opened his mouth wide and Finan slid in again. 

This time Finan began to properly fuck his cock into Sihtric mouth, pushing harder and deeper with each thrust until he was thrusting hard enough to pull soft wet noises from Sihtric's throat and Sihtric was dizzy with the lack of air and he could feel tears dripping down his face. He could feel the tension seeping out of his muscles and the racing thoughts running through his mind went quiet, all he had to focus on was breathing around his lover's cock and letting Finan take pleasure from his mouth.

The feel of Sihtric throat constricting around his cock was almost enough to push Finan over the edge and he was forced to pull away so he didn't spoil their fun so soon. He could go again given enough time but Sihtric needed better than that from him. 

He stared down into Sihtric's eyes and felt a curl of pride at the dazed look in the Dane's eyes and he used his thumb to brush off the tears clinging to his dark lashes. He used the hand still wrapped in Sihtric's hair to encourage him to his feet and claimed his mouth in a devouring kiss. He chased the faint taste of himself from his lover tongue before he playfully shoved the Dane in the direction of their bed. 

They stumbled over to the wooden frame piled with furs which served as their bed and Finan pushed Sihtric down on it. He crawled over the Dane and pinned his arms above his head, making the younger man grab the headboard tightly before releasing him so he could continue to work more dark bruises along Sihtric's throat and down his chest. His skin tasted of salt and the copper tang of blood but Finan couldn't get enough, nor of the sounds he pulled from Sihtric's throat. He squirmed and moaned so sweetly as Finan covered him in marks and the Irishman felt a surge of possessiveness at the sight of Sihtric so thoroughly claimed. Only a few of the marks would be visible when the man was dressed but Finan would know they were there and the thought caused his hard cock to throb.

Finan was jolted out of his observation when he felt the cold press of glass against his arm and he see's Sihtric holding out the vial of oil they keep by the bed.

“Ah ah ah, did I say you could move your arms?” He teased, a grin spreading across his face at the bashful look which crossed the other man's face. 

“I'm sorry…” Sihtric's voice was wrecked already, hoarse and scratchy from swallowing Finan's cock and Finan loved the sound of it, “please Finan..” 

Unable to ignore his love's sweet plea Finan took the small vessel and pulled the cork out with his teeth, the scent of walnut and rosemary filling the small space. He coated the fingers of one hand thoroughly with the slippery liquid before he pressed the tips of two fingers against Sihtric's rim. 

He teased the other man at first, running his fingers lightly around his hole until Sihtric whined and pushed back against the too light touch. Finan pulled his fingers away with a tsk. “You will take what I give you, understand boy?”

Sihtric nodded eagerly and forced himself to still completely, hands gripping into the furs under him tightly. He groaned loudly when Finan finally pushed two fingers inside of him, relishing in the burn of his rim stretching to accommodate. It was just the right side of painful and he moaned even louder when the feeling was combined with Finan pressing a wet kiss to the head of his cock before sucking it into the wet heat of his mouth. 

The dual sensations were almost enough to overwhelm Sihtric and he trembled as

Finan sucked him messily as he thoroughly prepared his hole to be fucked. The Irishman paused anytime Sihtric started to squirm or buck into his touch, the only outlet he had for the pleasure he was feeling was the noises spilling from between his lips. His groans and moans and calling of Finan's name.

Soon Finan was fucking him smoothly with 4 fingers, Sihtric whining each time those fingers pressed against his most sensative spot and his cock felt ready to burst down Finan's throat. He couldn't take it any longer, he needed Finan's cock inside him. More than anything, he wanted to come on the older man's perfect cock.  

“Please Finan,” he begged desperately, “please fuck me! I'm ready, please I'm ready!” He felt tears prickle at the edge of his eyes. 

Finan released the straining cock from his mouth and pulled his fingers free of the clutch of Sihtric's hole. “Sh sh sh, I've got you,” he soothed, “you want my cock boy?”

Sihtric nodded rapidly, not caring how desperate he was being and gasped loudly as Finan flipped him over onto his front. Sword calloused hands gripped his hips and yanked him back over the edge of their bed until his feet could touch the floor and he arse was on display.

Sihtric lifted himself on shaking arms so he could glance over his shoulder and shuddered with lust at the sight of Finan's broad shouldered frame looming over him. His bronze skin gleamed with a thin layer of sweat from the battle and the hard journey home and his lips were swollen and pink from sucking the Dane's cock. 

Finan grinned ferally at him before he pressed a warm palm between Sihtric's shoulder blades and pressed his chest down towards the bed, forcing him down onto his elbows. He felt the hot, wet  brand of Finan's tongue licking a line up his spine before his muscled chest pressed to Sihtric back and the hard length of his cock slipped between Sihtric arse cheeks and rubbed teasing against him. Sihtric dropped his head down so he could bury his face in the furs, using them to muffle the absolutely desperate sounds falling from his mouth as Finan finally pressed his cock inside. The stretch was perfect and he felt so pleasantly full as Finan bottomed out inside him. 

Finan tsked as Sihtric muffled his sounds in the bed and he pulled Sihtric's head back by the hair, “I wanna hear you, wanna hear how much you love taking my cock,” he whispered in the other man's ear before he nipped it sharply. He wanted to hear every sound he pulled from Sihtric's mouth, no matter who might walk past their home and overhear. Let them hear how good he fucked his lover while they ride the high of battle.

Sihtric could do nothing but moan loudly as Finan grabbed him by the throat, his fingers carefully cradling his jaw and used his hold to begin to fuck him, his other hand curled over his hip providing even more leverage.

The pace Finan set wasn't as hard as he knew Sihtric could take, not yet, but he did make up for the gentler pace by making sure to sink his cock into the hilt each time, filling Sihtric completely. Each thrust angled carefully to brush against his most sensitive spot and it took no time at all until Sihtric was whining, near breathless from the grip Finan had on his neck.

Finan felt Sihtric's weight shift then a soft tap against his hand that prompted him to slow to a stop and relax his grip on Sihtric's jaw. He caressed his sweaty shoulder instead and brought their bodies tightly together. 

“What do you need?” He asked against Sihtric's ear before he pressed a soft kiss to a dark red mark on Sihtric's neck.

Sihtric leaned his head back against Finan's shoulder and Finan buried his face in his hair and groaned as the Dane’s arse pressed back against his hips. His movement restless where Finan had his cock buried deep,  “More Finan! Give me more!” his begging sounded so sweet to Finan's ears but he wasn't quite ready to give in yet. 

“You want more?” he taunted, grinding his hips in small circles and pulling a small desperate sound from Sihtric's throat., “you better ask nicer than that boy.”

Sihtric's next moan was loud and downright sinful but his boy did exactly as requested, “Please Finan! Please, please, please!” 

Satisfied Finan released the hold he had on Sihtric and shoved him face down in the furs again. He brought one hand up then swung it down to connect firmly with the meat of Sihtric arse and the Dane gasped in shock before he moaned loudly as Finan did it again, and again, building up a steady rhythm in time with his thrusts as the Irishman resumed fucking him.

The sound of Finan's hand connecting to Sihtric's arse echoed through their home, accompanied by the pained moans which fell from between his red bitten lips and the wet sound of Finan's cock sliding into his hole. The sharp pain went right to his cock and he only needed another small nudge to go tumbling over the edge.

“Harder!” He begged desperately, not sure if he meant Finan's hand against his burning arse or his cock filling him so perfectly but in the end it didn't matter as all it took was Finan's voice in his ear telling him to come and he was spilling over the furs. His whole body went rigid and tense and he screamed wordlessly.

Finan pulled out and gripped the base of his cock hard so that he didn't fall over the edge along with Sihtric, he wasn't nearly finished with the other man yet. Once he had gotten himself back under control he rolled a still shuddering Sihtric onto his back and sank his cock back in. 

He rolled his hips steadily as Sihtric whined and squirmed, still sensitive from his orgasm but he didn't protest or ask Finan to stop. The Irishman kept moving until the younger man started to rock back with soft whimpers and his cock was straining and leaking between their stomachs once more.

“Good?” He asked gruffly, eager to move properly and give Sihtric the hard fucking he deserved.

Sihtric's eyes met his and he licked his lips slowly, the little tease, before he answered, “show me what you got” he taunted.

Finan grinned ferally at the challenge and hoisted Sihtric's legs over his elbows and thrust forward sharply making the other man keen. He gave no mercy and fucked him hard, leaning forward until Sihtric was almost bent in half so he could grab the headboard for ever more leverage. The bed creaked from the abuse they were giving it but Finan paid no mind as Sihtric's arms wrapped tightly around his neck, crashing their mouths together messily. The kiss was more teeth and gasping breaths and the desperation fed into the lust pooling in his gut.

Finan shifted his weight forward on his knees and it must have adjusted the angle of his thrusts just right as Sihtric threw his head back and wailed in pleasure, curses falling from his lips. Finan groaned as Sihtric's nails dug into the skin of his back, racking long lines up his spine and across his shoulders and the extra little bite of pain combined with the tight grip of Sihtric's arse around his cock finally pushed him over the edge and he came, hard. He buried his cock as deep as he could as it twitched and throbbed with each spurt of seed, painting Sihtric's insides white. 

Sihtric whimpered at the warmth which filled him and squeezed a hand between the hard muscles of their stomach to get a hand around himself. He managed to jerk himself a few times before Finan batted his hand away so the Irishman could wrap his own sword calloused fingers around Sihtric's cock. It only took a few strokes for him to follow the Irishman over the edge and he came a second time, making a mess between their bodies.

They collapsed in a pile of limbs, not even caring how much of a mess they had made of each other and their bed.

Finan pressed a kiss to the patch of skin under his mouth before resting his chin on Sihtric's chest and stared up at him as the Dane caught his breath. When Sihtric noticed him staring he smiled and Finan couldn't help but smile back.

“Feel better?” He asked, taking in the relaxed state of his lover.

Sihtric grabbed his hand and pressed a kiss to his palm before he answered, “much better, thank you. Going to feel it on the training yard tomorrow though.”

.

.

.

The next day they were gathered with Uhtred and the rest of the men for a day of training, the Lord allowed no slacking even after a recent fight. It was an unusually hot day so most of the men had stripped off their armour and were just training in their tunics or completely topless. 

Finan had worked up quite a sweat, sparring with several of their men as well as putting in a hard round in with both Sihtric and Uhtred before he moved to out Osferth through his paces. Finally giving in to the heat he pulled his sweat soaked tunic over his head and tossed it over a nearby fence post to keep it out of the dirt. He ignored the heavy feeling of Sihtric’s eyes roaming over his exposed skin. The heathen was never satisfied but Finan wouldn't let it distract him from helping the baby monk not die in their next battle.

Finan was just gesturing for Osferth to take his place across from him when Uhtred's voice yelled out across the training yard. 

"Were you mauled by a wild animal, Finan?" The Lord's voice was teasing, clearly knowing the origin of the marks decorating the Irishman's body and Finan's ears burned at the jest but he grinned good-naturedly, thinking of the marks he left on Sihtrics' body and how much worse they were.

Sihtric just laughed smugly and smirked over at Uhtred, not at all ashamed of being called out, one of his own marks from Finan mouth just peeking out over the collar of his deep blue tunic. "You're all just jealous Finan knows how to fuck properly," he taunted as he twirled his axe in his hand, "Now whose next?"