#encomium carolis regis

[brawlingdiscontent]

the men of metal, menacing with golden face, 3/?

a.k.a sequel to terrible with the brightness of gold

(cherik fic, viking au, subtle a/b/o, mature rating)

(part one) (part two)

Hi all, I am so sorry for the space between these updates! - I am so close to finishing my PhD (not in any history or medieval studies field, lol) and things are just really hectic with revisions, publications and syllabi, etc.

A reminder that the last chapter (from 5000 years ago) ended with Charles being graphically/violently threatened by a mysterious man. (See the link above if you’d like to re-read it.

Warnings: Slightly gory description, mentions/implications of violence and sexual assault, child death (not Charles’ kids)

----

In the end, they don't set off that afternoon. 

It’s decided in a council, a strategy meeting that Charles is not invited to, and reported to him curtly by Lehnsherr later that day that if they start off early enough it’s only most of a day’s ride to Eoforowic, and is the preferable alternative to the vulnerability of camping overnight. 

He sees almost no one before the Danish king returns to the tent bearing an evening meal. 

The man in question has forgone the advisors and trailing pages, leaving his subordinates behind for the night, as no loud voices or other signs announce his arrival. The denizens of the camp are likely off savouring the hours of daylight that remain in varied nefarious ways.  The long summer nights are not yet over, but in the tent it’s darker, shadowed but not yet dim enough to warrant a candle or fat lamp. The canvas walls seem to glow faintly with the strange quality of early evening light.

Charles has arranged himself in a defensive position, seated at the small table on the lone chair facing the tent flap. He took advantage of his time alone to redistribute a number of the furs from the main pile, making the corner where he intends once again to sleep more comfortable and well-padded. Together with the extra things Alex brought him--when, under the watchful eyes of the guards, they risked exchanging only a nod to confirm his task’s success--he fashioned a warm berth for himself. His current placement, with its slight chill, is a tactical necessity. He straightens in the hard, wooden seat. It’s best to avoid being caught in a prone position lest Lehnsherr take it as an invitation. 

When he enters, Lehsherr carries in two rough-hewn, steaming wooden bowls balanced atop an extra stool. 

“You must be hungry.” 

Charles scans him for ulterior motives, finding none for now. He hasn’t eaten since the food that was left for him this morning, but can’t seem to muster up much of an appetite. 

“Yes. Thank you,” he says anyway. He needs to keep his strength up. 

Lehnsherr sets the bowls on the small table, nudging one slightly towards Charles, and the stool beside it. He then turns away, once again going through the routine of divesting himself of his gear. If he notices or has any feelings about Charles’ rearrangement of his space he says nothing, leaving Charles to return to his own thoughts.

That afternoon, after the monstrous man retreated, slinking off to some other part of the camp while Charles stood shaken, Charles’ guards had suddenly and conspicuously reappeared.

As he was escorted back to Lehnsherr’s tent, Charles had, briefly, turned over the possibility of telling him what happened. Of what could be construed as nothing other than a violent threat. But the man hadn’t actually done anything, hadn’t even touched Charles. And what, even, were the chances that Lehnsherr would believe him—or that he would care? In any case what exactly could he expect the Dane to do? The bear-man, whoever he is, must be powerful, as he contrived some way—whether by bribery or sheer command—to send the guards away from their positions outside the tent. 

—Or, the thought had occurred to him, both disturbing and the most plausible yet, perhaps Lehnsherr had sent the man to threaten him, to warn him off and keep him in line. It is this possibility that is nearest in his mind as Lehnsherr wanders the tent.

“I trust you found your men well?” Lehnsherr questions, not turning from where he is folding his gambeson.

Charles contemplates several responses. Acerbic: ‘Alive would be a more accurate understanding.’ Another part of him wants to respond in anger, Logan’s blackened eye, the morning’s events, urging him to confront and accuse Lehnsherr. It’s an urge he knows is at least partly the product of fear. He presses his palms flat against the wood of the table and feels its uneven surface press back. In the end, exhausted, and unwilling to cause a fuss, he settles on, “I did,” then turns towards the bowl before him.

The food is hot, rabbit this time. Likely commandeered from one of the many the braziers and fire pits that dot the camp as he doubts Lehnsherr has had time for hunting. It is good, and Charles feels some appetite flare again, even when Lehnsherr has divested enough weapons and layers and joins him at the table.

A silence falls between them, not exactly awkward, but not quite comfortable either. On Charles’ end, it stems from reservation. Lehnsherr, conversely, seems content not to speak.

Charles steals surreptitious glances between bites. He studies the lines of the other man’s face trying to puzzle him out as the shadows in the tent begin to lengthen. 

He’s a man become even more confusing and inscrutable after the day’s events. If Lehnsherr had sent that beast of a man to threaten him in place of doing so himself, it speaks to a capacity for sophisticated psychological manipulation, one that goes beyond and complicates his reputation for sheer brutality. For all of Charles’ careful planning he hadn’t seriously considered the possibility that Lehnsherr might be worse than Shaw. He needs to know who he’s—getting into bed with, his mind supplies—getting involved with. Only then can he have any hope to defend himself. For who can say what will happen to whatever appeal he has—the tenuous sexual hold that had checked Lehnsherr the night before—once Lehnsherr finally gets what he wants and is sated. What then can Charles possibly do to hold him back, should he prove monstrous? 

He must have been more transparent in his observation than he realized, an act which once again is misinterpreted. 

“Relax, your Highness.” Lehnsherr says.  “I’ll honour your wish to wait. I won’t touch you.”  

“Until we are married,” Charles says aloud if only to remind himself, tracking with his eyes the slow advance of a line of shadow across the table.

“Until we are married,” Lehnsherr agrees, his voice carrying notes of something that has Charles turning back studiously to his food to avoid analyzing.

...

The sun is just ghosting above the horizon when they assemble to head off the next morning, gently bathing the plain in its orange-red glow. There’s a morning chill carried in the wind that batters at Charles’ cheeks. It wipes away the bleariness of the early hour, and makes him glad that extra furs were among the items that he’d requested Alex fetch. And yet the last edges of summer are holding on; it’s nothing compared to the winter they’ll face once the seasons change and even the memories of warmth fade.

Lehnsherr had woken him just before dawn, and they’d had a hurried breakfast in the tent by the light of a flickering taper. More of the flat, dry bread and some of the season’s last berries, foraged from a nearby bush.

They’ll be going overland to Eoforwic. It’s the slower route than sailing up the coast, which tells Charles that either Lehnsherr doesn’t want their journey observed or reported, or that he’s uncertain of what awaits them in Eoforwic.

Scanning the group, Charles counts about fifty gathered, all told. Enough to defend themselves if it came down to it, but still a small enough party to travel relatively unobtrusively. 

His horse gives a restless shuffle, tugging gently on the reins in his hands. A nobleman's former mount, certainly. Fine little features stand out in the saddle, tack, and gear. The rivets in the saddle bags are detailed in a star motif, points radiating out in blades of light, as only the very wealthy could afford. It was probably scavenged from its slain owner, or, optimistically, was given up by a defeated city relinquishing its riches. Londres had given up several hundred horses in the surrender.  

Lehnsherr, who’d gone off on an unnamed errand after seeing Charles matched with a horse, approaches once more. He’s leading not only a horse of his own, but a woman. Charles recognizes her dark eyes and small stature from the previous morning. 

“Charles,” Lehnsherr says without ceremony, “this is Angel. She’s here to assist you.”

He looks back over at her, as she returns his gaze placidly. Assist him? The road, travelling rough as they are, is no place for an attendant. Then, focusing on her smooth expression, it all clicks into place.

Assist him. Ha. More like spy on him. He quickly re-assesses the meeting he interrupted yesterday as an intelligence report. Interesting. Sebastian, with his more traditionalist views, would likely not have thought to assign such a job to a beta or omega woman. 

He manages, “a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Angel.” It’s a lie, of course, but Charles was raised with manners, and she can’t help the assignment she's been tasked with. While Charles is fairly confident in his charm,  Angel proves just as enigmatic as her commander, offering merely a hint of a smile and a raised eyebrow before turning to see to her own mount.

With eyes on him secured, Lehnsherr seems relatively content to leave him alone, as he heads up towards the front of the column to rally the troops.

They set off, and Charles easily falls towards the back of the group, ghosted by Angel. If he had any remaining doubts about her occupation, they dissipate after watching her subte, silent moments, even on horseback.

Travelling en masse, they alternate bursts of speed with walking breaks to keep a sustainable pace for the horses.

He is content to pass the first canter course just relishing the abandon of the pace, the uneven terrain below the horses’ hooves. The sun gradually climbs higher until he can feel the warmth of it on his hair, and the wind blows across his face. He basks in the experience of being out in the open, running wild (if not free) after six months of siege. 

The dusty roadside is lined here and there with dots of blue chicory, long stems stretching up tenaciously towards the sky. A flock of chaffinches, startled by their appearance, burst in flight. His spy, Angel, seems to have melted away into the group, perhaps prefering to operate in her usual mode when her targets don’t know she’s there. It is tempting to forget the circumstances and enjoy the moment. 

But Charles is too pragmatic, hardened by bitter experience underlined by recent events, to let this lapse in Lehnsherr’s attention (Angel aside) go to waste.

In the first walking break, he looks around at the stragglers in the second half of the party for promising targets of some reconnaissance of his own. Just ahead and to his left are two burly men engaged in animated discussion. Inching subtly closer, he’s disappointed but not surprised to find that they’re speaking Danish. He has so little of the language, certainly not enough to make reliable sense of their discussion, but at the least perhaps listening might improve his facility. He listens amongst the glottal phrases for repeated sounds he might begin to decipher.

“It’s a blunt-tongued language, isn’t it?” a warm voice addresses Charles from slightly behind.

He starts and turns his body in the direction of the sound—as pleased to hear the softer tones of Saxon as he is startled at the sudden intrusion—to find another rider approaching on his right.

He’s a young man, a little younger than Charles from appearances, and clothed in unusual attire. A flat sort of cap, fashioned from a vibrant dark red material, adorns his head. His tunic, where it peeks through his furs, is woven of rich fabric: not over-ornamented, but of a quality far surpassing the coarse weaves and eclectic dress of the surrounding men. He carries himself with a cool confidence, perched lightly on his saddle, relaxed and much more poised than any other of Lehnsherr’s men.

Charles pulls gently at the reins, slowing his horse’s pace to allow the other man to draw even with him. 

Even as he takes him in, the clothing stirs a memory at the back of his mind of a childhood long ago; Muslim traders at the Norman court. The memory is an old one; Sebastian’s kingdom was an insular one and didn’t get on with outsiders, let alone cultured guests from the learned centres of the world. 

“Forgive me for startling you, Your Highness,” the man says. Despite Charles’ deliberate choice to leave his circlet behind at the tent, it seems that Lehnsherr’s scene in the banquet hall the other night has left him no chance of anonymity.

“That’s quite alright. Though, you seem to have me at a disadvantage.”

“The name’s Armando, sir.”

“Armando.” He says, rolling the name around in his mouth. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” It's the second time today he’s offered these words, but he finds he can be more sincere with them when not faced with a spy. “And what is your role here?” He’s a figure somewhat misplaced among the rough-and-tumble Danes. 

“I’m a physician. Born in Cordoba, and trained in Alexandria.” 

A frisson of excitement runs through Charles at this announcement. “You speak Saxon very well for an Andalusian. Better than myself, and I’ve been speaking it almost since birth.” 

“Thank you. Once I had the first few, the next languages came easily enough.” He switches into Norman for the second part of explanation to demonstrate.

“How many others do you speak?” 

“Fluently? I’d say seven--maybe eight.” He cracks a broad, warm smile at Charles’ astonishment. “What can I say? I’m adaptive.” 

Mindful of his spy close at hand, Charles yet can’t hide his delight to be in the company of a fellow seeker in the pursuit of knowledge, one with personal experience of the madrasas of the learned world at that. Despite this, he tries to rein himself in before his enthusiasm overwhelms his caution. After all, no matter how much he may seem a kindred spirit, he doesn’t know Armando nor his agenda. And, after seeing firsthand the danger that lurks in the camp, he’d be a fool to count himself safe. 

They settle into a comfortable rhythm. It’s in the next walking break that Charles, between probing questions about the scientific and medical developments out of Baghdad, catches sight of a head above the crowd. His heart stutters, and he almost jerks on the reins impulsively. Riding up at the front, near Lehnsherr, but a bit off to the side. He’s easy to spot, rising nearly head-and-shoulders above the men surrounding him, stature and bearskin robe unmistakable.

“Armando, what can you tell me about that man?”

Armando follows his gaze to the front of the party, and when he sees the man to whom Charles refers seems to hesitate. 

“He goes by the name of Sabretooth. He leads one of the strongest factions among the Danish warriors.” He pauses so long that Charles thinks he might have to prompt again, before continuing. “He and his supporters are known for their unyielding savagery in battle. I’ve only ever seen the aftermath.” Armando looks towards the riders at the front, squinting into the midday sun at the outline of the man in question. His words seem improbably incongruous in the brightness of the day. “Going into battle they consume a potion to free them of inhibitions and drive away all traces of remorse. Many of his followers file their teeth, supposedly to more easily rend the flesh of their enemies. Except Sabretooth himself who they say likes the challenge of a duller edge.” 

Charles masks his disquiet with a wry remark. “No doubt a firm favourite of his Grace.” He had heard tell of such stories, whispers of viking cannibals, but had always assumed them to be over-inflations of reality. 

“You’re wrong about that, actually.” 

He looks back over, surprised. 

“I have the sense—mind you, this is just my perception—that His Grace dislikes him very much.”

Charles thinks on this. Armando’s explanation would seem to square with the disagreement he witnessed back at the camp. Furthermore, the man—Sabretooth—seems prone to unpredictable violence, of a sort that might irk someone as careful and controlled as Lehnsherr. And yet—

“If that's the case, why invite him on such a party?

Armando takes a moment to respond, looking between the two riders up ahead. “There’s a common saying in Alexandria. It translates roughly to: a wise man holds his enemies close to his breast but far from his heart.”  

Charles nods in agreement as he notes the appropriateness of it, thinking of the justification he had used to convince Lehnsherr to take him along even as he once again reconfigures his knowledge of the man. He, too, is an enemy Lehnsherr has held close. But before he can take the train of thought much further, the low blast of a horn signals the return to a canter, and it’s lost in the clatter of advancing hooves.

…

In the late afternoon, the first sign of smoke on the horizon alerts them. It curls above the treetops a little ways off the road. Too dense and heavy to be from a cooking fire. 

The nearby homestead is set back from the road, but after the party halts at another horn blast a few riders break away from the pack in its direction. Charles pulls his horse past the crowd of remaining men and follows after them.

It’s a desolate scene. What was formerly a cottage now smouldering ashes but for the charred edges of a door frame still standing. The field of crops outside is churned up and scattered. Crushed stalks of barley that were trodden under horses’ hooves are beaten into the mud. A handful of slaughtered animals lie along the path. But what is most evident is the woman crouched in front of the remains of the house, keening in grief. Her ragged dress is torn, at her side a small child with a soot in their hair and clothes.

Lehnsherr has already dismounted, handed off his reins to another rider in order to survey the scene. Charles follows suit without a thought, and once he gets closer, it unfolds before him tragic inevitability.

He sees the dead man lying a few feet away from the woman and child, his grotesquely splayed body telling the story of his violent end. Then, clutched in the woman’s arms, a boy. A mere child, perhaps thirteen summers. His small eyes are closed almost peacefully, his forehead smeared with clotted blood. 

Armando, who has followed Charles from the road, is quick to be rallied to aid. 

Insensible in grief, the woman seems to barely register their presence as they cautiously approach. The young child, likely too small to comprehend the events that have taken place, tugs on her dress to get her attention, until she at last looks up at them. Her gaze is empty as one beyond reach, already crossed over to the next world.

It strikes Charles deeply, who freezes, feeling her disconnection mirrored in his own. Dissociation is a strategy he’s used to make himself hard, hiding his emotions in a fortress to protect them from a scene that has and will continue to play out countless times across the countryside. Recognizing it now in this woman, he’s struck by its haunting unnaturalness, the hollowness it invokes.

Armando, who had gently nudged the woman aside to conduct an examination, looks up and shakes his head. 

The young child shrieks suddenly, drawing back and cowering behind their mother, who, past caring, doesn’t noticeably react. The cause is soon clear: having finished attentively examining the scene and damage, Lehnsherr is making his way over. To his credit, in response to the child’s dismay he slows his approach and spreads his hands wide in the universal symbol of non-aggression. It’s the only reason that Charles makes no move to stop him as he nears the woman and child, and crouches down.

Charles watches as he starts a conversation in Saxon, gently asking a question or two. He thinks he hears Lehnsherr quietly mutter a few words following the woman’s stilted responses. Then the man pulls an aged leather drawstring pouch from somewhere on his person, and produces several small, glinting coins which he hands to the woman.

A weregild.

Blood price for so much death and evil, paid for with some mere pieces of metal. He rails internally at his own impotence, safe behind a palace wall while people are suffering; dying. And at the authors of the violence, as Lehnsherr’s actions here have surely confirmed, the very men he rides with. 

He’s overwhelmed by a helpless rage that washes over him like a tide. 

“A few coins” the words come out flat, subdued. “Do you think they can repair the loss of a husband, bring back her child?” It’s an accusation but empty, anger deserting him as quickly as it arrived for a dull hopelessness. 

Lehnsherr turns to him, delayed. His gaze is a bit distant, as though he’d forgotten Charles was there.

“It will bring them food,” he says levelly, “buy them shelter for the winter. Nothing can bring back the dead.”

Charles stands there for an indeterminable span of time, consumed by the endless cruelties of men. By this tangible reminder of the pain caused and lives lost to men—no, not men, beasts, seeking only personal glory, an enrichment of power.

“You generals and your wars,” he says coldly and turns away, the smoke still stinging in his eyes.

[brawlingdiscontent]

I'm dying for more 'the men of metal, menacing with golden face' please!!!

Hi friend, sorry for the late response, and thank you for asking! Here’s a snippet. (I actually had to edit/get some fic writing done for the first time in a while to produce it, so hopefully more will follow. I’m also working on something for the anon who left an ask):

----

A silence falls between them, not exactly awkward, but not quite comfortable either. It stems from reservation on Charles’ part. Lehnsherr, conversely, seems content not to speak.

Charles steals surreptitious glances between bites. He studies the lines of the other man’s face trying to puzzle him out. A man become even more confusing and inscrutable after the day’s events. If Lehnsherr had sent that beast of a man to threaten him rather than do so himself, it points to a capacity for sophisticated psychological manipulation, one that goes beyond and that deeply complicates his reputation for sheer brutality. For all of Charles’ careful planning he hadn’t seriously considered the possibility that Lehnsherr might be worse than Shaw. He needs to know who he’s—getting into bed with, his mind supplies—getting involved with. Only then can he have any hope to defend himself. For who can say what will happen to whatever appeal he has—the tenuous sexual hold that had checked Lehnsherr the night before—once Lehnsherr finally gets what he wants and is sated. What then can Charles possibly do to hold him back, should he prove monstrous? 

He must have been more transparent in his observation than he realized, an act which is once again swiftly misinterpreted. 

“Relax, your Highness.” Lehnsherr says. “I’ll honour your wish to wait. I won’t touch you.”  

“Until we are married,” Charles says aloud if only to remind himself. 

“Until we are married,” Lehnsherr agrees, his voice carrying notes of something that has Charles turning studiously back to his food to avoid analyzing.

[brawlingdiscontent]

For the WIP meme, could you please share a snippet from 'the men of metal, menacing with golden face'?

Hi anon, sure! (I also just shared another one for gerec). This one’ s not too action-filled, as I don’t want to spoil too much for the next part.

...

The sun is just ghosting above the horizon when they assemble to head off the next morning, gently bathing the plain in its orange-red glow. There’s a morning chill carried in the wind that batters at Charles’ cheeks. It wipes away the bleariness of the early hour, and makes him glad that extra furs were among the items that he’d requested Alex fetch. And yet the last edges of summer are holding on; it’s nothing compared to the winter they’ll face once the seasons change and even the memories of warmth fade.

Lehnsherr had woken him just before dawn, and they’d had a hurried breakfast in the tent by the light of a flickering taper. More of the flat, dry bread and some of the season’s last berries, foraged from a nearby bush.

They’ll be going overland to Eoforwic. It’s the slower route than sailing up the coast, which tells Charles that either Lehnsherr doesn’t want their journey observed or reported, or that he’s uncertain of what awaits them in Eoforwic.

Scanning the group, Charles counts about thirty gathered, all told. Enough to defend themselves if it came down to it, but still a small enough party to travel relatively unobtrusively. 

His horse gives a restless shuffle, tugging gently on the reins in his hands. A nobleman's former mount, certainly. Fine little features stand out in the saddle, tack, and gear. The rivets in the saddle bags are detailed in a star motif, points radiating out in blades of light, as only the very wealthy could afford. It was probably scavenged from its slain owner, or, optimistically, was given up by a defeated city relinquishing its riches. Londres had given up several hundred horses in the surrender.

[brawlingdiscontent]

the men of metal, menacing with golden face, 2/?

a.k.a sequel to terrible with the brightness of gold

(cherik fic, viking au, subtle a/b/o, mature rating)

(first part) (tl;dr for any of you, like me, who can’t remember what happened: Charles wakes alone, finds he’s trapped in the tent, snoops around and writes a secret letter)

(part three)

This part is dedicated to all you amazing anons and non-anons who have been checking up on me and sending encouragement. You know who you are!

Warning: this chapter contains minor descriptions of violence, graphic threats of rape and murder, and some misogynistic/feminizing slurs (none of these last from Erik)

.

..

...

As Charles is marched outside the tent and herded through the camp, guarded in front and behind, he reminds himself that Lehnsherr needs him alive. The thought is especially comforting as he hears the crinkle of the letter concealed up his sleeve. 

There’s no Azazel this time to fetch him. In the bleak silence of the passage, marred only by the everyday sounds of the camp, he almost misses the other's cheerful if subtly threatening presence. Now there's just the crunch of feet on the compacted dirt of the camp. Of course, there’s no need for such official escort, nor for formality now, he thinks grimly. Formality is for guests, which he is no longer. Now he's caught.

He hears them before he sees them, in snatches of raised voices, as they approach the edge of camp. The voices echo as though carried on the wind, rising in pitch in the distinctive pattern of an argument, but words indistinguishable. 

They round the corner and the narrow view of tents opens up onto the plains that demarcate the outskirts of the camp. Horses are tethered here, by a small copse of trees. He sees Lehnsherr attending to a horse, his figure—though by no means short—dwarfed by the hulking, agitated form of another man: the source of the argument. Despite the size difference and latent threat in the other’s posture, Lehnsherr, though tense, looks more bored than worried.

As they get closer, it becomes clear that the conversation is uneven. The large man seems to be doing most of the talking, his anger apparent. Lehnsherr’s reaction is subtler, but appears in the tight curve of his shoulders, gradually stiffening as the man goes on, like a bow drawn taught just before it’s loosed. Before Charles can begin to suss out the particulars of the dispute through tone and gesture alone, it erupts. In a flash Lehnsherr's opponent buries a dagger in the point of a nearby tree, and then tugs it out aggressively, brandishing it in threat. Lehnsherr, for the first time, looks up fully from his task. He says something, steady and so low that Charles can’t even make out the shapes of the foreign words. With a thunderous look the other man lowers the knife, and, sneering, retreats. Throwing final warning glare back over his shoulder, he stalks off into the thrum of camp heading somewhere off to Charles' left.

Curious though the scene is, Charles only half follows the man’s progress, for the sight of Lehnsherr sets off a flare in his chest that's been building, smouldering since he tried to leave the tent that morning. He forgets his apprehension at the ambiguous summons and breaks from the rank of his escorts. A breath later he’s standing before the man.

“I told you I wouldn’t be a prisoner.” The accusation spills out of him, sharp and hot.

"Charles," Lehnsherr says in dry acknowledgement. “A moment, if you would.” 

He doesn't like the familiarity of his name as it curls across the other man's tongue. 

Lehnsherr gentles the horse--who’d begun to flick its tail nervously at the commotion--and gestures off to the side. It’s only then that Charles sees the dark-haired woman beside him. She's much smaller than the man who just left, so much so that he failed to notice her. She doesn’t seem to be an alpha, but her dress is looser, freer than that he would expect of betas or omegas. Lehnsherr picks up the interrupted conversation, imparting a few more words; likely some kind of instructions. She gives a brief reply, perhaps an affirmative, and darts a curious glance at Charles before slipping off back through the camp—possibly following the path of the man who just left, but he doesn’t turn to look. 

Lehnsherr watches her go for a moment. "Now then,” he says, sparing Charles a mere glance as he turns back to the horse, a mare with a silver-studded bridle—probably not his, “what was it you wanted?"

“I won’t be confined to a tent,” he repeats. Anger still colours the words, but of a more controlled sort, his initial outburst steadying to composed censure now that his displeasure has been given breath.

When Lehnsherr looks up at him, his eyes are shaded, obscuring his expression and any hint of whether he’s surprised or displeased by Charles’ outburst. 

“For your protection, I assure you,” he says with a wry twist of his mouth. “I was concerned about you wandering around on your own in the midst of such unsatisfied men.” 

Though it's seemingly said in humour, Lehsherr’s voice carries an acerbic note to it, as if to remind Charles that it was he himself who had forestalled that satisfaction by leading the omegas and beta women out of the city.

He ignores the warning in the twist of the other man’s words. “You’ve no right to keep me.” It’s a foolish statement to make. Even had he not the conqueror’s right to do as he pleased, then the right surely falls to Lehnsherr as his husband-to-be.

Lehnsherr tugs the lead to check it’s secured to the tree and steps suddenly away from his horse—and into Charles' space. Charles feels his pulse pick up, despite himself, not sure what to expect.

Were they commoners, it might appear to be the close conference of a newly-engaged couple; young lovers tentative in their newfound intimacy or drawn together by the animal urges of youth, like the amorous shepherds sung about in the bawdier ballads. But for people of their station such marriages do not exist. Marriages are made for political reasons, not romantic ones, and whatever else may lie between them Lehnsherr’s gesture denotes not intimacy but a desire to shield their conversation from those around them—the scattered remnants of his guard and runners scurrying back and forth—and most of all, a power play. To lean back would be to cede ground, so despite Lehnsherr's uncomfortable closeness, Charles stands firm.  

“In the past day you’ve proven yourself more capable than my top generals combined." The words slip silkily from Lehnsherr's tongue in almost an accusation as he fixes Charles with a piercing stare. He notes Lehnsherr’s arm where it hangs loosely, aligned with but not quite touching his. It burns with the potential to grab his wrist and close the final distance between them--in violence or in something else. 

“Beyond that,” the other man continues, “you've all too readily shown that your loyalty lies with your people. I would be a fool to ignore the evidence I am presented with and underestimate you." 

Charles feels a burst of regret, then, at the necessity of showing his hand and drawing Lehnsherr’s scrutiny—though never at its result—while at the same time he's somewhat relieved that Lehnsherr had confined him in order to protect himself, and not in demonstration of his beliefs on the place of spouses. 

His point made Lehnsherr steps back, leaving a gap in the space where he stood, and returns to the horse. He grabs a coil of rope hanging from a nearby branch and begins to fashion a hitch, when Charles’ mind suddenly catches up to what he’s seeing.

"What are you doing?" 

With an efficient tug, Lehnsherr finishes tying the hitch, securing an oilskin bag to the saddle. 

“Leaving.”

“Leaving?” For a split second Charles imagines he means the island; withdrawing to the longships and departing, leaving the shores of England bloodied and battered behind them—before reality catches up with him. Such an undertaking would require the disassembling of the entire camp, yet the preparations around him suggest a smaller party, a group of men, only. His hopes raised deflate once again, dropping back into the reality of the present moment.

“Yes,” Lensherr continues, unaware of his brief flight of fancy. “It's what I summoned you to tell you. We’ll be married when I return.”

“Why, what’s happened?” He ignores the latter point in favour of more pressing concerns. 

Lehnsherr doesn’t respond right away. He seems to be considering whether or not to tell him. He holds out a hand in gesture, and a man, one of Charles' guards, offers over the casket from the tent. Charles very deliberately does not look at it, wondering if Lehnsherr will be able to tell that it's been disturbed, will notice the missing vellum.

“I've received report of a disturbance near Eoforwic," the other man says at last, relenting. "I’m heading off to investigate.”  

A disturbance...what could it be? What force in the land would dare to rebel? He now sees the reason for Lehnsherr’s hesitation. Regardless of the distance to Eoforwic, Charles’ actions have certainly marked him out as a suspect. But one thing Charles knows for sure...

“I’m coming with you,” he asserts confidently. “And beyond that, I’ll need my men back to accompany me.”

“I’ve just told you I can’t trust you, Xavier,--” he starts at in suprise his family name -- “what makes you think I would ever allow that?" Hardness and wariness are the dominant notes in Lehnsherr’s tone, yet they make way, in part, for exasperation and a hint of something further—humour, even admiration at his daring, and, unmissable now that he knows it’s there, the faintest undercurrent of desire. Lehnsherr has relaxed his barriers, perhaps; or else he is starting to be able to read the other man. He can use this.

“If you don’t trust me, wouldn’t you rather I was somewhere you could watch me?”

“And your men?” the other’s amusement is such that Charles can hear the implied finish...how are you going to justify them?

“You yourself have just told me that you keep a dangerous company. Who better than my own men to protect me?" His tone offers a hint of challenge. "Call it a demonstration of good faith, a show of Danish spousal respect,” he adds, recalling Lehnsherr’s words the previous night. Bold, but he thinks he can get away with it. “Furthermore, I’ll need to fetch my travelling clothes.”

Lehnsherr looks at him, now, with a calculating stare, as though he’s weighing his options carefully. His blue eyes appear quite grey in the afternoon light. 

“No,” he says at last, tone firm. “I’ll let you send someone to the city for your things. But that’s it.”

Charles opens his mouth to object.

“If it’s so important to you to be near your men,” Lehnsherr presses on before he can utter a word, “you’re welcome to stay here with them.” 

The glint in the man’s eye is the equivalent of a victorious grin on his reserved countenance, and Charles closes his mouth, accepting the temporary defeat. 

He submits once again to the escorts when Lehnsherr gestures them back over and directs them curtly in Danish. Their presence no longer chafes as much, having tested Lehnsherr’s limits and found some slack. If he’s caught now in Lehnsherr’s grasp, there’s give; and if he’s careful enough, strategic enough, he can use it in order to wriggle free.

.

…

.

Going through the camp a second time, Charles notices what he should have seen sooner: the signs of a journey in the making. The camp is buzzing with potential, like a dragonfly touching down on the water, its surface thrumming with tension. As they walk he sees a few more of those he assumes are beta women and omegas, moving with the camp’s rhythms. There’s even a child or two, ducking into tents and scampering underfoot.

The guarded tent they are approaching is a familiar sight. This particular tent is big, large enough to require the support of a central wooden pole that shoots up towards the sky. A place for meetings, likely, or even dry goods storage. 

“Be quick about it,” the group's leader says sharply when they stop outside. She's a female alpha, demonstrable, as Northern custom dictates, from the braided sash she wears across her shoulders. With the tinge of red in her hair she might remind him of his daughter, were it not for her lethally sharpened teeth. 

He wonders if her keenness to hurry him along is based on an explicit order from Lehnsherr, or if she’d just prefer not to waste time watching him. Whatever the case, he's relieved to note that her instructions don't seem to extend to surveillance, and he’s free to duck in under the canvas flap alone, stepping into the muted light of the tent. 

There's a moment of hesitation at first, as the tent’s occupants attempt to identify the intruder, and then a voice calls out, “M'Lord!” and the title spreads through the tent’s close quarters. As his eyes adjust from the brightness of the day outside, the shapes of his men, his formal escort of the day before, emerge. They snap to a semblance of attention, those seated scrambling to stand even as he waves them to rest. They look bored, restless, but other than that, fairly well. 

The tent floor is unlined, sparsely sprouted with grass that’s gradually giving way under the churn of feet, and he can see little in the way of what they might have used to pad or warm their sleep. But there are much worse ways to pass a night, and such conditions certainly shouldn’t have troubled the hardened warriors Logan had selected. The most offensive thing in the space is the strong stench coming from the bucket in a corner.

He gets this all in a quick glance, holding off on further assessment: he has a task to complete. Acknowledging their bows with a tilt of his head, he passes through the group, seeking his commander, and finds him leaned up against the tent’s central pillar. 

“Logan---what on earth?--”

The man’s left eye is a bloodied, bruised mess. A split in the skin near his temple oozes blood, most of it drying or tacky; and besides the purple bruises raging like a storm across his face, the white of the injured eye is inflamed with the red of burst blood vessels.

With evident difficulty, he attempts to stand, pushing off the pole to support himself as Charles rushes forward to stop him.

“Stay down, please!” 

He settles a bit as Logan somewhat complies, not so much lowering himself as collapsing back into the pole. Logan’s eyes, both the bruised and the normal, are active, taking Charles in as though seeking assurance that he remains unharmed. The last time the other man saw him, Charles realizes, he was dragged off by Lehnsherr’s guards to uncertain fate. He senses Logan struggling with the desire to question him about what’s occurred--prevented, Charles suspects, partly because as Charles’ subordinate it’s not his place to ask. But more, perhaps, because no matter the answer there’s not a thing he can do about it. While Logan’s not up to questioning, however, Charles certainly is.

“What happened to you? Who did this?” 

“It’s nothin’. Probably had it coming.” 

Logan’s brusque reply prompts an imperious eyebrow, which yields a few more words of explanation: "Got a little worked up is all.” 

It’s bullshit and they both know it.

The two stare stubbornly at each other, at a standoff. While Logan is fiercely loyal, and would never withhold something of strategic use or relevance, obdurate man that he is, Charles thinks with mixed emotion, he would certainly keep something back if he felt in doing so he was protecting Charles.

Charles examines Logan’s face carefully, the desire to know warring with external pressures. At first glance his injury seems to be mostly superficial, but his hunched posture and stiff movement suggest damage that extends beyond his face. And yet he may not have much time here, who knows how long the guards’ patience will last? Logan’s looking back at him like he knows it, too.

Reluctantly, he lets it go, but not without shooting Logan a warning glance to signal that they will discuss it later.

“I need someone who can take a message.” He can’t send Logan, now. Were he in shape to make the journey, his injuries would attract unnecessary attention—though the choice of his commander would have been suspicious, regardless, for such a trivial task.  

"Alex."

"Alex. Which one is he?” Charles asks, scanning the assembled group.

“Over there,” Logan offers. “Far side. Blond kid, skinny.”

Charles looks over and catches sight of the youth that Logan means. He’s younger than most of the men and seems somewhat scrawny, not strong enough to have joined the honour guard, but perhaps that's why Logan selected him: he is unlikely to be seen as a threat by any of Lehnsherr’s men guarding the gates. Then, once he’s in, he will pass through the city relatively unnoticed.

He nods and briefly claps a hand on Logan’s shoulder in thanks, communicating in the wordless language that is their shorthand both the reassurance of a commanding officer and the support and gratitude of a friend, and goes to find Alex. 

As he passes near it, the flap at the tent’s entrance flutters—doubtless a signal from one of his guards telling him to hurry up. Drawing close to the membrane, he calls out in his most regal tone, “I’m not yet finished,” and hopes it will appease them for a few more moments. 

He stops before the young man Logan had pointed out.

“Alex.” 

“Sir! Your Highness.” He ducks his head, as though slightly awed at being addressed, and only Charles’ firm hand on his shoulder keeps him from jumping to his feet. He looks a bit peaked. Charles crouches down to speak to him which will serve better to hide what passes between them, even from the rest of the tent.

“Have you all been fed?” he asks first. It’s something Logan certainly would have concealed, should the answer be negative.

“Yes, your Grace—I mean, your Highness—” 

“Good.” Charles says, cutting off any further attempts at formalities. “Now, listen to me. I’m sending you on a mission of the utmost importance. I need to know that you can follow my instructions exactly.”

Alex nods, his eyes widening at the seriousness of the task with which he is to be entrusted.

“I need you to go into town. I’m sending you under the guise of retrieving some items from the keep, which you’ll do as well, but more importantly I need you to arrange to have this message passed on. There’s a person in the village, Roz, white hair. You’ll find them in the Blacksmith’s forge. It’s vital that you deliver this to them."

He slides the paper, the letter written in Lehnsherr’s tent, free from his sleeve. “They’ll know where to send it.”

The letter is for his children. Despite the promise of their safety he'd extracted from Lehnsherr their position remains precarious; worse, if he can't find a way to let Raven know what has happened. Before she took the children to safety Charles impressed on her that should she not hear from him within two month’s time, she was to assume the worst: that the negotiations had failed and he was dead, and was to flee with the children out of the reach of the assassins would likely follow. Lehnsherr will have spies in and around Normandy, and now that they've come to an agreement would likely read Raven’s flight as a sign of Charles' treachery—that he was moving his children to safety before striking back. He's not sure that he fully trusts Lehnsherr's promise, but fleeing again now is the surest way to get them all killed. Thus: the letter. Phrased tersely, it instructs Raven to remain in place. It's not exactly treason, but taken in the wrong hands, it could easily, perhaps willfully, be misunderstood, and so demands utmost secrecy.

Charles reaches into the folds of his tunic and draws out Sebastian’s seal, which also he presses into Alex’s hands. Since he couldn’t risk signing it, the letter will require another form of authentication.

"Hold this separate and send it with the letter,” he instructs.  “If anyone sees it before then, tell them it is for the guards at my chamber, to allow passage. Can you do that?”

“Yes, sir.”  The look in Alex’s eyes, which resolves from uncertainty into determination, affirms for Charles that Logan suggested the right man. “I will guard it with my life.” 

This most important task secured, Charles takes a moment to consider something else. 

“Alex,” he says, hesitating only slightly, “what happened to the commander?”

There’s a reluctant pause, as the other almost squirms under his gaze.

“They were provoking him....saying things about you, Your Highness, about your character.” He looks embarrassed and this, if anything, confirms Charles’ suspicion that Alex is a new recruit. Embarrassment and shyness don’t last long in the company of warriors. 

Charles looks back at him expectantly, silently prompting him to continue.

 “That is...about you and Lehnsherr...and the things you might be getting up to...together…” 

Ah. 

While Alex hadn’t managed to finish the sentence, the redness in his cheeks makes his meaning unmistakable.

Even knowing the tenor of what was most likely said, Charles is too weary to bother to muster up embarrassment or indignation. Especially not when it’s so close to the truth. 

“I see,” he says, realizing he has one important task left to fulfill. And then: “Don't forget your commission. Lives beyond mine rest in your hands.”

Once Alex gives his solemn confirmation, Charles rises and makes his way to the front of the tent; waits until he has the group’s attention. 

“I thank you all for your service and loyalty,” he begins, pitching his voice to carry, so all of his men can hear. The faces of the hardened warriors looking back at him are defeated, set with grim expectation in place of hope. The fact that he’s addressing them at all is indicative of how far they’ve fallen. When the battles were still raging their orders were conducted through Logan, a matter of practicality that also allowed those of them (of whom he’s sure there are many, even here among Logan’s chosen) who respected him only as Shaw’s consort the pretense that Charles was not in charge. 

“I’m working to secure your release, but in the meantime, I’m sure you all want to know where things stand.” He swallows, clears his throat. “An accord has been reached. Erik Lehnsherr has promised to honour the treaty and guarantee the lives of the citizens. Your families should be safe.” He hesitates on the final words, not quite wanting to speak them into being; as though this moment, insignificant though it is, marks the point of no return. “And to seal the bargain...I am to marry him.” 

The news should be comforting. The marriage will afford the Saxons another layer of protection; much more than they had before. And yet there’s much resentment towards the Danes over the violence they have wrought, the Saxon lives they’ve taken, and the air is clouded with mixed feelings. This union, advantageous though it may prove to be, forever ties the Saxons to their enemies in the final sign of their defeat. 

While Charles surveys the assembled men, there’s one area of the tent he can’t bring himself to look, to the one man who won’t find much comfort in the knowledge that any outrages done onto Charles will be overwritten, any stains on his honour restored by marriage. He doesn’t want to meet Logan’s gaze, for fear of what he’ll find there. Anger, maybe. Accusation; pity. Or perhaps, most painful of all, the loss of something that never could have been. 

The fabric near the tent opening flutters again, this time with more impatience. Somewhat relieved at the chance to duck out from under those eyes, both seen and unseen, he moves back through the flap to scold his overhasty guard.

“Yes, what is it?” he demands, falling back on imperious, “I told you--” ...I’d be a few minutes. The words die in his throat as he almost bumps into the man waiting outside the tent. 

It’s not one of his minders. For a split second he entertains the absurd notion that he’s nearly walked into a bear; until he looks up and realizes it’s a large man wearing a bear cloak, the man’s barrel chest before him covered in the cloak’s thick fur. His gaze travels further up to a heavy brow, banded by widows’ peaks. Masses of unkempt hair sprout from the man’s head, separated only by several braids, dotted throughout, which are threaded with what seem to be teeth. It takes him a moment, overwhelmed by the man’s presence, to realize he’s seen him before. This morning, talking to Lehnsherr. Angry. 

“Your Highness.”

The title on the bear-man’s lips is not sardonic like it is on Lehnsherr’s, or histrionically obsequious like Azazel’s. Nor skittish as on Alex’s. But hard, flat, and raw, as though he’s chewing the words and spitting them out. While preserving the physical distance between them, he looks Charles over in a way that feels as intimate and violating as unwanted touch.

“Lehnsherr may be willing to forgive,” the man says, “he’s long scorned our ways. But I know it was you who robbed us of our rightful spoils.” 

Spoils. The word sends a chill up Charles’ spine, knowing he’s not talking of treasured objects.

“You’re a pretty little bitch, aren’t you?” the man continues. Despite vitriol of the words, he maintains an impassive, solemn countenance, his expression fixed except for his mouth, which now twists up into a sneer. “Pretty enough that he spared you. But if I were Lehnsherr I would have stuck my cock in you and gutted you while I was still inside you. Then fucked you until your screams died away.”

The afternoon light barely reaches the shaded side of the tent, and darkens farther in the man’s gaze, seeming almost to vanish into it. His yellow eyes glitter, burning like the dense centres of coals in a brazier. And swallowing all the light.

…

..

.

----

And 5000 years later, here’s an update. Hopefully the next one will not be so long.

To anyone still hanging around, thanks so much for reading and for putting up with my shameless misappropriation of history for personal edification!  Apparently this fic now has shades of Xavierine, which is akasanata and gerec’s fault!

[brawlingdiscontent]

Fic tag thingy

rules are: post the last line you wrote, and then tag as many people as there are words in the line.

Tagged by @gerec, @akasanata and @widgenstain   Thank you!

“You seem to have me at a disadvantage.”

Not particularly exciting, I know, but this is Charles in the viking au meeting a new character that I am really excited about and did an excessive amount of research for.

tagging: I’m pretty sure that most people I follow who write fic have already been tagged, so YOU if you’re reading this and want to do it!

[brawlingdiscontent]

the men of metal, menacing with golden face, 1/?

a.k.a sequel to terrible with the brightness of gold (ao3 link, for those who’ve just read on tumblr, the ao3 is the most up-to-date version)

(part two) (part three)

(cherik fic, viking au, subtle a/b/o)

“For who could look upon the lions of the foe, terrible with the brightness of gold, who upon the men of metal, menacing with golden face, … who upon the bulls on the ships threatening death, their horns shining with gold, without feeling any fear for the king of such a force?”

-- Encomium Emmae Reginae

----

He’s a child again, in the long, lonely halls of Normandy. The vaulted ceiling stretches above him into the darkness, the passageway illuminated only by the solitary torch he carries. The light is fairly strong, but the halls so vast that its beam doesn’t come close to revealing the top of the arch. Everyone else is asleep. As he walks the corridors he runs his hand reverently along the exquisite tapestries, painstakingly embroidered over thousands of hours. 

He holds the torch close--but not too close--as his fingers trace the knot whorl of an eye, widening in surprise as the accompanying warrior sees the spear that marks his death. Here on the cloth his death will remain forever suspended, held betwixt one world and the next. The weave is coarse beneath his finger pads. 

Further on, the linen panels reveal scores of horses mid-canter and the proud shapes of warships cutting through water, the cloth embroidered with fine woolen threads that fix these images of battles and glory. The teams of needleworkers who stitched the fabric with such care have been denied the pleasure their labour has sown--the tapestries hung here where few will see them--and yet their presence still haunts the works. The fineness of the work, the intricate level of detail, and the quality of the images, become, in the still darkness, his own private treasures.

At this time of night the hush of the halls feels like the quiet of a tomb.

Sometimes when Charles walks the halls, he will at length return to his little chamber to await the cold light of dawn, warmed by the sights he’s seen. 

But other times he’ll sit at the foot of a tapestry, tracing a thread of silver as it weaves through the couching in the laid work. Picking it out, as though it was the thread of fate weaving through the tapestry of his life. Until at last he sleeps.

….

The morning light filters in through the planiner threads of the canvas tent above him. As he awakens, Charles senses he’s alone. The light is quite high: he’s slept very late. His body must have been trying to catch up on months of stress and lost sleep.

He looks around the tent and confirms that Lehnsherr is nowhere in sight. The tent seems largely unaltered from the previous night, but for a wooden plate on the small table, bearing food presumably left for him. 

As awareness returns to his senses and marshals his limbs, noises of the camp, of the morning business, filter in from the outside. His mind already has the pictures, the smells, to accompany the sounds. He’d experienced them only yesterday, as he was brought through to this very tent. To the corner chair where he sat, awaiting judgement. In some ways, it feels like it’s still the same day, the moment stretching endlessly on in time, suspended like the tapestry soldier’s death. And yet how much now is different. 

Even with the morning’s surrealness, the many unanswered questions, and with his children half a world away; there’s no siege, no imminent danger, and he feels enlivened, lighter than he has for quite some time. It’s as though his features had been cast in silver, cold and immutable like one of Sebastian's fine chalices, and had suddenly been freed. 

Despite everything, he realizes, he hadn't really believed that he’d get to this point. This moment where there is an ‘after.’  No matter how he’d planned and scrabbled--all those months ago, the thought of to find himself in such a position, with his people relatively safe, his children’s futures assured, was ultimately unthinkable, unreachable. 

And now he’s left with what to do next. With the future that stretches before him in the form of Lehnsherr.

Rather than dwell on this and let it threaten his burgeoning good mood, he gets up in favour of getting the lay of the camp, finding out what’s going on.

Ignoring his rumbling stomach, he pulls on his boots--the only article he’d taken off last night, and only then when he was sure that Lehnsherr was asleep--and checks for their faithful knife, before flipping open the tent flap to move out into the light.

A pair of crossed pikes block his path, wielded by two men standing firm and unyielding in front of the entryway. 

His first reaction is that of sheer confusion; it takes him a moment to register what he’s seeing.

He recovers quickly. “What’s the meaning of this?” 

The guards--for that is undoubtedly what they are--are Danes. The man on his left has a braided beard and a rather formidable scar running in a jagged slash down the front of his face. His companion on the right looks younger, less severe, perhaps more workable. 

The older one turns to him, keeping his pike fixed in place, and offers just a one-word response:  "Stay."

“On whose orders do you detain me?” he demands, but even as he says it, he knows the answer well enough. The older man spares him another glance, but doesn’t deign to utter even a further syllable, before turning away once again.

Charles swallows down the indignation that swiftly rises and tries another tack. “If you won’t let me pass, I need to get a message through to one of my men. It’s rather urgent.” 

No response this time. They either don’t speak Saxon or--the more suspicious part of his mind offers--pretend not to. 

Just outside, at the tent opposite, a woman is beating clothes with a washing bat, a basin at her side. She eyes him sharply, with suspicion, and the appeal Charles is considering making to her dries up in his throat. 

He told Lehnsherr that he wouldn’t be a prisoner.

Bastard. 

With a final glance between his guards, Charles retreats back into the tent, fuming.

The satisfying thwack of a boot hitting the tent wall only marginally improves his mood. 

Eventually he sits. 

He told the man he wouldn’t be a prisoner...and yet he’d also promised his compliance. 

Closing his eyes, it's easy to call up his citadel. When Boethius had referred to the mind as a fortress within which to take refuge from life’s cares in philosophy's consoling grip, he likely hadn’t thought of it so literally. But crude though the construct is, it helps him to concentrate. His imagined inner citadel looks like the halls of home, the most familiar sight of his sequestered childhood. Never in doubt of him finding a good match, his distant parents had allowed Charles to dedicate his time to scholarly pursuits, so long as they were conducted in the relative isolation that would preserve his value as a spouse. 

The canon of Boethius is in its usual spot. Unlike the patchy scrolls that made up his meagre collection in Londres--now buried with the state documents to preserve them from marauding forces--the shelves of his mind are full, bursting with manuscripts. The Consolation of Philosophy is housed in an illuminated volume: so valuable it’s chained to the plinth it rests on, just as its contents are fixed firmly in his memory. 

He leans over to study the page on which it’s opened:

“Thou hast resigned thyself to the sway of Fortune; thou must submit to thy mistress's caprices. What! art thou verily striving to stay the swing of the revolving wheel? Oh, stupidest of mortals, if it takes to standing still, it ceases to be the wheel of Fortune.”

Not helpful.

He tries to regroup his mental resources. The sum of it is, he’s realized how little he actually knows. In all the shelves replete with facts about Lehnsherr, there’s not a manuscript that’s not fluffed up with rumour, stuffed with paranoia, and pure ornamentation. It’s why he had been so unprepared for the turns of the previous day. He opens a volume and thinks--

What does he know concretely?

He knows that Lehnsherr needs him alive--at least until he produces an heir. 

Yet he's not sure he can sustain continued threats of offing himself, nor that that’s a viable way forward, with his children on the line. And yet this is the best possible position for them. 

He’ll need to write a letter. 

He knows that Lehnsherr cannot be so secure in his own power, that needs the security their marriage will grant him. 

And, a voice at the back of his head wonders: is this what Lehnsherr envisions their marriage looking like? Imprisonment in all but name? “Yet what rights can one exercise over another, save only as regards the body? What! wilt thou bind with thy mandates the free spirit? Canst thou force from its due tranquillity the mind that is firmly composed by reason?” Boethius supplies.

He knows that Lehnsherr wants sex--

His mind jumps to last night, to the crush of the other’s lips against his--how he’ll have to find a way to deal with his and Lehnsherr’s unexpected...compatibility. To plan what he will do when Lehnsherr comes to assert his spousal prerogative. He cannot allow himself to be distracted, or worse, show weakness, let Lehnsherr see how he’s affected--

Unproductive. He closes the book. Maybe it’s time for a new tactic.

Opening his eyes, he takes the wooden trencher and picks up the dry, flat mass left to him--some kind of bread. It’s less than appetizing; clearly the keep’s stores haven’t yet made it over to the camp. He eats it regardless, not one to waste food, as his mind turns to other points of consideration. 

Children.

He’s promised Lehnsherr an heir, and the man may possibly want more. He can’t be sure yet what kind of sire Lehnsherr will be. If it is the kind that Sebastian was, how can Charles possibly protect this child? And yet he doesn’t think he can do what would be easiest: wall off his feelings and abandon them to their fate, trading one child for his two others.

And then before he can help himself his mind slips from children to the getting  of children. Marital relations. Sebastian had never seemed to care much whether or not he enjoyed it. He’s not sure that Lehnsherr had either, but the problem is that, regardless, he had. His cheeks heat at the memory and he quashes down that line of thinking, only noting that he should delay their marriage as much as possible until he is able to figure it out, before he should be so vulnerable again--experience such loss of control--

Right. Time to move on. 

He launches himself into the task of turning over the tent. 

It doesn’t take long, sparsely furnished as it is. The whole time he keeps one ear open, lest his keepers get suspicious. Lehnsherr’s battle gear has vanished--presumably back on its owner’s body. And thus, he almost immediately zeroes in on the main object of interest. Tucked away and out of sight between the fur pile--which he skirts strategically, stooping first to rescue his fallen circlet from the corner--and the tent wall. 

It’s a beautifully carved casket, made of oak. The craftsmanship is breathtaking. The box’s top and its two ends are covered with thin, carved sheets of walrus ivory, clasped by gilt-bronze bands. The ivory panels are skillfully decorated with stylized birds and animals, all caught up in the great convolutions of the tendrils and leaf-like interlace.

He carefully pries up the bronze clasp, relieved to find that it’s not locked as it eases open. 

His eyes are drawn first to a ring of amber inside, with fine details carved into its flat top. He picks it up to examine it. They look like characters, but in what language Charles cannot say. Certainly it’s not Saxon, Norman, or Latin. He’s less familiar with the Danish script, but something tells him that this isn’t it, either. It's short, if it’s script, a couple of words at most. 

Intrigued, he nevertheless puts the ring aside and searches beneath it until he finds what he’s looking for: a short piece of semi-translucent vellum, beside some red sealing wax and stylus.

He finds ink in a thick, green vial with a cork stopper--it must be glass. Marvellous. He’s not seen it used for this purpose before--it makes the ink fully transportable. His mind quickly offers up possibilities for its existence--Viking trade routes into the far east? -- and he makes a mental note to investigate later. First the letter.

He words it briefly, keeping the sentences short, to the point, yet ambiguous. He doesn’t seal it. Even if he had a flame to melt the wax, it’s far too dangerous. If it were discovered the coded message would be instantly traced directly back to him by the seal, which could only end in disaster…

He’s just finishing up when he notes that the noise outside doesn’t match the usual rhythms of the camp. 

He turns, and has just enough time to shove the newly-penned letter up his sleeve--who knows whether the ink has had time to set--to find the tent filling with strange men. 

One man brushes past him to grab the very same casket he’s just stolen from--and Charles is grateful that he’d hurriedly shut the lid, and hopes he closed up the ink properly.

Another man--the young guard from outside--gestures him forward roughly towards the entrance to the tent, and he can do nothing but acquiesce to the rude summons, walking out into the light.

---

Note: I’m back!! Thanks to all of you who have supported me with likes and kudos and asks and comments and emphatic tags!! It’s because of you that this one-shot is continuing! I love you all!! I hope to update biweekly, but we’ll see, and have at least one more arc planned after this one.

[brawlingdiscontent]

ahhhhh the latest update to viking au has just KILLED ME! i'm relishing how everything is developing, and i'm super eager to see who charles's new enemy is, and how he'll deal with him!! thank you for the update!!!

Thank you so much, friend!! I’m so glad you’re enjoying it!!

[brawlingdiscontent]

terrible with the brightness of gold, 6/6

(cherik fic, viking au, subtle a/b/o)

(part 1 here, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5)

Thanks so much for your patience, everyone! I’m not dead!! Here’s the last part for this section.

Warning in this part for discussion of child murder, some dub con elements, and threats of self harm.  

----------

Throughout the rest of dinner, Charles is left alone to process what has just happened and what it means for him. On the edges of his awareness, a rowdy song rings through the hall and inebriated Vikings toast their victory.

It’s clear from Lehnsherr’s announcement that he plans to make England his base and home, even if he intends to continue his conquering outwards. It’s an unprecedented move and Charles can’t begin to account for it; but, regardless of the cause, he must readjust his plans for these new circumstances.

Around him the torches burn low once more, and this time aren’t replaced. The drunken singing and reveling tapers off and the hall slowly begins to empty of its occupants.

“Come.”

Charles looks up to find Lehnsherr’s hand filling his field of vision, once again extended towards him. It seems that most of their interactions thus far have consisted of the other commanding him about.

He ignores the gesture, and stands on his own, figuring his rudeness can this once be excused.

As they leave the hall, Charles following behind Lehnsherr, he doesn’t make eye contact with any of its denizens. He doesn’t want to know what he will find in their gazes.

Fortunately most of the remaining men are too drunk to take notice of them.

To his surprise, rather than heading back to the keep he finds himself being led towards the city gates. Lehnsherr, then, is not setting up in the palace, at least not yet. He wonders if this is a decision moved by habit or a sign of lingering mistrust: the keep, while secure, could well be breached from within the city.

At least he gets his own horse this time.

The moon is bright, and its light is enough to guide their way back to the camp.

They are alone, and for a split second Charles thinks of running. He could turn his horse around, break off in another direction. He’s a good rider, and it would take him only a few minutes to reach the woods: a terrain with which he is familiar and Lehnsherr and his men are not. But it’s just a fleeting thought. What keeps him here is not Viking force, but his loyalty to his people, his sense of duty, and the mission he has yet to accomplish.

He re-adjusts his grip on the reins and moves on.

He pays little attention to his surroundings as he rides. Horses’ eyes are keen and can see well in the dark; he trusts his mount to carry him safely. Instead, Charles considers the fact that he is once again facing marriage to a stranger.

He’s survived it once, and he can do it again. He and his husband of fourteen years had never been particularly fond of each other, but all things considered Sebastian hadn't treated him badly. He was never overly cruel (to Charles, at least). The Black King had recognized in him an asset; a keen mind, an aptitude for statecraft, and had taken care to shape his young spouse accordingly, treating him as well as any useful object.

They had had what might be called a workable relationship--and perhaps in time something like that could be crafted again. But right now, that’s of little importance. Right now all that matters is how this new development can help him to complete his mission: namely that Lehnsherr has inadvertently given Charles a position of strength from which to bargain.

The camp is still bustling but slowing down when they arrive back. Charles dismounts and hands his reigns over to a figure in the waiting party--a boy, perhaps a page of some sort. He looks very young to be a part of a Viking war party, and Charles feels a pang of sympathy.  

As Lehnsherr leads the way back through the camp, they are flanked by several men. Some carry torches, others seem to be reporting back to Lehnsherr, exchanging tidbits of information in low tones. Occasionally he sees them look over to him, a half-step behind, with curious glances.

They weren’t at the banquet, of course. They wouldn’t yet know.

They weave through the tents and presently stop outside what Charles is surprised to recognize as the tent from this morning. It was so plain, unlived-in that he would never have imagined it belonged to Lehnsherr--though maybe if he had he might have seen some of this coming. 

Lehnsherr detaches the heavy train of his cloak, sweeping it off his shoulders and handing it over to an attendant. He’s giving instructions to someone else, but Charles doesn’t really pay attention. He doesn’t speak Danish, anyway.

At last they begin to disperse, exchanging a short phrase that could be ‘good night’. Lehnsherr lifts the tent flap and gestures for Charles to walk in ahead of him. He goes.

After the evening’s events, this at least is not unexpected. There are all sorts of reasons for Lehnsherr to want to bed him: to bind their engagement, to stake his claim in the eyes of his men—plus the fact that Lehnsherr has been fighting without omega company for quite some time. He imagines it’s been many nights since the man had someone to warm his bed. And Norsemen have a more relaxed approach to the vows of marriage, not requiring them in order to sanctify their conduct.

“I’ve no intention of hurting you,” Lehnsherr says shortly and gruffly, perhaps misattributing Charles’ silence to fear. “We Danes respect our spouses.” He's already started stripping off his battle layers. Putting aside the thick, leather gambeson, unlacing his vambraces. Someone has left several candles burning, bathing the tent in a gentle glow.

It is this ridiculous assertion that finally pulls Charles out of his stupor.

“Oh really?” he huffs, “Do you respect them enough to ask their consent to marry them?”

Lehnsherr’s head snaps back towards him—perhaps surprised by this spark of energy after his relative docility since dinner.

He levels Charles with a measured gaze before responding. “There wasn't enough time to consult you, and there seemed little point, knowing you could hardly refuse.” He leaves the final part unsaid; that their last interaction hadn’t left him in the mood to confer. He goes back to tending to his garments, folding them and piling them neatly, and finally, unbuckling his sword and laying it to the side.

“So which am I, then? Your prisoner or your spouse? As I assure you, I won’t be both.”

Lehnsherr huffs a laugh as he turns back to Charles, now wearing just a light tunic. “You’re quick, I’ll give you that.”

And then those hands are on him, grasping Charles and pulling him in closer to capture his mouth in a kiss—

Charles firmly pushes him back. Straight to it, then. “You’ve still not answered my question, Your Grace.”

Rather than reply, Lehnsherr crowds forward once more, the corners of his mouth curling up into a smirk, carrying this interaction with an infuriating air of humour. As though Charles poses no threat. Charles backs away as Lehnsherr advances. His foot seems to catch on the edge of the piled furs that make up the sleeping place, and he stumbles, falling back onto their cushioned surface.

With a hungry look, Lehnsherr prowls over him.

And then he freezes.

“Not a sound to your men,” Charles quietly directs, his boot knife resting lightly across the back of the other man’s neck, his heart beating wildly.

The sharp edge of the blade has fixed them close together, their breath mingling and sharing the same space.

“You would attempt to kill me in a camp surrounded by my own men?” Lehnsherr’s voice is threaded with amusement, but he’s being carefully still, the bite of the knife discouraging him from taking any action.

“Perhaps I would. Perhaps my only goal is your death, consequences be damned.”

“Then I would already be dead and we wouldn't be talking. No.” appraising eyes sweep over his face, intent. “You’re too clever for that.”

Charles pushes down the flush of pleasure at the rarity having his intelligence recognized as vastly inappropriate. Besides, the other didn’t intend it as a compliment, merely an observation—and he is perfectly right. Even if Charles managed to kill Lehnsherr, the guards outside could quickly gut him, and then would feel free to exact a bloody retribution on the city and all of its inhabitants, something that Charles has already shown his unwillingness to risk.  

He craves the clarity of distance.

“Very well, then; how about this? You want me as your consort to legitimize your claim to the throne of England.” He says it as statement but there’s an element of question in it that is resolved when Lehnsherr doesn't blink nor challenge his words. Feeling some satisfaction at his powers of assessment, he continues: “I will play along, provide you with an English heir, even, but first you must give me what I want.”

“And what might that be?” Lehnsherr asks indulgently

“My children. You must promise to spare their lives.” 

He wishes they were further apart for this conversation, not pressed close in a parody of intimacy. Rather than the proximity of their bodies, he focuses on the other’s eyes, trying to discern Lehnsherr’s thoughts from his gaze.

“What makes you think they're in any danger?”

Lehnsherr’s trying to rile him. “They’re the last legitimate heirs to the throne, thus their claims far exceed your own. I understand your situation: in order to stabilize your own position, you’ll seek eliminate any threats, and I’m not naïve enough to assume our union will protect them.”

The other’s face takes on a thoughtful, more serious expression than his earlier amusement.  

“Say that I do have plans to harm your children. What might induce me to spare them? As the greatest threats to my rule, surely it’s in my best interests to remove them.”

Charles senses this is more an intellectual exercise than a direct threat--at least for the moment--but just hearing the words inflames him. The knife digs in just a little more, drawing a hiss from Lehnsherr.

“They’re children. They have no plots or schemes, no interest in ruling anything. I’ve already sent them to Normandy, as no doubt your spies have informed you. They will stay there, you have my word, far from here and no threat to you, as long as you give me yours that you will not send assassins after them.”

“So I let Shaw’s vipers wriggle free? To sting another day.” His face is impassive, but there’s a new intensity underlying Lehnsherr’s words. The difference on the surface is barely perceptible, but Charles senses that he is betraying a depth of feeling long hidden.

“My children are not vipers! I protected them from that. Why would I encourage ambition in them when, so far down the line of succession, it would only get them killed? Sebastian saw little reason to shape them to his will, the spare children of his political second marriage. I remained useful to him, and he left them alone. It was our agreement. Of course he could never have imagined that in just a few months of battle you would slaughter all of their siblings.” Or that Charles would be here, lying in bed with their killer. “Would you have the blood of innocents on your hands? Even if they had inherited the predation of their sire, they care for me deeply. They would never attack here if they thought it might endanger my life. Wasn’t that in your thoughts when you arranged this marriage? Besides, I would hate to think that a warrior of your supposed might is afraid of a couple of children.”

This last dig, a transparent attempt to goad the other man, draws a hint of a smile to his now mollified lips.

“Well, your Highness, even if I were willing to concede to your wishes, tell me, what reason do I have to do so? You have no leverage when my death would bring you nothing.”  He leans back just a bit more as though to emphasize his point, pushing his throat a little further into the blade.

“That’s where you’re wrong.”

Lehnsherr’s eyebrows raise. “Then, please, enlighten me.” His flippancy and distraction creates Charles’ advantage. He puts sudden pressure on Lehnsherr’s throat and rolls them, turning until their positions are reversed, and he straddles Lehnsherr. He lets the other’s faint look of surprise fuel his next words.

“I suppose you imagined that I would quietly acquiesce to your plans, for fear of you, or for the privilege of remaining royal consort---or perhaps because I’m simply too meek and too pliable to do otherwise. But I would do anything for my children. Even die.”

Perfectly calm now, he pulls the knife back from Lehnsherr’s throat and moves it to his own, pressing down against the skin. The other’s eyes widen slightly, revealing, for the first time that evening, a hint of uncertainty.

Lehnsherr tries to sit up, pushing himself up on his hands. Charles holds out his other hand in a stalling gesture and presses the knife further into his own throat. A bead of blood wells up where they meet, the sting of it sharpening his thoughts.

“Stop.”

There’s not force behind the word, and yet Lehnsherr lowers himself back down.

One corner of Charles’ mouth twists up in a grim smile.

“As you've so astutely pointed out, I’m not a fool— and you’ve revealed a vulnerability in your plan. You need me to legitimize your claim on England. But it would be only too easy to turn this knife on myself. And how would that look?—Erik the Conqueror ruthlessly murders the defenceless omega consort of his dead rival—or, better still, his own consort (thank you for that). With the span of your kingdom, you can’t afford the resulting upset; your men can’t be everywhere. Not to mention that my family in Normandy would hear of my death and feel obligated to seek vengeance against the perpetrator.”

Lehnsherr is watching him avidly, now, his eyes bright with something unnamable.

“So the way I see it you have two options: spare the lives of my children and gain a compliant, strategically advantageous spouse; or refuse my bargain and live with the consequences.”

The warlord seems to consider his words.

“Done.”

“Done?” For all that he has been angling for this outcome, it feels unreal to hear it spoken aloud.

“I agree to your terms, Charles of Normandy.”

The wave of emotion that flows through him is strong—but Charles has the presence of mind to stutter-- “Swear it.” -- before he lets it carry him away.

“I swear to you on my sister’s grave that in exchange for your cooperation your children will come to no harm from me--nor anyone in my service.”

Charies’ eyes flicker over his face, searching for signs of veracity, sincerity; and Lehnsherr returns the gaze in an in entirely different mood, expression rapt, a bright, almost eager look in his eyes.

Charles finds no signs of deception and in the resulting wave of relief, relaxes his arm marginally--and Lehnsherr presses this advantage.

He grabs Charles’ wrist, pries knife from his grasp and tosses it to the side. In one fluid motion he flips them back over, pushes Charles back into the furs and leans forward to take his mouth in a kiss.

Lehnsherr kisses him roughly, like a man used to taking what he wants; but there's another layer underneath, a tenderness that undoes him. It sends hot streaks of want slithering up his spine. He grabs at Lehnsherr’s shoulders, shocked, torn between pulling him closer and pushing him away.

For a brief moment, Charles lets himself reciprocate, gives in to his surprising desire. He breaks from his paralysis and returns the kiss, pushing back against Lehnsherr and matching his fervour.

And then, using surprise to his benefit, he pushes up one of his knees and shoves Lehnsherr off of him with all of his strength.

While Lehnsherr is momentarily stunned, collapsed on his side and fallen off the edge of the furs, he snatches up his knife from the ground, grabs a thick blanket from the pile, and removes himself to the farthest corner of the tent.

“We’ll wait until we’re married,” he says. 

The words suggest a firmness that doesn’t quite make it to his voice, as he tries to ignore his racing pulse, hide how he’s affected.

When no response is forthcoming, he looks back over to Lehnsherr and finds him still stunned, looking vaguely winded. And then he can’t help it--a laugh bubbles up out of him, borne of relief and vaguely hysterical. Perhaps his thrusting knee had brushed some sensitive areas.

“Glad we could come to an agreement.”

He half-expects Lehnsherr to come after him, like a brute; but when the other finally moves it is just to blow out the candles, plunging the tent into darkness.

When Charles works up the courage to look back over, he sees that Lehnsherr has turned away to face the tent wall, seemingly committed to sleep.

He can hardly believe it. 

He has done it all, rescued his people, preserved the lives of his children. Everything that haunted his nightmares, that had kept him awake for days on end, has been resolved. 

He breathes out. 

And then, in a tent in the middle of the Viking camp, surrounded by his enemies on all sides, he at last falls into a deep and dreamless sleep.

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

Thanks all for following! This fic started with just two images: Charles waiting on a beach, and threatening Erik with a knife in bed. I was inspired by the story of the 11th century King Cnut and Emma of Normandy.

After the death of her husband King Aethelred, Emma (his second wife) held a besieged London for months alone against the Danes. Less than a year after the city was surrendered to Cnut, they were married. There has been much speculation around the fact that, despite the custom of the time, and Cnut’s swift execution of other potential claimants to the throne, Emma’s two children from her first marriage were not killed but survived in exile.

I think my next step is editing this part bit more until I’m somewhat satisfied and uploading it to ao3, and then I may develop more in this series. I have some ideas of what to cover, for one, this fic didn’t really have time for Erik’s backstory/motivations, but let me know if there’s something that you’d like to see. :)

Thank you all for your amazing support and encouragement!!

[brawlingdiscontent]

terrible with the brightness of gold 5/6

(cherik fic, viking au, subtle a/b/o)

(part 1 here, part 2, part 3, part 4)

(part 6)

Thanks for your patience, everyone. In the midst of this tumblr clusterf*ck, here it is, the longest update yet! (although still short by most people’s standards)

Thanks for reading! I get so much joy out of your tags, replies, and asks -- and I just figured out tag crawler, so that I can now go back and view all the tags at once!

Warning in this part for minor character death, violence, and brief mentions of non con.

The ‘apartment’ he is brought to turns out to be his and Sebastian’s bedchamber in the keep. It’s a sensible move: it's one of the few private chambers and is heavily defensible--whether for keeping others out or securing those within. Lehnsherr’s men shut Charles in and stand outside.

He's somewhat disgruntled, but knows he could have come away from that altercation much worse.

Though that doesn't mean that it's over.

Alone in the room, he has nothing to do but to speculate what Lehnsherr will do with him now. He’d been angry to find the townspeople gone; will he and his men return to extract their whereabouts via torture? Or might he go the simpler route and just kill Charles for his insubordination? Maybe not--he still has some value, after all. Perhaps imprisonment awaits him, instead. Locked away somewhere far less pleasant than this room, cold and forgotten, until sickness or disease overcomes him: his family, of course, will never pay the ransom.

He turns, seeking a distraction.

The night before he'd stripped the chamber of his few personal effects, to prevent them from being mishandled by the invaders. His attention catches on the room’s lone window, high and small. From it, he can see the courtyard, overrun with the Danish army, already hard at work repossessing the Saxon keep. The sky is still light, but above them he can just make out the pale glimmer of the moon.

Much sooner than he expects, he hears muffled voices in the passageway.

The sun had set the hour before, leaving him in the dark. When the doors open, light spills in from the passageway to reveal Azazel standing on the other side.

He’s surprisingly relieved to see him. The devil you know, perhaps.

“Your Highness,” the man proclaims, “I have come to take you to dinner.”

That is...not what he’d expected. As he steps out of the room, he studies the other man’s face for clues as to where this might be headed.

The flickering tapers in the passageway cast a mix of shadow and light across his face. Lehnsherr’s general offers only an ambiguous and mischievous grin.

There is a strange horror in returning to the great hall, in being surrounded by foreign warriors where he had less than a day before been sole master. Lehnsherr is seated on the raised platform at the front, surrounded by cronies, and every bit the conquering hero.

The torches burn brightly in their sconces, throwing dancing shadows on the walls. Wisps of smoke drift up to the high ceiling and kiss the beams of the roof. Fresh rush mats have been laid on the flagstones, and the place is packed with warriors. The hall hasn't seen an event like this for quite some time.

When they arrive the meal is already underway and dozens of pairs of eyes follow his progress up to the high table.

As Charles and Azazel approach, the King--for that is undoubtedly who he is in this space, assuming the ruler's place with assurance--looks up to greet them.

“Ah, Your Highness, good of you to come.”

Charles ignores what can’t be anything but a deliberate provocation. He's too wary, anyway, to take offense.

“I am at your Grace’s disposal.”

Lehnsherr gestures to the bench beside him, guiding him to sit, and Charles complies, examining his growing disquiet.

His purpose has already been discharged—the surrender of the city—and he had expected now to be tucked away out of sight and out of trouble, not sitting back at his banquet table in the place of honour.

Something is not right.

Amongst the raiders, squeezed in and looking uncomfortable, Charles notices several prominent Saxon lords. The coinmaster, the Lord Brycgstow, the Thegn of Lindon. All men had been trusted members of Sebastian’s council.

What is Lehnsherr planning?

Does he intend to punish Charles here for their earlier disagreement? Something public, in front of his men; the Saxon lords to bear witness. Perhaps a flogging. Or a more brutal humiliation, of a nature of which the mere speculation makes him sick.

He surreptitiously feels for his boot knife, for all the good it will do him should any of these men try to touch him.

Lehnsherr apparently notices his paralysis. 

“Eat. You must be hungry.”

“Kind of you to offer me the fruits of my own cellars,” Charles snaps, tense in his unease. He immediately catches his mistake, and averts his eyes down and away. “Forgive me. I’m unused to being a guest in this hall.”

Lehnsherr does not reply, but after a moment nods his head curtly, accepting this response.

As Lehnsherr turns away to converse with the man on his other side--sour-looking, with a high forehead and a sharp, aquiline nose--Charles focuses his attention on the plate that someone has placed before him. He may as well eat to preserve his strength. He’d consumed nothing since the hard bread that had been offered to him in the Viking camp hours before.

He takes some comfort from the variety of attendants in the hall, many ostensibly out of place: stable hands and tradespeople who’ve stepped in to fill the gaps for the absent women and omegas. A reminder that not all is lost, whatever comes.

Then commotion breaks out in the hall.

The far doors crash open and two of Lehnsherr’s men enter, dragging a struggling figure between them.

Rows of heads turn to follow as the man is pulled up the aisle. Lehnsherr rises and walks around the front of the high table to meet them. Charles rises too, in shock and alarm.

Pushed to the ground on his knees before the high table is Cain.

“Do you know this man, your Highness?”

“Yes. My late husband’s nephew.” The words tumble from his mouth almost involuntarily. He feels the weight of the hall’s eyes upon him, watching the situation with interest.

“His name?”

“Marko. Cain Marko.”

The commander turns back to his men. “His crime?”

“We caught him trying to leave the city with this,” reports a strong-looking woman with dark skin. Her companion, a gruff man with a tattooed forehead, proffers a large burlap sack, which at a gesture from his commander is tossed to the ground in front of the table with a clink.

Lehnsherr steps down from the platform and nudges it with his boot, and the back spills open to reveal countless gold objects and coins.

Charles’ fingers grip the table’s edge. Cain has stolen from the danegeld and broken the terms of surrender. Through this violation the invaders might see their surrender as incomplete--or pretend to--and retaliate.

“A thief. Well, we can’t have that.” Lehnsherr turns outwards, addressing the hall at large. His words call forth jeers from the Vikings filling the hall’s tables, and Charles is at once aware that every Viking warrior is armed.

Lehnsherr spreads his arms, and from his manner, Charles suddenly realizes that this has all been staged—not the fact that Cain was stealing, he has no doubt of that—but for such a man to be dragged out before them in the midst of the banquet. Lehnsherr had probably instructed his men to bring in the most important-looking criminal they could find from the streets. It’s just their luck that it’s the former King’s nephew. The only question remains: to what end? Is this example or incitement? A lesson for the Saxons or justification for mass murder?

“Master Marko, were you not aware that you were violating the terms of surrender?”

All bravado has been stripped from Cain's bulky frame, leaving a sniveling mass of flesh. “I didn’t—I wasn’t--I--”

Though Cain is his nephew by marriage, he’s several years Charles’ elder. When Charles first arrived--before he had hardened, learned to withstand and fight back--Cain had dedicated months to his torment.

“Was it not proclaimed in the streets, that none may touch the Danegeld?”

“There’s been a misunderstanding; I am completely innocent—“

“You have broken the terms of surrender, and that demands requital. Wouldn't you agree, your Highness?” Lehnsherr turns back towards him, and it’s then that Cain’s puffy eyes seem to catch sight of Charles. They immediately refocus on him, bright and beady, appealing for help.

“Yes. Of course,” he responds. If Lehnsherr is looking for an excuse to start massacre Cain, the fool, has just handed it to him. Charles can’t say a word in Cain’s defense.

“We are in agreement, then.”

Cain is blubbering now-- “My Lord, please—“

“—Your Grace” the other corrects sharply. “Bring a stabilizing block.”

A burly man hefts forward a large stump that seems to have been set aside for just this purpose, and Lehnsherr draws his sword. Charles’ knuckles turn white against the wood’s dark grain, now squeezing the edge of the table as if with enough pressure he could snap it free.

“Cain Marko, for your violation of the terms of surrender and your crime of theft against the Crown, I hereby sentence you to death.”

“Charles!” Cain cries out, “Charles, help me!”

He can do nothing, but Charles meets Cain’s eyes and vows not to look away from the strike of the blade.

It happens quickly--one minute Cain is blubbering, screaming as he’s pushed against the floor, his head on the block, and the next there’s a sickening squelch as his pleas abruptly halt.

A cheer breaks out as blood beads on the tip Lehnsherr’s sword and Cain’s head sits apart from his body.

A wave of nausea passes through Charles and, for the first time, with this evidence of Lehnsherr’s ruthlessness, he fully realizes the danger of his situation. Just what he was provoking with their argument this afternoon and how badly it could have gone. How badly it could still go.

As Lehnsherr gestures to some men to remove the body, anticipation settles thickly over the hall. This is the decisive moment: will he be satisfied, or has this bloody action only whetted Lehnsherr’s appetite for more? --Certainly a bloodbath might provide an acceptable substitute to any of Lehnsherr’s men who felt they’d been earlier cheated of their sport.

The room is gripped with tension.  The sour-looking man on Lehnsherr’s far side grins at Charles, and all his teeth seem to have been sharpened to points.

“Enough unpleasantness,” Lehnsherr declares. “Please, everyone, return to your meals!”

He hands away his sword to be cleaned and Charles finally releases his grip on the table. For now at least, this appears to be the end of it.

The message is clear and decisive. Lehnsherr now rules the city, and any who oppose him will swiftly meet a similar fate.

Lehnsherr returns to his seat as men walk past the high table and out of the hall, carrying the head of Charles’ nephew. Presumably their destination is the row of spikes outside the Viking camp. Or perhaps a new set, here, outside the city.  As Charles slowly sits back on the bench, an image rises, unbidden--the heads of all the Saxon lords, Charles’ own head, spiked outside the city gates; flies buzzing where their eyes used to be.

The feast continues. As he struggles to finish his dinner, a shaken Charles can only be grateful that a massacre was not in Lehnsherr’s plan. He assesses his own upset. he’s not unused to the sight of violence--far from it--but removed from the battlefield, from the public execution space, when it’s a hall at home----perhaps he has grown soft in Sebastian’s absence.

He refrains from looking over to the place where the flagstones are stained with blood.

Lehnsherr seems content to ignore him.

Towards the end of the meal, when the torches have been changed twice over, Lehnsherr stands once again.

Addressing the hall, he begin a few words in Danish--a greeting, perhaps--before switching to Saxon: he wants the Saxons present to understand what comes next.

“Greetings, and my thanks to you all. Tonight we dine at the expense of our Saxon friends.” A rough cheer goes up, which he lets continue for a moment, before gesturing for silence. He seems more animated when giving this speech, less like the taciturn man Charles had met earlier in the day. Through this and his earlier ‘performance,’ Charles can see the makings of a statesman in Lehnsherr; though which side is the real man, Charles couldn’t say.

Lehnsherr continues.

“While our kingdoms have long been at war, the Saxon co-operation in this instance suggests that our years of enmity may now at last be at an end.”—and that’s not really fair at all, when this war was completely instigated by Lehnsherr and his fellow countrymen---centuries of ruthless raiding with England merely defending herself against the Danish invaders.

“In fact, I hope to mark that change of relations between our people sooner, rather than later,--”

A strange feeling of anticipation rises in Charles’ gut. He has the sense that this, whatever it is, is the true event they have been waiting for.

“--to usher in a new era of closeness between our two states.”

Lehnsherr pauses briefly, to look toward him.

“It is to that end that I now announce the union of our peoples---through my engagement to Charles, Consort of England.”

Charles glances sharply at him as Lehnsherr takes his hand and holds their joined hands up for his followers. The cheering of the Danes, their thumping on the tables fades to a dull roar in his ears as he struggles to maintain his neutral façade, and not to let the shock show though. In all his reasoning, all the lead up to now, he would never have expected…this.

But Lehnsherr is not finished his speech: “ I hope, in this, too, our Saxon allies will continue to be so accommodating.” His men roar with laughter at the unsubtle double entendre. “Through this union may we look forward to a fruitful future and many long years of peace, as Danish rule ushers in a new era of prosperity for Denmark and her sister, England.”

Charles’ head spins as he reorganizes his thoughts around this new information. All of the day’s events--Lehnsherr having Charles ride with him, getting him to identify Cain as the treaty-breaker--realign and suddenly take on a different meaning.

He hadn’t seen this coming. This is not the Danish pattern at all--they raid, sometimes conquer, and then move on, leaving a vassal lord where needed to collect taxes. Lehnsherr’s speech, this announcement, suggest permanence; that he means not only to conquer the Saxons, but to rule them, too.

As Lehnsherr sits back down amidst continued cheers, he pulls Charles forward by their still-linked hands, and leans in close:

“What was it you were saying earlier, your Highness?” He speaks in a low voice, and Charles can practically feel the vibrations from his chest. “That I should find some other way to amuse my men? Consider them entertained.”

Then he drops Charles’ hand and goes back to his meal.

Haha, don’t hate me!  Advance warning for some dub con elements (though NO non con) next chapter (which will be the last chapter, of this part at least)

Thanks for reading!

[brawlingdiscontent]

When is the next update??? love your writing!!

Hi Anon, thanks so much!!!

I’m aiming to post biweekly, so the next post would be next Friday (Sept 6th). (Sadly, I go pretty slowly, both because I don’t have much time for writing (grad school life!), and I’m fussy to an extent that probably doesn’t actually improve my writing.)

[brawlingdiscontent]

terrible with the brightness of gold 4/6

(cherik fic, viking au, subtle a/b/o)

(part 1 here, part 2, part 3. Thanks for all of your lovely responses and encouragement!)

(part 5) (part 6)

(Sorry, this bit is even later than I planned. To make up for it, though, it’s almost twice as long as previous updates! Oh, also there is a very brief mention of non-con in this part)

The ride to Londres is passed in silence.

They are pressed together somewhat uncomfortably, his back to Lehnsherr's chest; though their several layers of clothing provide some separation, and the other doesn't touch him more than necessary beyond where he reaches through to grasp the reins. The ground is fairly smooth, but they are still jostled by occasional bumps and pits in its surface.

It takes Charles little time to work out the symbolism behind their respective positions.

Having Charles on his horse serves Lehnsherr in several ways. First and most practically, kept so close, Charles is a ready hostage against Saxon treachery. Then there's the largely figurative angle: seeing their old ruler under new jurisdiction will leave no doubts for the people of the city who their new master is. Finally, to those Saxons (numbering not a few) who felt that Charles, by his gender, should never have led them, Lehnsherr is the alpha returned to assert control. Through this angle the violation of the Danish invasion is softened by the restoration of the natural order. It’s a fairly clever move, tactically, and he’d applaud it if it didn’t make him feel so bitter.

He’s surprised to find how resentful he is to surrender control of the reins. He’s had his independence for so short a time, but it seems he’s already become accustomed to it. Perhaps Sebastian’s lessons were less permanent than he had intended.

The horse’s hooves trample over fallen leaves on the ground, signs of the encroaching fall soon to be upon them.

They pass only a handful of cottages, abandoned by their inhabitants, and in no time are within sight of the city: the length of the journey is much shorter on horseback than by foot.

Outside the imposing city gates a huge honour guard awaits them—no doubt dispatched from the Viking camp while Charles waited at the shoreline. Rather than the more unified appearance of the Saxon army, these men are eclectic in dress, and bear the banners of various warriors. The Danes don’t feel the same feudal duty as the Saxons, but value and honour their individual fighters. Lehnsherr is their king by choice alone.

At their approach, true to Charles’ instructions, the gates creak open, the sentries up on the ramparts calling down to men on the ground to pull together and lift the heavy wood.

Lehnsherr pulls up just short of the open gates and dismounts, offering Charles a hand to help him down.  Charles takes it. Lehnsherr has been courteous thus far, but that may be soon to change and he’d like to limit further provocation.

As he looks around, Charles sees that besides the Danish guard, some of his own men, his small retinue from earlier this morning, wait outside the large tent that has been pitched for the official surrender of the city. Logan is among them, looking stormily in their direction. Probably fearing for his virtue.

Meanwhile, Lehnsherr has released his men from their kneeling positions and calls forth his captains from their ranks. 

“Secure the city and report back,” he directs them. The command is in Saxon, seemingly for Charles’ benefit.

As hordes of men led by the Viking scouts disappear through the open city gates, Charles prays that the townsfolk will play their parts. They’ve been told to disarm themselves and not to fight; to give the Vikings no excuse to unleash their wrath.

While the Danes enter the city, another group emerges from it, walking towards where Charles and Lehnsherr are standing. They are lead by the witan chief, an old man, both too feeble and too loyal to flee with the rest of the councillors. He kneels low before Lehnsherr.  

“Your Grace,” he says without looking up, “we humbly offer the Danegeld.” Charles is struck by how thin he is compared to the hale Danish warriors, withered from the strain of the last few months. He wonders if he looks the same.

Behind the chief file the people of Londres, bearing sacks and chests heaped with riches which they deposit beside the tent in the next step of this ceremonial dance. None look directly at the Danes, and at least one is visibly trembling with fear.

When the last of the parcels have been set down, Lehnsherr draws his sword and flips back the top of the nearest one, its treasures contained by a single piece of cloth--they must have run out of other vessels. The next moments carry the collectively held breath of all as Lehnsherr scans the contents. It doesn't take long. After a few moments, he nods dismissively and signals several more men forward.

“Does it meet with your approval, your Grace?” Charles inquires softly. It's odd to associate the elevated title with the brutal savagery of a Viking King. Though it had never much suited Sebastian, either.  

The other looks over to him. “Provided it’s the amount we have stipulated, it should suffice.”

The worth of the city itself, measured in a weight of silver and gold. Not an object of value was spared, save the circlet Charles now wears.

Lehnsherr offers some instructions to his men in Danish, presumably ordering them to count the spoils.

“Now, shall we move on to the signing?” Lehnsherr gestures to Charles to walk ahead of him into the tent.  “Your Highness, if you would.”

Waiting the tent is a familiar figure.

“My second, Azazel. The new Earl of Mercia.”  

Azazel offers another of his theatrical bows.

Charles inclines his head in return. He remembers the Earl of Mercia. A kind, pleasant man--a rarity among Sebastian’s generals. He spares a moment to hope that he died quickly in battle rather than through the Vikings’ creative torture methods.

“With your permission, I will send for my own second. He’s waiting outside.” Logan had been the obvious choice. He speaks Danish through his mother and served as a key emissary during negotiations.

Lehnsherr nods his consent, and a few moments later the man enters, offering a stiff bow. Charles uses their brief moment of eye contact to attempt to reassure his commander that he is unharmed. 

With Logan and Azazel to serve as witnesses, the last pieces for the official surrender of the city are in place. They take their positions on either side of the table laid out for this purpose.

Azazel produces the document which Lehnsherr passes over to Charles. Written on it in both Saxon and Danish is the declaration of surrender.

‘I, Charles, Consort of England and acting Guardian of Londres, hereby surrender the city, and all her estates and riches unto Erik Lehnsherr, King of the Danelands and the Northlands, and relinquish my claim to the crown.’

Taking the final step, Charles signs below, then uses the candle to drip sealing wax onto the vellum, the red wax splattering like blood. Finally, he seals it with his husband’s signet ring. He passes it over to Lehnsherr to do the same.

In the quiet of the tent, Charles can hear only the beating of his own heart.

Lehnsherr takes the quill and scratches out his signature. As he affixes his own seal, the sounds of a commotion break out outside the tent. Voices ring out in shouts and sharp words in the harsh bark of Danish.

The scouts have returned.

Lehnsherr responds quickly, flipping up the tent flap and moving in the direction of the noise, Azazel on his heels. After a moment, Charles, with dread pooling in his gut, forces himself to follow.

He pauses only to tilt his head back towards Logan and murmur,  “Remember what we agreed. Do nothing,” before leaving the tent.

He emerges to see Lehnsherr, facing away from him, in deep conversation with the leader of the scouts. Their back-and-forth is short and sharp as the man gives his report. Charles can't make out what's being said, but he already knows the gist of it: the soldiers have secured the city but have found it surprisingly devoid of omegas and children.

At that moment Lehnsherr turns, as though somehow sensing his presence, and his eyes immediately snap to Charles. Whether he sees something incriminating in Charles’ expression, or has simply followed his thoughts through to their logical conclusions, he stalks back over towards him and grabs Charles roughly by the arm, his other hand hovering above his sword hilt.

“You assured me the city was ours,” he bites out, words harsh and low. “What’s the meaning of this?” Free of formality and ceremony, Charles senses that he is at last seeing what lies beneath the man’s stoic demeanor.

He can feel Logan bristling behind him, but he looks steadily back at the scourge of England, disregarding the pain in his arm. “I know what happens when Vikings take a city.” The spoils of war aren’t limited to silver and gold. “I’ve had the most vulnerable inhabitants removed to the countryside for their safety—until such time as your army moves on.”

The tunnels or sally-ports had been dug long ago, leading from the blacksmith's and the armoury and extending under the city and the surrounding plain, emerging in the forest to the North. They had used them to smuggle in food during the siege. The besieging Vikings hadn’t thought to search the forest when they could see clearly across the wide plain that none could approach from it undetected.

When Charles saw the end coming, he'd had another idea. Last night, after the city’s omegas and children crossed through the tunnel to the safety of the forest, Logan had supervised a team of men in filling in the entrances with earth. Even if discovered, they would take some time to dig out.

Something shifts in the other’s burning gaze, and Charles knows what he must suspect--a surprise attack, the betrayal of their compact. He has to explain before things get violent.

“I assure you, this is not a trick or a snare. I have no illusions regarding how my people would fare against your army, nor any desire for suicidal retaliation against you or your men. The city, as I’ve said, remains yours. I merely wished to ensure the safety of my people inasmuch as possible.”

It seems this explanation is enough to assuage the immediate danger. Lehnsherr releases his arm, but keeps a hand over his sword.

“You promised me---“         

“The terms of our agreement promised the city, all its riches, and my own personal surrender. There was no mention of any of the other inhabitants, certainly not civilians. You have your tribute; all of the conditions of our surrender have been fulfilled. We have kept our word. Will you now break yours?”

This response is apparently not enough for Lehnsherr. “My men have been fighting long and hard. Would you have them go without reward?”

Anger flares up in Charles, hot and bright, at hearing his people so instrumentalized.

“My apologies your Grace, you’ll have to find some other way to entertain your men.”

For a moment in the furious silence Charles is certain he is about to be struck. Lehnsherr’s grip is tight on his sword hilt as his free hand flexes, fingers extending as though calling on some mighty power from the earth to smite Charles into the ground.

The commander's face reveals his barely restrained anger, but his voice is devoid of it when he turns to his nearest men and orders, “get the Consort set up in an apartment – ”

The soldier closest to Charles takes his upper arm—but he pulls it out of the man’s grasp and says calmly, with as much dignity as he can muster, “I’ll follow.”

He is thankful when the men desist, allowing him to follow freely; though his victory is soured by the fact that it is Lehnsherr’s nod--rather than any respect for his station--which causes his guards to back off.

That’s all for now! I hope the twist didn’t feel like it came out of nowhere. I tried to drop a few hints in the earlier chapters (including those really sloppy lines at the end of the last chapter). Thanks for reading!

[brawlingdiscontent]

terrible with the brightness of gold 3/6

(cherik fic, viking au, subtle a/b/o)

(part 1 here, part 2, Thanks for all of your lovely responses and encouragement!)

(part 4) (part 5) (part 6)

The mists have dissipated by the afternoon and the landscape seems achingly bleak as Charles is brought to the shore to watch the long ships glide inexorably closer.

They have separated him from his paltry retinue--when Azazel returned for him, only Charles’ firm command stayed Logan from fighting his removal—but he is glad of it, as it has given him more room to think.

It was hard to organize his thoughts in the unfamiliar tent with the bustle of the Viking camp and his men standing guard just outside. It's calmer here; he knows the territory if not those he's with, and the brisk air sharpens his senses.

The ships move smoothly through the water, surging forward to the rhythmic beating of a drum. They make a fearsome sight, their gilded bows glinting in the sun. Charles counts over fifty. Only a quarter of the fleet if he believes the rumours. He discretely pulls his furs closer to his body to hide the shiver that wells up in him. Everything depends on his continued stoicism for the next cycle of the sun.

Erik the Conqueror, ruler of Denmark and the Northmen, has achieved a reputation as fair but ruthless with his enemies. The question was where Charles and his children now stood.

As a royal omega Charles himself is unlikely to come to harm—or at least to be killed. Most likely Lehnsherr will marry him off to some follower as a reward and to keep him out of trouble, or perhaps even try to ransom him back to his family in Normandy (ludicrous though the idea is). It is his children that he must truly worry about: as alphas and Shaw’s only surviving--and thus presumptive--heirs, Lehnsherr’s smartest move would be to arrange their deaths. It’s barbarous, though hardly unheard of--after all, Sebastian had killed his own brothers to secure his throne.

Under these circumstances, the distance of Normandy will afford his children little protection. His husband's assassins had reached farther than Normandy.

The first of the boats reaches the shoreline and a line of men rush forward to drag it up onto the sand. Several figures alight from the prow, wading the last few paces to shore. Charles’ view is partially obscured as they mount on horseback and then turn en masse to where his party is waiting some ways up the beach.

The wind, stronger here than inland, rustles through Charles’ hair as he squints into the sun to watch their approach.

As the figure at the head of the riders draws close, the lines of men on either side of Charles kneel and bow their heads respectfully. He takes a deep but invisible breath. For one fleeting moment the image on the seal once again flashes before his eyes: the lion closing in on his prey.

The procession comes to a stop before him, and Charles tips his head back slightly to see the leader reach up to pull off his helmet.

The first thing that Charles notices is that there is no madness in the eyes that meet his, only reason. Not a devil, then, nor a beast after all. Only a man. His craggy face has been weathered by war but is not harsh or cruel-looking, and there is even a rugged sort of handsomeness to his features.

“Charles of Normandy,” Erik Lehnsherr states rather than inquires, his accent thickening the words. “Reports of your beauty, I see, have not been exaggerated.”

While some might consider the lack of reference to his married title an insult, however condescending Lehnsherr’s willingness to separate Charles from his late husband—Lehnsherr’s enemy–can only be a good thing. Despite the flattering words, his tone (unlike Azazel’s) is dry.

Charles keeps his expression artfully neutral, followed by the slightest tilt of the head in acknowledgement. “Your servant, Your Grace.”

“And my prisoner, is it not?”

The sudden bluntness is momentarily shocking—a more gracious captor would not have drawn attention to this fact—and Charles sees at once he’s misjudged the man: the conciliatory compliment a feint masking his true inquiry, like a probing blade, seeking out Charles’ weaknesses.

“As you like,” Charles deflects, refusing to react.

If Lehnsherr’s trying to humiliate him with his current situation, he won’t succeed. Despite the sudden change in circumstances, Charles has been a prisoner almost his entire life—of some alpha or another.

The other stares at him inscrutably for a moment but he doesn’t probe further, seemingly satisfied by whatever he had discovered.

“I trust my men were respectful on your trip here.”

”I have no complaints regarding their conduct.”

“And the city?”

“My people have been instructed to open the gates to you and your army.” Charles pauses briefly before forging ahead. “They have also been assured of your clemency and mercy in the face of their cooperation. I trust you will conduct yourself in an honourable manner and keep that assurance.” His tone is sharp, verging on challenging. It’s a risk, but he needs to know what he can expect from the other man.

Lehnsherr looks at him. “Though many of my men would disagree, I have a certain admiration for your people for holding out so long against us--certainly far longer than any of my generals expected. And all seemingly without replenishing your stores.”

Charles lets this comment and its unspoken inquiry sit in silence, as with relief he realizes that Lehnsherr doesn’t know how they smuggled in the food that had preserved them during the siege. The other man’s gaze is piercing, but Charles can't discern from it anything of his thoughts. He waits for a response.

“We Danes are men of our word,” Lehnsherr says finally. “Provided they comply with the terms of surrender, your people’s lives will be spared.”

It suddenly occurs to Charles how strange it is to be face-to-face with his formerly distant opponent--the man whose armies he had for months held at bay, only now to open the city gates to them of his own volition at just the promise of mercy.

“Come,” Lehnsherr says, apparently done with the conversation.  He extends a hand, which Charles takes reluctantly. He feels the grip of a rough palm in his and then, with no time to react, he is pulled up into the saddle in front of the man and they set off towards the city.

I might edit this more later, because I’m not really happy with it, but I wanted to meet my deadline. Thanks for reading!

[brawlingdiscontent]

terrible with the brightness of gold 2/6

(cherik fic, viking au, subtle a/b/o)

(part 1 here - thanks for your lovely responses so far!)

(part 3) (part 4) (part 5) (part 6)

The morning mists curl around Charles’ cloak as he walks out of the city gates the next morning and his own people bolt them firmly behind him. 

They are a people inherited, not born into, but he’s considered them his nonetheless since he arrived, barely more than a child, in marriage to their king--even more so since the siege, their bond reforged in the crucible of their hardships.

As he gazes out across the normally clear plain ahead of him, all he can see is fog. It gives him the impression that the world ends here—which in a way it does.

He feels swallowed up.

The small group of warriors Logan has assembled are subdued, unused to this inaction. They carry with them the weariness of the end of a long campaign, and the discomfort of being only able to follow through with what has already been set.

At his signal, he and his small retinue start across the plain. The only sound is the muted clip of their boots against the ground. He looks back once, briefly and sees the fog creeping up the sides of the city gates, climbing towards their tops.

The sun has crept only an inch in the sky when he sees others emerging out of the mist before them: a group of armed men.

They are an eclectic band, almost triple the size of Charles’ party, and all clearly-trained warriors, hands resting decisively on their sword hilts. They look like Northerners.

His escorts tense up, readying for a fight, and Logan turns to him for a signal.

It seems that Erik the Red, conqueror of the North, has sent his soldiers to secure his hostage in advance.

“Your Highness,” a voice calls out from the back of the group, cutting though the rising tension in a tone that is not fully respectful. A ruddy-complexioned man in strange Viking dress emerges and greets Charles with a low, sardonic bow.

He’s somewhat surprised to be so quickly recognized, with only the simple circlet banding his brow to distinguish himself, his plain tunic matching the others--but reasons his position in the group and lack of visible weapons must give him away.

“I am General Azazel, aide to the king,” the man announces. His words are surprisingly clear. Many of the Danes have picked up their language through years of frequent raids, though he seems foreign in a different way.

He steps closer and holds something out, which Charles, with a staying gesture to Logan, moves forward to examine.

It's a leaf of parchment bearing a seal. Carved into the wax is an intricate pattern of runes bordering the image of a lion, powerful paws raised in mid-flight as though about to leap upon some unfortunate prey. 

Lehnsherr’s seal; proof of his commission.

Charles wonders if the image is emblematic not just of the Lehnsherr line, but of the man himself. The reports he's heard describe the Danish commander as a vicious warlord, more beast than man, with an animal frenzy in his eyes that betrays a mind wracked with madness and tainted by cruelty. 

Hyperbolic fear mongering, perhaps; but on the parchment the lion leaps out at him, its face twisted in an anthropomorphic grimace.

He realizes he’s been staring over long and pulls himself away, back to the unusual messenger.  

“Very well. What do you require of me?”

“Surrender your weapons, if you would, and allow me to escort you to the camp.”

The over-solicitousness is uncomfortable as it is unexpected--is he playing at civility or mocking the courtly manners of Charles’ people, the Normans? Regardless, it is vastly preferable to the rough treatment that Charles had steeled himself to anticipate from the Danes. He gestures to his men to comply. He can tell from Logan’s strained expression that his general is unhappy with the situation—but should the Vikings decide to kill them, weapons will be of little use.

With some tension and wariness on both sides, the Danish warriors form up around Charles’ party and they start off again together.

The first signs of the Viking camp rise out of the fog in silent warning.

Impaled on wooden poles staked in the ground, marking the camp's perimeter, are gruesome reminders of the invaders’ might. Heads and limbs severed from once-living bodies hang above them in a rotting spectacle. Charles doesn't look too closely at them for fear of recognition, though as he passes can’t stop himself from wondering if any of the body parts once were once attached to his step-children. He dismisses the thought just as quickly, knowing that the battles where they fell were long past and far from here, when they still had hope of repelling the invading forces.

The vastness of the camp is somewhat of a surprise. In the months of the siege he had received reports of it from his scouts and had often envisioned what it might look like, but seeing it in person is an entirely different thing. As they move deeper his senses are overwhelmed by a mass of unwashed bodies and the smell of cooking oils and meat roasting on spits.

There must be almost two thousand warriors crowded together, polishing weapons and preparing themselves for the day. As they make their way through the thronging masses, Charles is both glad of the escort, and sees a reason for it other than security: as their party passes they catch curious looks and some leering glances from alphas–who have been at battle for months, far away from the gentler company of their women and omegas at home. He subtly straightens his spine and squares his shoulders.

Charles is still gazing around, avoiding eye contact and cataloging potential escape routes--few and unlikely, surrounded as they are--when they stop short at an unadorned tent.

It's a canvas construction, not particularly large nor distinctive. The only thing unusual about it is the two warriors posted at its entrance, standing at attention.  

Azazel indicates something and one of his men steps forward to hold up the flap for Charles to enter.

“I hope this is to your liking,” Azazel gestures forth, obsequious as ever. “The King will arrive this afternoon.”

With no other option immediately available, Charles enters the tent. Behind him he knows his escort is taking up formation outside to stand guard. He thinks it likely that Azazel is also leaving some men, to guard him in a different manner.

The tent’s inside is as nondescript as its outside: not much taller than a man at its centre, a pile of furs in one corner, and a couple of simple chairs and a small table.

He walks over to one of the chairs, gathering his furs around him, and sits, ready to await whatever is to come.

Note: Sorry, no Erik until the next part. I think there will be around six parts of varying lengths--I have it all plotted out, but not fully written yet, though hope to post on a biweekly basis (I have very little time for writing for fun, sadly). Thanks for reading! 

(Just in case anyone’s super disturbed, Charles’ step-children were all around his age--so fully grown adults, no child murder here. I’ll go into more detail later.)

[brawlingdiscontent]

A (terrible with the brightness of gold), F, I, K? 😁

Thank you!! (And sorry, I think I wrote a couple of essays here)

A: How did you come up with the title for [terrible with the brightness of gold]?

It’s from a passage from the Encomium Emmae Reginae one of the most important historical sources for the events the fic is loosely based on. The passage describes Cnut’s (Erik’s) 1016 invasion of England: “For who could look upon the lions of the foe, terrible with the brightness of gold, who upon the men of metal, menacing with golden face, ... who upon the bulls on the ships threatening death, their horns shining with gold, without feeling any fear for the king of such a force?” (the king = Cnut) (so it’s kind of a general reference to the ambiguous and scary threat of the vikings)

The title of the two planned next parts are also from it, and the overall name of the series is a take on the source title-- ‘Encomium Emmae Reginae’ means “In praise of Queen Emma” and it’s basically a life story about how she is amazing (commissioned by her, of course). The series, conjugated with Charles’ latin name, Carolus, is “encomium carolis regis” -- “In praise of King Charles” 

F: Care to share a favourite hurt/comfort fic?

I assume that this is supposed to be one of my own, but, I’m not sure that I’ve written one, so I offer Continuing Education by aesc and spicedpiano. It’s amazing!

I: Do you have a guilty pleasure in fic (reading or writing)? 

Yes, so many! I think probably my biggest are forced relationship/marriage and dubcon, and generally fucked-up relationships (Stuff I in no way condone IRL but I love to read! Also, I may have an unfinished fucked-up fill on the kinkmeme that I shall never claim) 

K: What’s the angstiest idea you’ve ever come up with?

I don’t know if I’ve had a really angsty idea for x-men -- most angsty right now is probably a one-shot I’ve drafted where the Brotherhood has won and imprisoned Charles, and Erik constantly visits him like they can still salvage their relationship and Charles will come round, but Charles is just done.

Fanfic ask meme

[brawlingdiscontent]

I’m nerding out! New potential research sources by Janet L. Nelson! Is it weird to read a 700-page book as research for a fic?  (she seems to write mostly about the 9th century, but still...) (encomium carolis regis)