#enjoy hakka's ankles

[castleintheskye]

The Mascots™ in AFFECTION OVERDOSE

[mrsalwayswrite]

Anchor in the Waves- Chapter 2

I am so sorry its taken so long to get this chapter out...its been one of those weeks. Anyway, here it is! Yay!

Quick reminders: Osbert = Uhtred. Islond=Iceland. Irland=Ireland // all translations are via google and in italics. 

This chapter is emotional. Most of the warnings pertain to this chapter. Again, nothing is graphic but implied. Still heavy stuff though. I promise after this it gets better. 

Tag List: @happyveday​ @evelynshelby​

"What's it like? Islond?" Halig asked, huddled against Osbert. 

 "If hell froze over...that is Islond." Finan replied from Osbert's other side, arms tucked inside of his tunic.  

 Hakka had announced earlier that the trading season was done. Tomorrow they would start the voyage back to Islond. The slaves were to enjoy a few hours rest before back on the oars. They had been tossed stale loaves of bread to share, the thick taste of salt coating the bread from the sea spray. 

 Finan, Osbert and Halig huddled together, not quite shivering but perpetually cold. The manacle around their ankles seemed to absorb the cold and inject it straight into their bodies. 

 "We'll be on land though." 

 Finan did not reply to Halig's comment. Yes, they would be on land, the oars no longer feeling like an unwanted extension of their person; but they would still be barely fed and forced to endure the brutal cold of winter without respite. 

 Yet with the thought of their return to Islond she came to mind. 

 Aine. 

 Was she alive? Would she remember him? Would she care for him once again?

 There were many times he found his mind wandering to her over the past several months, worried for her. In his darkest hours, he would conjure up her face, reveling in the brief flash of warmth it brought with it. Her brown hair in a braid over her shoulder, several strands loose around her face. Her slightly pointed chin and the dimple in it. Eyes the color of bronze. The small birthmark on her cheekbone. Those gentle, calloused hands that held his like a lifeline, both providing and seeking comfort. 

 "A stòr." He whispered into the wind. Was it a call to let her know he was coming? A hope that she had not given up on him? A reminder of what had passed between them? He did not know. In his soul, it just felt right. (My treasure.)

 *****

 She almost dropped the blankets in her arms when she saw him. 

 All the ship slaves looked awful, like they had been dragged across the sea floor then pulled ashore and forced to remember how to walk. They were almost indistinguishable with their long, matted hair and beards, bowed backs, threadbare clothes and general air of defeat. 

 She stood to the side of the main hall, having run from gathering the blankets off the drying line to be able to watch their approach. 

 To see if he returned. 

 "Aine!" Master Sverri called, walking towards her. His thumbs were tucked into the band around his waist, his strut like a conquering hero returning home. Yet he was no hero. "Come to greet us?"

 "Welcome home, Master." She answered demurely, dropping her gaze to his boots. It startled her that he called her by name. He had always called her ‘girl’ or ‘slave’ before. She tried not to think too hard about the implications of him remembering her name and using it.  

 He tipped her chin up, forcing her eyes to meet his. His sharp eyes bore into her, seeking something in her face, before releasing her with a grunt as he walked past. She was unsure what that look meant...but it made her uncomfortable.  

 As she looked once again at the slaves, one was staring at her. Soft, brown eyes met hers. She would know those eyes anywhere. 

 Finan. 

 Unconsciously, her eyes widened and tears threatened to fall. The shock of seeing him again rooted her to where she stood lest she collapse. He was alive...but appeared even more haggard and frail compared to last she saw him. He cradled one of his hands against his chest, staring at her until he was shoved by one of the Danes into the barn. She remained frozen, watching as all the ship slaves were marched to the barns and separated. 

 The one thought repeated in her mind endlessly- he was alive. 

 For how much longer though?

 The returned Danes would celebrate voraciously tonight, happy to be home. Ale would flow freely and most would be passed out before the moon was at its zenith. She should be able to sneak away without notice. She had too. 

 Quickly, she turned and headed back inside the main hall, back to her duties before the Master's wife could yell at her for being lazy. 

 The night could not come soon enough. 

 *****

 "Finan?"

 He jerked at his name, the sound just barely slipping through the slats of the barn. It had taken some manipulation to make sure that he ended up back in the same pen he had occupied prior. A small smile crossed his lips when he noticed the hole he had made was still there. "Aine?"

 Sticking his hand through the opening, warmth immediately surrounded his hand as she clutched it with both of hers. 

 “Conaíonn tú.” She murmured. (You live.)

 “Mar a dhéanann tú.” (As do you.) 

 He pressed his forehead to the slats and felt her reciprocate the action. That simple touch, the simple connection brought tears to his eyes. It would never eclipse the beatings, starvation and despair but it helped lessen it. He had missed her. 

 Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Osbert watching him curiously, everyone else asleep by this point. He trusted Osbert not to say anything to their captors. 

 They stayed that way for several minutes. Everything Finan could think of to say to her, to acknowledge or ask...once it hit his tongue died. So, he kept his lips closed and just breathed in her gentle presence, a balm to his dispirited soul.  

 He remembered that last time he had thought she was beautiful. When he saw her after getting off the ship this time, it felt like something had changed. When he looked up and saw her standing by the main hall, a pile of blankets in her arms, he realized he had been wrong. She was radiant.  

 “Ní féidir liom fanacht.” (I cannot stay.)

 “Tuigim. Táim… tá áthas orm go bhfuil tú ceart go leor.” (I understand. I am… I am glad you are alright.)

 “Seo.” She pushed something into his hand then released it. (Here.)

 “Go raibh maith agat.” (Thank you.)

 He heard her footsteps as she walked away quickly. Pulling his hand back, he noticed it was half a loaf of bread. Far more than she had ever given him before. Without a word, he tore it into three parts and tossed two of them to Osbert. The man caught them, having been watching him, and quietly nudged Halig to wake him. 

 As they ate silently, Finan's thoughts were disturbed by Osbert's whisper. 

 "Who is she?"

 Finan thought about his answer, munching on the fresh bread. Something he had not tasted in almost two years. "Aine." He finally replied. "When I was here last...she saved me."

 *****

 Over the next couple of weeks, Aine tried to visit Finan every few days. She wished she could go every night, not just to see him with her own eyes and feel his hand in hers; at least then she knew he was getting food when she visited. After the third visit, he had mentioned about two others he had come to know. If it was his intention to mention others to receive more food, she did not mind. She tried to bring a little extra with her, sometimes forgoing her own lunch and dinner to have extra to bring. She was too scared to steal more from the kitchens and get caught. 

 It was also during this time that Master Sverri's attentions to her became more obvious. 

 *****

 "The deep cold will start tonight." Gunnhild, the Master's wife, said flatly. She sat mending by the fire in the main hall, an interesting sight since her hands were the size of ham hocks. Everyone else had returned to their homes by this point, leaving only the Master, his wife and the house slaves. 

 "Yes." Master Sverri listlessly said, staring at the flames with a mug of ale in hand. 

 She snorted, rolling her eyes. "Unless you want your slaves to freeze to death, they will need blankets. By the gods, you do this every year!"

 "They are slaves."

 "THEY ARE EXPENSIVE!" She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "This was not a good year for us. Not enough trade. We need to keep them alive."

 He swirled the ale in his mug for a long moment before nodding solely. "You are right."

 "Aine," Gunnhild called loudly, "you and Alva take blankets to the ship slaves."

 "Yes, Mistress." Aine stood up from further down the main hall, where she had been scrubbing the dried, sticky ale off the tables. It had been another rambunctious night of drinking for the Danes. After everyone left, the Mistress suddenly decided the sticky residue needed to be removed. "Would ya prefer me to finish my task first?"

 "No, it'll be here when you return. Go."

 Leaving everything behind, she headed to the kitchen to inform Alva, the middle-aged cook, their task. They gathered the spare blankets, kept separate for the ship slaves and headed out to the barns. Aine announced she would take the barn with the pigs. If Alva had any suspicions, it was not noticeable. On the contrary, she thanked Aine since she needed to return to the kitchen quickly to prepare the porridge for the morning and the barn with the horses was closer to the main hall.  

 Without a word, Aine tossed half of the blankets in the first pen. The sounds of the men scurrying and arguing over the blankets followed her as she moved on. It was the second pen that she cared about more. 

 There were five slaves in the second pen, including Finan. As she approached, the men watched her warily. It was when she tossed the couple blankets in, did they finally move. It was the one with piercing blue eyes that took charge and passed the blankets out, giving her a brief nod after as he huddled under one with a smaller man on one side and Finan on the other. 

 "Thank ya." 

 She directed a small smile at Finan, her eyes meeting his own. This was the first time they were face to face without slats separating them. She opened her mouth to say something but the scraping sound of the barn door opening stopped her. With a backward glance, she froze. 

 Master Sverri closed the barn door behind him. In the darkness it was hard to decipher his features, but something about the way he was standing there peering at her made her skin crawl. 

 Subconsciously, she stepped back. 

 If he noticed her movement, he gave no indication as he slowly approached, hands clasped behind his back. His eyes never drifted away from her body, eyeing her hungrily. "Are the blankets distributed?" 

 "Yes, Master."

 "Good." He drew closer until he stood in front of her, hovering over her. Meanwhile he ignored the slaves in the pens as if they were furniture. "Was there another task that required you, Aine?"

 It was not until hearing him say her name now, that Danish growl butchering the pronunciation, that she realized how much she desired hearing Finan say her name. When he said it, his Irish accent grew. When he said it, it sounded like home. 

 "Just finishin' cleanin' the tables."

 "Mmm...I have need of you first." It was the way he said it, his hand brushing her hair out of her face, the closeness of his body. She knew what was to come. Alva warned her only a few days ago what his attention would mean. 

 "Come." He commanded, turning back towards the barn door.  

 What else could she do? Bowing her head, she started to follow. Not before she snuck a glance at Finan. Even in the darkness, she could read the horror and rage on his face. He hastily shoved the blanket off him, starting to rise. Immediately she shook her head, hoping he could see it in the gloom. They were slaves. Their thoughts and feelings were nothing. Their bodies and pain were nothing. They were nothing. 

 She thought she heard Finan quietly call out her name but it did not matter. She kept moving. 

 After Master Sverri finished with her that night, she sat outside and gazed at the stars above, tears slipping down her cheeks undisturbed. Was it worth even wishing for freedom anymore? Was this all fate had planned for her?

 *****

 "Aine…"

 “Níl, ná habair é.” She silenced him by interrupting, clutching his hand just a little tighter. He was unsure if he could hear a tremble in her voice or if it was just the cold. “I ... tá sé rud ar bith. Mhair tú i bhfad níos measa ná mise.” (No, do not say it. // I...it is nothing. You have survived far worse than me.)

 “Ní comórtas é.” (It is not a competition.)

 A small bark of laughter slipped out of her mouth, but it sounded harsh and cruel. Finan wished there was something, anything he could do to protect her. He would easily accept a beating or whipping to save her from whatever fate was giving her. Yet there was nothing he could do. He was imprisoned, too weak to fight in her stead, he doubted he had the strength to hold up a sword and swing it, let alone fight with it. 

 He wanted to ask about the other night, when Master Sverri followed her to the barn. He wanted...no, needed to know if that bastard touched her. She must have anticipated his question and shut it down before he even placed the words on his tongue to say. That night he had sat awake the whole time. Fury, vengeance, fear and despair took turns beating at his mind. He wanted nothing more than to escape the pen and throttle Master Sverri before he could lay a hand on her. Save her from whatever cruelty played out in the Dane’s mind as he stood there in the gloom of the barn, leering at her like a predator and she an innocent lamb. As Finan started to rise, flaming anger fueling his movements, Osbert grabbed his arm and forced him to stay still. The rest of the night and the next two were torturous. Rage rose up within him whenever he saw Master Sverri walking around the village, enough to make his veins almost boil with his desire to slowly kill the Dane. What was worse though, was the rage at himself for his inability to do anything. 

 Finan squeezed her hand, his breath visible from the cold. “Geallaim lá amháin saorfaidh mé thú.” (I promise one day I will free you.)

 “Finan, le do thoil ... ná tabhair gealltanais mar sin le do thoil.” (Finan, please do not... please do not make promises like that.)

 “Ná tabhair suas, a stór, ná déan! Éalóimid, agus tiocfaidh mé ar ais agus saorfaidh mé thú. Tugaim faoi deara é. An gcreideann tú mé? Abair amach é.” (Do not give up, my treasure, do not! We will escape, and I will come back and free you. I swear it. Do you believe me? Say it.)

 “Creidim thú.” (I believe you.) She barely whispered; voice tight with emotion.

 He rubbed his thumb on the back of her hand, her hand still trembling, much like his own. Her face was turned down, staring at their hands as if ashamed to meet his eyes. He wished he could comfort her further somehow, wrap his arms around her and hide her away from the world. 

 Suddenly the sound of the dogs barking made them both jump. 

 "Téigh!" He said, worried someone would find her. It was truly a miracle she had been able to seek him out like she had been without anyone the wiser. (Go!)

 Without a word, she dropped his hand and ran, having already given him the hard biscuits. 

 Once he no longer heard her footsteps or any screams to signal she had been caught, he relaxed against the side of the barn, tucking the blanket closer around his person that he shared with Osbert and Halig. 

 He turned his head to look at the man sitting next to him. His blue eyes met Finan's brown in the darkness of the barn. Keeping his voice low, he spoke, a determination coursing through his veins. "What is the plan ya mentioned earlier?"

 Osbert smiled wickedly. 

 *****

 Finan could see the slavers gaining ground on them. The dogs barked loudly at catching sight of their prey just up ahead. The sand and rocks under his feet made footing treacherous. His legs wobbled beneath him like a newborn foal’s. Osbert already fell once. He was not even sure how Halig was still running, although his strength was obviously failing. 

 But they had to keep going. Their freedom laid before them just up ahead. 

 A bastard boat. 

 He grabbed the end, pulling with what little strength he had left to get it into the water. The weight threatened to be too much for his weakened body...but he kept pulling. This was their one chance. There would not be another. They must make it.

 Then Halig collapsed on the rocky shore. Osbert tried to drag him along, crying how he would not leave him behind, but both barely moved. 

 It was then, before the Danes even seized them, Finan knew they failed. 

 The small waves slammed against the back of his legs, spraying water across his body. For a second, he wondered if it would be better for him to run into the sea and not turn back. His body was bound to be cast into its depths anyway, either by his choice or the slavers tossing his corpse overboard when his body finally gave out. 

 He looked over at Osbert, meeting his distraught gaze. A thousand words passed unspoken between them. At that moment, he knew abandoning his friend was not an option. 

 The Danes returned the three of them, bound and chained, back to the village. Seven others waited, having been captured already. They sat, all bound together in the middle of the village. All day and night they remained, exposed to the elements and the occasional beating from the slavers. During this time they went without food or water as the Danes sought out the other escaped slaves. 

 By the end of the next day, all but two slaves were found. 

 Master Sverri glared at them from the front steps of the main hall, arms crossed over his chest. "We leave in one week!" He announced, then looked to his men, standing around the slaves. "Whip them...but not that one." He pointed a stubby finger at Halig, the pain from his wounds evident on the slave’s ashen face. "He watches for now. His punishment will come later." 

 That night, Finan finally asked the question that had been brewing in his mind like a bad storm. "Who are ya really?" He demanded, his voice low so the others would not overhear, even if they appeared to be asleep. 

 More than once he overheard Halig call Osbert “lord” and how Osbert made reference to their fighting together. There was an authority that Osbert bore on his shoulders, invisible but when he spoke, it came with the sound of one used to orders listened to. 

 Osbert sighed, glancing around the pen they were back in. "No one."

 "I know that's a filthy lie."

 "It's a long story."

 "I'm no goin' anywhere." Finan shrugged then winced as the torn muscles on his back from the whipping stretched. 

 He nodded, closing his eyes for a moment before groaning and turning to face Finan completely. Even in the gloom of the barn, his blue eyes shone with passion. His voice changed from a quiet resignation to one of determination. "My name is Uhtred son of Uhtred, Lord of Bebbanburg..."

 *****

 In three days, the ship would set sail. Away from Islond. Away from her. Away into the unknown future and turbulent seas. Aine visited Finan two days before, giving what food she could to him. Normally, she tried not to visit him so soon for fear of being caught. Now though, she wanted to give him what nourishment she could before he was gone. She also brought more cloths for him to wrap around his palms, along with some extra for the others. 

 He firmly gripped her hand. She was unsure if it was his hand or hers that trembled. Tears formed but she restrained them through sheer will. For some reason, this time, this goodbye felt final. Neither spoke it but both acknowledged it. She should have walked away some time ago, yet her legs refused to move, his hand clasped between hers just as tightly. 

 “Fan láidir, Aine.” (Stay strong, Aine.)

 All she could only nod. Her soul was being chipped away little by little and now with Finan's upcoming departure, she doubted she would survive. 

 Especially if Master Sverri came back and Finan did not. 

 There were so many things she wanted to tell him but never did. Due to her own cowardness or time constraint, it mattered little now. It was still left unspoken. There was a bond between them, something she would always be grateful for. He was her strength when she felt unable to rise up again, her joy when he teased her and made her smile as something she never did otherwise, he was her sanctuary where she could hide away from the world. How could she tell him all this though? How could she convey her deep need for him to steady her as the rock he was in her life? 

 “Aine? Cad é sin?” (Aine? What is it?)

 Her fluctuating emotions must have shown on her face enough for him to see it in the moonlight. She sighed, leaning over to press a kiss to the back of his hand. Something they had never done. His sharp inhale of breath worried her for a brief moment. Then he leaned his forehead against the slats, tugging her hand gently until she reciprocated the action. 

 “Tá rud éigin le rá agam…” He breathed out. (There is something I need to say…) 

 Oh, what she would give for these slats to be gone, for them to be free, to embrace him uninhibited like she wanted to. She squeezed his hand to let him know she was listening. Slowly he exhaled, as if that would help align the words on his tongue. The thought made her smile softly. 

 "Hey! You!" 

 Aine looked over and saw a figure standing still, having just come around the side of the barn. With a torch in hand, he was unable to distinguish her in the darkness. But she could see who it was. Terror flooded her veins with a vengeance. Her worst nightmare came to pass.  

 “RITH!” (RUN!) 

 Aine obeyed Finan's order without a second thought, darting away, hoping to lose her pursuer amidst the buildings as she weaved around them. Hard footfalls from behind crept closer and closer. She put everything she had into getting away and hiding. The figure could not have seen her face. He would not have known what she was doing. She just had to find somewhere to hide and wait him out.  She just had to make it there. 

 Something slammed into her the back, making her stumble and lose her footing. Ungraciously, she fell face first.

 She gasped; the impact having chased the air from her lungs. Tears welled in her eyes. Her hands dug into the firm earth beneath her. No…. no... no... please not this. 

 "What do we have here?" A rough hand flipped her over, forcing her to stare into the face of Hakka. "What were you doing, whore?"

 Tears streamed down her face. There was nothing she could do now, nowhere to hide. This was it.  

 "Let's go ask Master Sverri, mmm?" He grabbed a fistful of her hair and started dragging her towards the main hall. 

 Minutes later she found herself on her knees before the Master, who had been roused from sleep. His tunic and leggings were rumpled from the bed. Only socks clad his feet, not even sparing the time to put his boots on with Hakka's yelling. 

 "What were you doing, Aine?" The Master asked softly, an almost begging unbelief in his tone. As if he could not fathom she would disobey him. 

 Her eyes remained on the floor, hands clasped in her lap. It was no use answering. She suddenly felt exhausted, so much so to not even try and create an excuse for her actions. All she wanted to do was curl up in a ball and hide from everything until her body rejoined the ground. She was so tired.  

 "Look at me." He cupped her chin gently, forcing her eyes to his. 

 Unable to stop herself, she flinched. Though he never beat her, she loathed his touch. Every time his fingers grazed her skin or hair, every time he had "need" of her, every time his eyes tracked her across the room...she hated everything about him. 

 "There is a small opening, broken slat towards the back of the pig barn where the slaves stay. She was kneeling in front of there." Hakka explained, hand on the axe head strapped to his side. "It was a good size to pass something through."

 Master Sverri stared at her, hand still cupping her chin. “Were you giving the slaves something?"

 She bit her bottom lip, tasting her own blood in her mouth. 

 "ANSWER ME!!" He suddenly roared in her face, his hand on her face now gripped it painfully. 

 Then the voice of Gunnhild came from the side of the room, wrapped in a cloak and hair messy from being roused unceremoniously. "Alva informed me she has noticed Aine does not always eat her meals but saves them, stuffing the food into a pouch or wrapping and saving it."

 "Have you been feeding the slaves?" Master Sverri asked. He stared at her with wide, unbelieving eyes. When she did not answer, that surprise turned to rage. He backhanded her, sending her sprawling to the ground. More blood filled her mouth but she remained silent. He rounded on Hakka. "Take her to the pit."

 "What will you do with her?" Gunnhild stared down her nose at the slave girl that had been a gift. "I do not want her anymore."

 "I will take care of her." Her husband stated, fists clenched by his sides. 

 Hakka grabbed one of her arms and dragged her out of the room. The angle he pulled on, she feared he would dislocate or break her arm. She tugged, trying to loosen or change his grip on her. A whimper escaped her as he yanked purposefully with a dark chuckle. 

 It was when she could see where he was taking her that she began to fight back, albeit weakly. She kicked and swung at him. Anything to stop their advancement. Anything to not be put in there. 

 He laughed, easily manhandling her. "You'll beg for death soon enough." He whispered into her ear as he immobilized her against his body. "Sverri will not forgive this, nor show mercy. Maybe he will finally let us all take our turn with you."

 That thought terrified her. She whipped her head back, feeling it slam against his face with a crack. 

 "Stupid whore!" He yelled, throwing her to the ground. Before she could move to escape, he stood over her, blood dripping from his nose. A snarl on his face, he pulled his arm back and punched the side of her head. 

 Darkness surrounded her. 

 *****

 The shackle on his ankle burned. The hard bench under his arse and the high wall of the slave ship made him feel like he was looking out of his own grave. The smell of the ocean nauseated him already. 

 The Danes were securing the last of the slaves to their posts on the ship and bringing the remaining supplies aboard. 

 Fresh pain radiated across his back when he moved his shoulders. However foolhardy it was, he fought back against the Danes when they dragged the slaves towards the ship. A strong rod across his back repeatedly forced his submission. 

 Now he sat here waiting…waiting to row...waiting for his probable death. 

 Even sitting with his back facing him, Finan could see Uhtred's resolve slowly beginning to slip away after their failed escape attempt. Uhtred tried his best to hide it though, especially in front of Halig. The smaller man had been in visible pain since their escape attempt, his arrow wounds untended. The Danes had not seen fit to provide any medical attention, just threw him in the pen with the others. 

 A disturbance at the front of the ship caught Finan's attention. Walking up the gangplank was Master Sverri, his hand firmly grasping a handful of Aine's hair and forcing her to walk before him. 

 A punch to the gut, a whipping, being tossed overboard...anything would have been less expected than this. 

 Finan had not seen her for three days, not since she had last given him food then run off when someone noticed her. What worried him the most, he had not even seen her around the village doing her daily chores. During the following days, his mind conjured more and more horrific scenarios of what happened to her. He knew whatever it was, he was responsible. Without him, she would have been safe back in the main hall, in her bed, not outside the barn trying to sneak him food. It was his fault. He should have told her to stay away, to not worry about him. 

 The prospect of food and a gentle touch had been too strong, his weakened mind and body unable to resist. 

 It was his fault. 

 Now seeing her, his heart plummeted in his chest. She looked far worse than any other time he had seen her. Her dress was torn and dirty, as if she had been dragged out of a hole in the ground. Dried tear tracks stood out against the grime covering her face, the only spots semi-clean. From this distance he was unsure if it was dirt or dried blood that matted her hair on one side of her head. She stumbled up the gangplank, legs shaking. 

 What had he done? Finan promised...he promised to set her free. Not this. Never this. 

 Without a word, Master Sverri shoved her towards the front of the ship. There Finan could no longer see her. He was not sure if that was better or worse. 

 "IT WOULD APPEAR YOU DOGS NEED A REMINDER OF YOUR PLACE!" Hakka shouted at them, pacing the middle of the ship. He pointed at Halig, a sadistic smile on his face. "Grab him."

 Two of the other Danes, forcibly removed Halig from his shackle. Uhtred screamed, trying to fight the Danes but they only beat him back. Finan eventually grabbed Uhtred, holding him firmly while he screamed to let Halig go, begging to take Halig's place. Those screams fell on deaf ears, only increasing the taunts and laughter from the Danes dragging Halig away.

 "TIE HIM TO THE BOW, LET THE SEA KILL HIM!" Hakka cried out, watching the two Danes drag the injured slave towards the front of the ship. "LET THIS BE A LESSON TO YOU ALL!" 

 "NO!!!" Uhtred wailed. His words and screams almost unintelligible as they weaved together into an almost animalistic cry. His body shook violently, nails digging into Finan's arms, the only things keeping him rooted to his spot. 

 Glancing up above, Finan could see Master Sverri watching Uhtred with a smirk. He suddenly remembered when him and the other slaves were beaten after their failed escape...all but Halig. Master Sverri had said his punishment would come later...the bastard had been planning this. 

 Somehow, Finan promised himself, he would kill that devil.

 Right now, he just held a trembling Uhtred. He could feel his own anger and horror rising but he suppressed them. The care Uhtred had given his friend was obvious and this...Finan worried it would break him even more than the oars and the beatings. Being forced to listen to his friend's cries as the sea slowly drown him, it was enough to destroy any sane man. 

 Then the order came to start rowing. 

 "Uhtred, ya must." Finan whispered, when his friend refused to move. "That bastard is watchin' and I don't think he means to kill ya. He'd have done so."

 "Halig…" He whimpered.

 "He's a dead man walkin'. There's nothin' we can do for him now." 

The Irishman tried to console but noticed his own hands were shaking. How do you prepare yourself to listen to the slow death of a friend? You cannot. He wondered if this moment would haunt the rest of his life. 

 As if in a daze, Uhtred slowly moved back into his seat and grasped the oar. His silent sobs made his shoulder quiver. 

 Not even a few minutes later, Master Sverri came over to crouch above Uhtred. "The only reason you are not dead is because I am curious as to who you are."

 "PULL!" 

 "PULL!"

 "PULL AND GIVE HIM THE PEACE OF DEATH!" 

 It was once the distant sounds of Halig's cries finally faded that Master Sverri walked away. 

 Watching everything as he pulled his own oar, Finan wondered if it would be the oar and seas that killed him and Uhtred or their despair. His ears felt as if they were bleeding while hearing Halig slowly die. Yet it was the following silence that was even worse. Tears slipped down his own cheeks, catching in his beard. What life was this to continue living? 

 A sharp, distinctly feminine cry from the front reminded him that Aine was still aboard. 

 Rage filled him, overpowering his despair. It strengthened his body, sharpening his mind. He could not give in to death now. Quickly, he wiped away the tears with the back of his hand. The despair and pain he shoved into the furthest recesses of his mind. Somehow, he had a promise to fulfill. To save a life and take another. 

 "Do not give up yet." He said aloud, both for himself and Uhtred. "Do not give up."

[mrsalwayswrite]

Anchor in the Waves- Chapter 1

Summary: Finan is a slave, forced to row ceaselessly. Betrayed by those he trusted. He believes this will be the end of his life, salt water caking him and an shackle on his ankle. Yet Fate has other plans. When he arrives in Islond for the winter, he meets her. A kindred spirit. Soon they both realize how they need the other. Can they save one another? Or will the waves and whips tear them apart?

Guys! I’m so excited to share this. I’ve always been curious about Uhtred and Finan’s time as slaves and what they endured. So of course my mind decides to run with it. 

Note- in the beginning Finan knows Uhtred as Osbert so in the first two chapters, I use Osbert to identify him. Also- Islond=Iceland, Irland=Ireland

I have everything already written so as I finish editing it, I will post. There are four chapters total.

Warnings: There are mentions of beatings, starvation, inhumane conditions, slavery. Nothing graphic though. If you can watch TLK, you’ll be fine. 

Irish translations are via google. The translations are in italics. 

Tag list: @happyveday​ @evelynshelby​

  Days and nights blurred together, one morphing into the next. The only things he knew anymore was the constant taste of salt water, the shackle around his ankle and the unending pain in his body from rowing. 

 Always rowing. 

 Finan was unsure how long he had been a slave now. Was it a month? Maybe two? Even more? Time felt meaningless now. All he knew was when he had been sold, bound and blind-folded by those he once trusted, it had been late summer. Now the ship he found himself bound to, was making its final voyage to Islond. There it would reside until the harsh winter ended and the Nordsæ was safe once again. Or however safe the sea could be. 

 When his feet finally touched dry land, tears welled in his eyes. Never before did he believe the feeling of solid ground could be so comforting. Although he did not have long to enjoy the sensation. 

 "Move, slave!" The Dane called Hakka yelled, shoving him forward. 

 Weak from lack of food and constant rowing, he stumbled against the slave in front of him, both barely able to right themselves before sprawling onto the hard ground. 

 As he stood back up, he scanned around the small village quickly. It looked like the other slaves and himself were being marched towards the large, wooden barns. There were several other buildings about- a large hall, a few smaller cottages and some others that he was unable to guess their purpose from a glance. A few local men and women came out of the buildings, calling greetings to the Danes...to the slavers, while completely ignoring the weakened slaves being driven forward by beatings and sharp words. 

 Next to, what he guessed was the main hall, stood a young woman in a thin, dirty dress and barefoot. Her dark brown hair hung in a braid over her shoulder. A wooden bucket held in her hands. For the briefest of moments their gazes met…

 ...then he tripped, just catching himself in time. 

 "Keep moving, worthless dogs!" Hakka roughly shoved Finan this time, knocking him to the ground. "Get up, slave!"

 "Go dtachtfadh an diabhal thú!" He yelled back. It was futile to fight back right now, he knew that. Maybe once he had the strength and stamina to fight the slaver without worry, but that was before he had been beaten, starved and forced to row without reprieve. It was foolish to fight back. Despite that, he was sick of being cowed constantly. For a brief moment he wanted to remember who he used to be. (May the Devil choke you!)

 That act of defiance earned him a single strike with the whip in punishment. His back burned, but he gritted his teeth and managed to push himself back on his feet to follow the other slaves. He refused to give that bastard the satisfaction of seeing him knocked down for long. 

 He and his fellow slaves were separated into small groups and distributed between the two barns. Moving slowly, he huddled against the wall, arms wrapped around his torso to preserve what warmth he could. There were gaps between the wooden slats of the walls. With nothing else to do, Finan watched those moving around the small village. The slavers, he recognized, headed straight for the main hall as soon as all the slaves were locked up in the barns. Most likely to drink and celebrate a successful voyage. 

 He hoped they choked on their ale. 

 As Finan watched, he noticed her again. It seemed she had been walking through the village, the bucket no longer in hand. As the slavers neared her on their way to the main hall, she stopped, hands clasped in front of her and face pointed down in submission. It caused him to wonder if she was a slave also. 

 There were no shackles on her, nothing to overtly demonstrate if she was a slave. Her dress was dirty and ragged, clearly something no one took pride in. Finan found himself eyeing her though. She was pretty, he could tell, even from afar. Although she appeared thin, as if meals were deemed optional for her. 

 The one who owned the slave ship, Master Sverri, stopped in front of her while the others continued by. He said something to her, causing her to shake her head. With a nod, his hand brushed her braid over her shoulder in an almost affection gesture before following the others to the main hall. 

 Once Master Sverri was out of sight, she shuddered and pulled her braid over her shoulder before continuing on her path. 

 Finan watched her until she vanished from view then closed his eyes, hoping blessed sleep would find him soon. 

 Or death. 

 *****

 Stupid. So stupid. If she got caught, a beating would surely follow. 

 Yet her feet kept moving. 

 Quietly, she crept along the line of buildings, staying in the shadows from the moon above. The Master and his wife retired to their room hours ago. The other Danes were either in their own homes or passed out drunk in the main hall. There should be no one outside. No one to witness her breaking a direct command. 

 She hoped. 

 The ship slaves had been separated into four groups, two groups to a barn. Last year the Master built specific pens to hold the slaves in, keeping only a maximum of five in a pen. In the prior years, the Master usually housed all the ship slaves together in one large pen. Though after the fire last year, he learned his lesson. 

 The barn containing the pigs and two of the groups was the more pitiful of the two barns. The other barn held a few horses the Master prized. Silently, she crept along the outer edge, keeping eyes and ears alert to any sounds. A couple times she froze at the sudden noise of shuffling or coughing, scared it was one of the Master's men out walking. Thankfully it was not. 

 Through the slats, she could see the shapes of the ship slaves inside one of the pens. Hopefully she found the right one. She thought she saw him being led here but it was only a glimpse she had been able to catch. If her attention was noticed lingering on him, questions would be asked by the Master's wife. 

 "Dia dhuit? An bhfuil tú anseo?" She whispered, praying silently in her head this was not a mistake. (Hello? Are you here?)

 There was no response besides another bout of coughing inside from the pen. It was impossible to see in the gloom on the barn, especially with the moon to her back. 

 "Dia dhuit? Éireannach?" She tried again, telling herself if he did not respond, she must leave. She could not afford to get caught here. Her death surely would follow because of what she clutched in her hand.  (Hello? Irishman?)

 Then a hoarse voice whispered back. "Sea?" A form shuffled over to where she crouched at the far corner.  (Yes?) 

 "Go tapa, tóg seo." She lowered her voice even more, barely above a whisper. She hoped the other ship slaves were sleeping or not paying attention. A sudden fear of being seen and caught threatened to suffocate her. Hurriedly, she slipped the hard biscuit through the gap in the slats into his hand. Soon as he caught it, she turned on her heel and dashed away, not waiting to hear his response. Her fear of being caught outweighed her need to hear gratitude. (Quick, take this.)

 Why she felt the compulsive need to share part of her dinner with the stranger, she honestly was unsure. When he had sworn earlier that day, shock had rooted her feet to the spot she stood. It had been over a year since she had heard her mother language. The sound brought a small hint of warmth to her soul, to hear the language she so desperately missed. Even if it was a curse thrown at the Danes that would make her mother blush. Perhaps this was her small way of thanking him for a reminder that Irland was still out there. Even if she had been stolen from it. 

 Now she had to return to her blanket on the floor and hope no one noticed her absence. 

 *****

 Not until several days later, did she manage to sneak out again. Winter's cold drew closer every day. Already a layer of frost coated the ground every morning. Snow would soon follow. 

 At the far corner of the barn, the forest behind her and the moon above, she crouched once again, voice barely above a whisper. "Éireannach?" (Irishman?)

 A form moved on the other side of the slats and his voice immediately whispered back, as if he had been waiting for her. "An Gaeilge thú?" (You are Irish?)

 "Sea. Seo." She passed him a strip of dried meat this time. (Yes. Here.)

 Before she could flee, he spoke again. "Cén chaoi a raibh a fhios agat gur Éireannach mé?" (How did you know I am Irish?)

 "Mhallaigh tú an lá a tháinig tú." (You cursed the day you arrived.)

 He softly chuckled at that, the sound pleasing to her. "Aye, ní mo nóiméad is fearr." (Not my finest moment.)

 A smile graced her face, surprising her. It felt so long since anything made her want to smile. Part of her wanted to linger, to hear him speak their native tongue and perhaps smile once more. For a short time, to pretend she was not a slave without a future. She enjoyed the sound of his voice, the beloved Irish accent and the strange underlying charm in it and his words. Yet she needed to get back though. She could not afford to get caught. "Tá orm imeacht." (I must go.)

 In the darkness, she crept back to the main hall. Surprising her was the small smile that remained on her lips as she moved in the shadows, due to the thought of him and his last statement. She found herself wanting to see him again. 

 Stupid. So stupid. 

 *****

 He swore she was an angel to bring him hope. 

 The cold seeped through the gaps in the slats, causing him to shiver all night. Most of the men stayed huddled together, to share what warmth they could, even if it was futile. Except he stayed in that far back corner of the small pen, where she would appear on the other side, cast in moonlight and with a gift for him. Only twice now she had come to him. The first time he was so shocked by her sudden appearance and the shoving food in his hand, his mind ignored her in order to devour the biscuit. He had not been fed properly in at least two days. This last time he tried to be more grateful and talk to her. Like a skittish deer sensing danger, she tore away sooner than he hoped. 

 "An bhfuil tú ann?" She softly asked, her form barely visible in the dark. (Are you there?) 

 Slowly, he turned his head and body, in a vain attempt to be closer to her but also to block the others from seeing their exchange. It was selfish but the pains in one's belly can drown out the sounds of one's morals. 

 "Aye."

 This time another hard biscuit landed in his hand but he did not complain. Food was food. Before she could disappear, he whispered a question, hoping she would stay just a few more moments. "Cad is ainm duit?" (What is your name?)

 She sharply inhaled, unmoving; but after a moment her dulcet voice came out in a rushed hush. "Aine."

 "Aine." He repeated her name, tasting it on his tongue like a fine ale. "Is mise Finan." (I am Finan.)

 "Finan, tá brón orm go bhfuil tú anseo." (Finan, I am sorry you are here.)

 Her comment surprised him but it was the sadness in her voice that made him take note. As if she knew something he was not privy to. He had not heard her wander off yet so he ventured another question. "An sclábhaí tú anseo?" (Are you a slave here?)

 He half expected her to run and never return, for how easily frightened she seemed. Then again, why should she waste her time with him? Coming out in the cold and darkness, risking herself to bring him food, it lacked sense. He watched her during the day, when she moved about the small village doing her chores, he assumed. There was not much else for him to do, except shiver and listen to his stomach complain. The other slaves barely spoke, all too focused on their own pain and cold. There was one Finan doubted would survive the winter. 

 A soft sigh from the other side of the slats told him she remained. "Ba bhronntanas mé ón Máistir Sverri dá bhean chéile." (I was a gift from Master Sverri to his wife.)

 "Tá brón orm." (I am sorry.)

 "Tá orm imeacht." (I must go.)

 "Fan!" Even to his own ears, he sounded desperate, it did not matter though. He wished there was a way to show her what her gifts of food and companionship meant to him. He could only guess she risked much to come to him like this. Yet he had nothing to offer, nothing to give besides his words, and even they he deemed meaningless yet still he gave them.  "Go raibh maith agat, Aine." (Wait! // Thank you, Aine.)

 "Slán." And with that, he could hear her nearly silent footsteps as she raced away from him. Back to the main hall, back to her own world which felt so far from his own. Even if it resided just across the village from him. (Goodbye.)

 Quickly, he ate the biscuit, licking his fingers once it was gone to prolong the stale taste. After, he slipped his arms inside of his tunic and hugged them close to his body. With no clear understanding of time besides the rising and setting of the sun, he wondered when spring would come. First, he had to survive winter. With no blankets or warm clothing and lacking proper nutrition, he worried he might not see spring. Even if Aine continued to visit him and lift his spirits for a minute with her kindness. It might not be enough. 

 The next day snow fell. 

 *****

 Months passed and the snow slowly began to melt. The sun once again brought warmth with it and the ground began to awaken from her deep slumber. 

 Master Sverri now prepared to sail the seas once again.

 He forced the ship slaves to go into the forest and fell trees for repairs needed on his ship. It was while the slaves were going to and from the forest that Aine was able to actually see Finan, more than just a voice and brief glimpses through the barn slats. His hair and beard unruly, his clothes stained and disgusting. Yet sometimes when their eyes met while in passing, there was a spark in them that reminded her...life still filled their lungs and coursed through their veins. In those quick looks, a silent message bonded them- no longer were they alone, they had a kindred spirit in one another. 

 She stood in the main hall, stoking the large fire in the center. After, she needed to go to the river and get water. The soup for tonight's dinner needed to be started. Gunnhild, Sverri's wife, helped prepare it. She was a strict woman, and if Aine was late to bring the water, the slave usually was forced to forgo her own dinner in punishment for making others wait. 

 "Girl, refill my cup." Master Sverri commanded, sitting at a long table. A piece of parchment in front of him, and a furrow between his brows as he stared at it. Occasionally, he would make marks on it or curse under breath. He had been sitting there for the past several minutes, slowly drinking his ale and staring at the parchment but had paid no mind to her as she completed chores. 

 Immediately, she rose from the side of the fire to grab the pitcher of ale from the kitchen and bring it back with her. Without a word, she poured the liquid, extra careful to not spill on the parchment. Even if she was not sure what it was for, it looked important. A harsh punishment would surely follow if she damaged it in any way. 

 It was when she was mid-pour that she felt his hand slip behind her to caress her waist and glide downward. 

 She stiffened but continued pouring, unable to escape his wandering hand. Over the past weeks his touches had become more common and bold. Nothing to cause her to fear him, he had never hit or beat her unlike his wife. Yet she knew what those touches meant, how his gaze slid over her body like oil sometimes. It had not gone unnoticed by her or others that if Master Sverri's men tried to touch her, he harshly rebuked them. 

 The door to the hall opened and in walked one of his men. 

 "What?" Master Sverri growled; his hand remained on her arse. 

 The man, Magnus, stepped closer. The dragon tattoo on his bald head always frightened her, but not as much as his leering gaze or hand quick to deliver slaps when the Master was not looking. "The ship slaves are returned for the day. After tomorrow we will have enough wood to repair the hull."

 "Good." When Magnus did not leave, Master Sverri raised his eyebrows then waved his hand to indicate his man should speak. 

 "The men grow bored. More slaves survived the winter than expected. Harald said we should let some fight. Make it a sacrifice for safe seas this year."

 "Mmm." Master Sverri removed his hand from Aine, using it to rub the side of his face where his tattoo was and down through his beard.  

 She took this as her cue to leave. Swiftly, she made her way back towards the kitchen, but not before leaving the jug of ale on the table so the Master would have no need for her to refill his cup. Just inside the door of the kitchen, she paused to listen to his answer. 

 "After supper tonight. Tell the slaves that the winner will be able to eat the leftovers from our supper. That will make them fight harder. Once the fight is over, we will sacrifice the winner. We can spare two slaves. It will be easy to get more from Yunis. That should bring enough entertainment for now."

 Her heart pounded in her chest, threatening to alert the Master with how loud it was. All she could think of was Finan fighting in hopes of getting food then instead being killed, all because of others' boredom. 

 She must warn him. 

 Ignoring the others in the kitchen, she snatched her water bucket and dashed out. She hoped it only looked like she feared the wrath of Gunnhild and left to get water like every day. When in reality, she was terrified for her friend. 

 "Finan." She hissed harshly, kneeling at the back corner where they always met. The forms of the men in the pen could be seen so she knew he had to be in there. Her fear for his life outweighed her rationale to be discreet. The other slaves would certainly question why she was here and why Finan was so familiar with her. Truthfully, she feared one of them would inform the Danes about her visits in hopes of a reward. Yet her secret visits continued. Stupid. So stupid. 

 "Aine?" He whispered back, confusion evident. 

 "Tá troid le bheith ann anocht i measc beirt de na sclábhaithe long. Déarfaidh siad go bhfaigheann an buaiteoir ithe. Ná iarr troid. Gheobhaidh an bheirt bás. Íobairtfear an buaiteoir. Le do thoil, Finan. Geall nach dtroidfidh tú." (There is to be a fight tonight amongst two of the ship slaves. They will say the winner gets to eat. Do not ask to fight. Both will die. The winner will be sacrificed. Please, Finan. Promise you will not fight.)

 His hand reached through the small hole he had made under the slats, gripping hers tightly. "Geallaim, Aine." (I promise, Aine.)

 "Go raibh maith agat. Tiocfaidh mé anocht." (Thank you. I will come tonight.)

 With that she released his hand and ran towards the river. In one hand she held the handle for the empty bucket. The other one, the one Finan had held, she fisted against her chest, trying desperately to retain the warmth of his touch just a little longer. Even if it was only in her mind.

 He had surprised her by knocking away a rotten part of one of the slats, creating a hole just big enough to slip his hand out of but small enough to not get noticed and need to be fixed. It had made passing the food through easier- what she thought the purpose of the hole was for. 

 Yet that quickly became a secondary notion. 

 Something shifted between them the first time he grabbed her hand, grasping it gently, as he peered at her as best as he could through the slats where he sat. She had been startled but not frightened. He never once gave her meaning to be frightened of him. If anything, he became a pillar of strength for her. His hand had been shaking slightly from the cold. Without a conscious thought, she cupped his hand between her own and rubbed them together, trying to warm it up even a little. He had teased that there was no need for a fire when a beautiful woman was there to keep him warm. 

 She snorted and told him to shut his mouth, trying to deflect his teasing. The blush heating her cheeks told the real story of how his words affected her. 

 Every time after, when she managed to sneak away and bring him food, they held one another's hand while they talked. It was only a few minutes, she feared staying longer and being caught, but she found herself looking forward to it….and missing his touch throughout the day. 

 Spring was coming though. Soon Master Sverri would leave and the ship slaves with him. Many of those slaves never returned. 

 Was it selfish of her to hope Finan survived? That she might see him once again, even with the torment he would undeniably endure. Was it selfish?

 *****

 She clutched his hand tightly between her own, as if that alone would save them. For a long time neither spoke. Words not enough. They held onto each other, a physical representation of the anchor they provided for one another these past months. 

 Tomorrow he would board the ship and sail away. She doubted she would ever see him again. 

 "Aine." He breathed out her name, an almost sweet caress in how he said it. "Tú ... tá tú láidir. Mairfidh tú seo." (You...you are strong. You will survive this.)

 Tears slipped down her cheeks but she refused to let go of his hand to wipe them away. Instead she pressed her forehead against the slats. If anyone saw her, it would look like she was praying, hands before her, head bowed while on her knees. Yet none of her prayers had been answered for years, so she no longer uttered them. 

 An almost indistinguishable pressure alerted her that he had pressed his forehead to hers. Something they had never done before. It felt strangely intimate, even though the slats separated them. If she opened her eyes, she could almost see their frosted breaths interweaving, blending into the air around them as one. 

 "Tá mé ag dul a chailleann tú." She finally murmured, fear making her voice hitch. (I am going to miss you.)

 "Agus mise tú." (And I you.)

 She needed to walk away, the longer she stayed the more likely she was to get caught. Yet she could not pull herself away. Not now. Not on the eve of their lives being torn from one another. 

 "Ná bíodh imní ort faoi mo chinniúint. Is é toil Dé anois é. Dírigh ort féin." (Do not worry about my fate. Its God's will now. Focus on yourself.)

 "Is fear maith thú, Finan. Tá mé ... tá áthas orm aithne a chur ort." (You are a good man, Finan. I am... I am glad to know you.)

 A sound between a chuckle and a sob passed his lips. He inhaled a harsh breath before whispering. "Is dóigh liom go bhfuil easpa ionchais ar fhir. B’fhéidir go gcaithfí é sin a leigheas." (I feel your expectations of men are lacking. Might need to remedy that.)

 She gave a quiet laugh but said no more. 

 They stayed that way for another few minutes, sharing what strength they had between them. For when the sun rose, both of them would no longer feel whole. The whips and the waves to tear them apart. 

 "Tá rud éigin agam duit." She claimed one of her hands to pull some strips of fabric under her breast-band, where she had stuffed them earlier. She placed them in his hand, wrapping his fingers around it. "Tá sé do so lámha. Déan iad a fhilleadh timpeall do phalms. B’fhéidir go gcabhróidh sé beagáinín le…" She trailed off awkwardly, not wanting to think about or remind him of what was to come. (I have something for you. // It's for your hands. Wrap them round your palms. It might help a little with…)

 "Go raibh maith agat, Aine, go fírinneach." (Thank you, Aine, truly.)

 "Slán, Finan." (Good bye, Finan.)

 "Slán, a stòr." (Good bye, my treasure)

 With one final squeeze of their hands, she rose and walked away. Finally, she wiped the tears from her face, only for them to be replaced by fresh ones. 

 The night and future had never seemed so dark before.

  *****

 Finan leaned back against the side of the ship, watching the man who sat in front of him comfort his friend. He could see Osbert whispering something to Halig, trying to calm him down, to not draw further attention to himself. His wailing for land had drawn notice and would have been his cause for a whipping if Osbert had not covered him with his own body. 

 There was something, a secret they kept close to their chests. Halig, though, his strength was failing, both strength of mind and body. He was lucky though, Osbert was always there to encourage him. 

 Looking away from them, his thumbs gently rubbed against the cloth protecting the palms of his hands. If he closed his eyes, he could almost remember her in the moonlight, her hands holding his own, silent tears running down her cheeks. 

 What she would never know was after she left, he had to stick his fist against his mouth to muffle his own sobs. 

 He had sworn earlier that day to Osbert that he would kill the slaver Hakka for he was a right bastard that enjoyed inflicting torment. In his own mind, he also made a promise to himself. If he managed to get free, he would save her. Somehow, he would rescue her from her own captivity. 

 He glanced over as Osbert leaned back against the side of the ship, eyes closed, bottom lip trembling. Silently, he reached over and placed a hand on Osbert's shoulder for a long second before retracting it. 

 Osbert had spoken of escape often, under the cover of darkness and the stars above. Once they returned to Islond, there had to be a way he insisted. Finan was unsure but the raging fire that burned in Osbert's blue eyes was enough for him to quickly agree. If there was anyone bound to figure out a way, it was this man. 

 "Back to work, slaves!" Hakka screamed, readying his whip for any man that did not move fast enough. "Pull! Pull!" 

 Finan closed his eyes for a brief moment as he placed his hands back on the oar. This would not be his fate. 

 This would not be his end.

 Or hers.