#osferth x keavy

[arcielee]

Farewell Wanderlust

Warnings: As always, MDNI, 18+ SA mentioned in passing/implied, abuse implied, death mentioned in passing, sexual inexperience, prostitution, oral (f receiving), p in v.  Pairing: Osferth x OFC Word Count: 5075 Summary: Torn from her home country, Keavy finds herself trying to survive across the Irish sea. She happens across Uhtred and his motley crew, and finds herself befriending a monk who is determined to become a warrior.  Author’s Note: Still very much a hybrid of the show and the books, with me adding flare as needed to fit the narrative. We have 2 more chapters to go! Anyway, enjoy.  💜     Thank you @annikin-im-panicin​ for being my beta reader and my muse! 💜  Please let me know if you would like to be added to the taglist! Dividers are by @saradika​ Taglist (Tumblr kindred spirits): @aaaaaamond​ @watercolorskyy​ @schniiipsel​ @sylas-the-grim​ @aemondx​ @fan-goddess​ @babygirlyofthevale​ @httpsdoll​ @theromanticegoist​ @tssf-imagines​ @triscy @assortedseaglass​ @whoknows333​ @shesjustanothergeek​ @heavenly1927​ @greenowlfactif​ @larlarle @babyblue711​ @fangirlninja67​ @tinykryptonitewerewolf​ @lauftivy​ @vintageypanwitch​ @heimtathurs​ (Bold means it would not allow me to tag you!)

Chapter 5

Keavy did her best to keep busy, as her mind now seemed plagued to relive that failed intimate moment with Osferth before he had left for Beamfleot. 

She thought of the warmth that bloomed from him that evening in the barracks, and how it prickled beneath her palms while her hands skimmed across his scalp. Her eyes appreciated the sharp angles of his face, admiring his defined jawline, his pointed profile of his nose to the natural curl of his pink lips. She noticed how his eyes were clenched, his knuckles white with the hold on his lap, and she allowed her fingers to skirt his jaw, cupping his face; only then did he open his eyes to look at her.  

Keavy remembered the plume of crimson that washed over his cheeks as he lifted his hand to cover her own, and he turned his face to press the mouth she was just admiring against her palm, his lips soft. It was cold with his release and her arms fell boneless to her sides, watching as he stood up and pressing closer towards her. 

She struggled to breath as his large palms moved to rest on her hips, and she was certain she was vibrating with the way her heart fluttered within, but Osferth did not seem to notice. Instead, he just asked her, “May I kiss you?” 

It had to be her curse, her misfortune, that the damn Irishman chose that moment to barge through the door without thought, wearing a knowing smirk that played underneath his beard when he saw how they recoiled from one another. After Finan left them, she watched Osferth grab for his scabbard and she felt desperate for his touch, to kiss him, the tingle of his lips on her palm thrumming with the thought to capture his mouth with her own. 

Somewhat emboldened, she had reached for him but only managed to catch his sleeve. She balked under his brilliant blue eyes and could only manage to say, “Return to me, Osferth.” 

And she could feel the blood rush to her face from the small smile he hinted, from how careful he was to take her hand and the touch of his soft lips to her knuckles, with a gentleness that caused her heart to bruise against her chest bone. 

I will, Keavy. I promise. 

It was the echo of his words that fed a passion that fermented within her; she wished she would have kissed him and that intrusive thought repeated itself, filling the quiet. So Keavy was determined to stay busy, attentive to Gisela, to the children, to any task needed to be done as she waited for Osferth and the others to return.  

“Regret is a useless, poisonous emotion,” Gisela had warned her but with her honeyed tone. 

Keavy found there was only so much that could be done in a day before the quiet would come, accompanying the orange and purple hues of dusk, bringing along an unease that settled over like a heavy fog. 

That evening, after the children were already abed, Keavy seated with Hild and Gisela at the table for a shared supper with a second round of the bitter ale; it was to help the time pass, but mostly she swirled the last bit at the bottom without taking a sip.

Gisela was mending a tunic, her focus on her stitching. “They will come back.” She did not look up from her hands but her voice was soothing, like she was stating a fact. “Uhtred always comes back,” and only then did she peer up at Keavy, wearing her sly smile. “Besides, did not Osferth promise he would return?” 

Keavy burned with the direct question, her focus on the wood grain table as she ignored the soft laughter that fluttered between them. It was then that the door of the great hall creaked open, and the head of Edwin bobbed in excitedly. “Lady, they returned!” 

The return of the Lord of Coccham reawakened the village with a roar of celebration. Bundles of sticks were brought and bonfires lit, creating pillars of warmth that spread throughout the growing night’s cool air. The doors to the hall were propped open, with the music of a lute, a vielle, and shawm reverberating throughout. The table was filled with cold cuts, cheeses, fruits, and mugs were passed around, the same bitter ale served for all in attendance; it was easy to be swept away, but Keavy pushed through with a determination to her steps. 

She spotted Uhtred seated with Gisela pulled onto his lap; she glowed with laughter, with her felicity that her husband was back, and he seemed happy, mostly, but sorrow was pendent amongst the warriors returned. Keavy noted missing faces, Rypere and Clapa, unmistakingly gone, and soon there were toasts to confirm, cheers for those who were lost and now in Valhalla.

Keavy fell back against a wall, allowing her eyes to sweep over the faces in search of one in particular. It was Finan who brought her attention, with his loud bellow to cheer the champion of Beamfleot, and that is when she saw him. 

Osferth cut through the crowd, a beacon with his broad smile that lined his cheeks with his dimples, the bloom of red blotches that peeked through his pale complexion. His eyes met with hers and she saw the crinkle that framed the corners before he broke away, weaving through the crowd and reaching for her hand. 

Keavy took it, as she understood she always would for as long as it was offered. She followed as he pushed through, pulling her out front and away from the noise; the festivities seemed muted within the hall, though the music still spilled through the open doors and dissipated into the night. 

They walked towards one of the bonfires and he stopped to face her, a golden hue of color from the flames that washed over him, giving him an almost kingly glow. 

And Keavy felt the same desire bloom in her lower abdomen, the flutter of her heart with the realization that he was now close enough to touch, to reach for him, to press onto her tiptoes and press her lips against his own. 

“You came back,” she said instead, burning from her intrusive thoughts. She could not stop her smile, so bold that she felt the ache of her scar with the gesture.  

“I told you I would,” his tone was solemn, but she saw how his lips curled upwards with his words. Osferth exhaled and then reached to pull something from his waist, a large blade with a handle of leather bindings about the width of a wrist. 

Her stomach lurched with recognition and her eyes met with his, wide and searching. “He is dead?” her voice was almost too quiet to be heard. 

But he always seemed to be listening. “I killed Sigefriend, “ he confirmed as he placed it in her outstretched hands. “This is for you.” 

The steel was cool against her palm and the blood sticky around the base, but she recognized it all the same, even without the detailed scabbard Sigefrid had worn over it. Its weight was an anchor, rooting her to the spot as she processed his words.

That Osferth had killed Sigefrid, how he brought her the blade of the man who once tormented her, and with it so much more. 

It was another moment that passed before the men called out for Osferth, their blotto cryouts echoing into the night and beckoning him to come back. Keavy watched Osferth and how he brightened with the newfound comradery that battle always seemed to bring. 

He looked back at her, almost pained to stay. She knew this was the acceptance he craved, his place knitted amongst Uhtred and his men; as much as she wished to reach for him, to press against his chest and capture his mouth, she instead softened her smile. “Go,” she encouraged. “Enjoy your night, champion of Beamfleot.” 

There was a flush of color to his features, or perhaps it was the warm tones of the fire they stood by. Osferth bowed his head and left her poised, her hands sticky with the blood stained leather she gripped before she finally returned to her room. 

Only when she was behind the closed door did she allow her tears to freely flow, an overwhelming relief to know Osferth was safe, that Sigefrid was dead, but an ache that still seemed to haunt her. 

She looked down at the dagger that was no longer attached to that Dane, as he was no longer alive in this world. Keavy had sought Osferth for a kiss and instead, whether intentional or not, he had given her control of her life, of her destiny once again.

With this gift, Osferth showed that blood of a warrior that was interwoven with the royal ichor in his veins and Keavy thought to the last night with her maim, her last words spoken–you are far too pretty to survive across the sea, and it seemed that curse followed across the Irish sea with her.

She knew, in time, that Osferth would find a beautiful woman better suited for the status he was creating. Nonetheless, she swore her devotion to him, in whatever capacity that he would have her; Keavy knew she would be content to be a part of it, all the same. 

 + + + +

Love is a powerful thing, the priest Pyrlig once said. 

For Keavy, the emotion was cradled next to the vengeance rekindled by the gift of the blade Osferth brought her. She awoke early the next day and found Hild, determined to prepare as a warrior; the nun said nothing, but accompanied her to the blacksmith where she requested the steel to be forged into a seax. 

They returned to find the chainmail that Hild gifted her and she smiled when she saw Keavy with it on. “You are a bit taller than me. It suits you better,” and Gisela agreed. 

Stiorra watched them, her eyes wide with the sight before she announced that when she was grown, that she would also become a warrior. Gisela picked her up with a kiss to her cheek. “You have time to train until then, little one.”

And so with her secondhand armor, her seax and dagger, Keavy would accompany Uhtred and his men when they traveled the shores of the Temes, clearing out Danes and slavers. She was quick with her smaller blades and always welcomed any tidbits offered from Finan or Sihtric; she also enjoyed the intimacies she would share with Osferth, from how he rode alongside with her, to how they would stay up late around the fire. 

When they were called to action, to fight, she found a sense of satisfaction with the bloodshed, with how it would soak into the earth while one miserable soul was chosen to return with a heeded warning. 

Uhtred towered over, the tip of Serpent-Breath pressing into the throat of the chosen survivor. “You will go back to your rats’ nest and tell anyone who cares to listen,'' his tone would warn, “beyond Lunden the River Temes belongs to King Alfred and it is guarded by Uhtred of Bebbanburg.” 

For the longer campaigns, Keavy would remain in Coccham. Time seemed stagnant, the only hint of its passing was the change in the weather, from the summer rains to the large autumn leaves that blanketed the ground, and always a crisp chill that perpetually hung in the night’s air. 

Life would always bloom with their return, whether for a day, a month, or longer, and Keavy cherished the time she was allowed with Osferth. He would return unannounced, a welcomed shadow as he watched over her care of the children. 

He would step in to help with their studies, as Oswald developed a passion for the written word and Osferth hummed his pride. “A scholar at heart,” he said, tapping him on his nose and the boy blushed, giggling. 

“What will Uhtred say,” Keavy was smiling as she braided back Stiorra’s hair–the girl no longer had the taste of patience for flowers to be woven, adamant that a warrior would not have the time. “What will he think when he finds out that his only son wishes to learn and his only daughter has a growing bloodlust?” 

“I will remind him that knowledge is a weapon as well,” and there was a dust of pink across his cheeks with his returned smile, “and that I will do my diligence so his children are formidably armed.” 

Keavy admired how the years matured Osferth, how his face had leaned and his sharp features hardened, but that same kindness complemented the cerulean blue of his eyes still. He was lean, but his shoulders broadened and were toned from his years of wielding a sword; he’d grown apt behind the blade in a way that Uhtred boasted. 

Always unchanging was the comfort she felt within his proximity, and how she remained ever-present whenever he was in Coccham. She was elated with their return in time for the blōt month celebration; cattle were slaughtered and there was ale by the tun so no tankard was ever empty, while the instruments were freshly strung and ballads twanged into the night, accompanied with heorisms regaled both bold and loud. 

Keavy found her way to his side, as she always had, and he seemed anxious to pull her away, off into the night, by a fire as if they were back on the shores of the Temes. The glow of the flames caused shadows to dance across his features, his same severity with his furrowed brow. 

Her own quirked with his demeanor. “What’s the matter, Osferth?”

“What am I to you?” His voice was soft with his question.

It was unexpected and she felt her cheeks burned, watching him carefully before she realized the quiet beneath the stars and the roared celebration that spilled from the great hall. “What am I to you, Keavy?” he repeated, his arms folding behind and resting on his lower back. 

It was a moment before she could find the words. “You are everything to me, Osferth,” she began, truthfully, as her tongue unstuck from the roof of her mouth. She willed herself to close the space between them, but found she was rooted to the earth. “You awoke a warrior within me that I was not sure even existed, and allowed me to take control of my life, my destiny,” her eyes finally looked to him and his lips drew into a thin line, “I owe you everything and even then it cannot compare to what you have given me.” 

Osferth looked away, unaware of how her hand fell to the hilt of her seax when she finished. He was quiet and she then stepped forward, pressing to the balls of her feet and pressing her lips to his cheek. He turned to look as she pulled back, the ghost of a kiss across his lips. 

Keavy paused a moment, her hand still resting on his chest and her tongue wet her lips to taste him, before she pulled away. She meant to return to the barracks, but instead her feet pulled her outside the gates and towards the docks.

Only then could she finally breathe, and her exaggerated exhale caught the attention of a familiar shadowed embrace: Uhtred standing behind Gisela, his arms wrapped around her growing belly. Even though it was early in the pregnancy, Gisela told her she was confident it was another boy. 

She faltered, deciding to leave and allow them their privacy when she heard Uhtred call to her. “Keavy!” And she shyly made her way forward, grateful how the night hid the warmth she felt in her cheeks. 

“You are hiding from someone,” Gisela smiled with her words.

“I am,” she admitted.

Gisela looked to her husband and they both turned to face her, allowing the light of the stars and the moon to highlight them. “And who might be bothering you?” 

“No one, lady,” Keavy was quick to correct, then paused before she added, “I feel I am the one who is bothering him.”

Her smirk remained. “Well, then, who is it you are bothering?” 

“Osferth, lady.”

And there was a look that was shared between husband and wife, something Keavy was both aware and unaware with their silent exchange. Gisela pressed a kiss to the underside of Uhtred’s jaw and she smiled as she whispered in his ear. 

“Keavy,” Uhtred exhaled. “You could not bother him, as the man is hopelessly smitten with you.” 

The warmth in her cheeks now burned. “Lord?”

“Osferth,” he clarified and Keavy looked to see how Gisela smiled at her, the mixture of her excitement and her smugness. “He is besotted with you, Keavy, and has been for years. You should go to him, as I fear he will never make the first move.”  

His words echoed in her head and she looked again to Gisela. “I told you, fate has brought you here for a reason,” she reminded Keavy. “But you must allow yourself a chance.” 

And with those words, she rushed back.  

 + + + +

For Osferth, it began with the constant jesting from Finan and Sihtric, how they teased him about what they said was only an infatuation, but he knew otherwise. He agreed with the priest, that love was a powerful thing but it was also maddening. 

In truth, he was unsure how to approach the subject, to recreate that moment spoiled, and instead swore a silent devotion with its partnered torment. Osferth could not help but adore Keavy, with the wit she carried and her smile that remained with him when he was away from Coccham. Though he did not care for the risk, he respected her natural tenacity with her smaller blades, and a warmth curled in his chest when she showed him the seax crafted. 

“I carry it with me, always,” she had told him. 

When she joined them, he made sure to keep at her side. When he paced his horse with her own, he would remember how well she had fit in front of him, his cheeks burning with their conversations; Keavy would give updates of Oswald, how the boy asked for him, how Stiorra been given a wooden sword and sulked because she wished for steel. 

At night when they camped and the men curled around the fire for whatever warmth they could get, it was Keavy and Osferth who were the last to fall asleep with their soft murmuring that fluttered between them. With the autumn months, there was a beginning frost that covered the ground and with it a threat of snowfall that hovered heavy, chilling in the air. But for Osferth, it was excuse enough. 

“If it is too cold…” and he balked for his words, watching the smile that curled on her face.  

“May I move closer to you, Osferth?” she finished for him and he nodded mutely as she moved her mat and furs, cuddling close to him in a way that almost felt sinful. She nestled against his chest, an enveloped warmth, and his heart beat until his bones rattled, but soon her soft breathing lulled him to sleep. 

When morning came, he woke with a shadow that spread over and saw how Sihtric watched, his bicolor gaze steady and his brow lifted. Osferth appreciated the Dane’s discretion, a silence as they broke down the camp and returned to Coccham; not a word was spoken until they were back on the road again. 

“Osferth,” Finan sounded pained. “Fuck her already, I’m begging ya,” and Osferth reddened from the bold words, “or fuck someone. To get over one woman, you can get underneath another, but this pining is insufferable.” 

“Traitor,” Osferth breathed and Sihtric only grinned.

They eventually stopped in a city on the skirts of the kingdoms, a place where Finan and Sihtric pooled their silver and bought a woman for Osferth. She was lovely, with vivid blue eyes that peered from under dark lashes, bold against the auburn shade of her hair that was glossy and held a floral scent. Her smile was framed with full lips, her hand slipping into his own and beckoning him to follow her to her bed. 

In the privacy of her quarters, she was incredulous with his request. “You only wish… to learn?”

“Yes, lady,” and he pursed his lips, his drawn expression decorated with the bloom of red blotches. 

“And that is all, truly?”

Osferth only nodded.

“Oh, my,”  and her realization glowed, warming her painted features. “You are in love?” 

He could not answer her but his silence was confirmation enough; with the silver already paid, she disrobed and pulled him towards the mattress with her pitied gaze. She was kind, patient with him, with her soft guidance of his hands to explore the anatomy of a woman with his fingertips. He had enough intuition to follow in tandem to her soft pants and gasps, a glow of pride watching the bloom of her climax flutter over and the clench around his digits that confirmed her release. 

She was flushed and laid against the pillows, her heart thrumming underneath the sweat sheen glow of her bare skin. “May I see what you have to offer?” her curiosity had the best of her when she finally regained her breath. 

Osferth obediently disrobed and she felt her thighs clench at the sight of him. “My lord,” she breathed, a lusty haze over her half-lidded eyes. “Are you certain that you do not want to lay with me?” 

He did not, but thanked her for the services rendered. The following day, as they made their way back to Coccham, did Osferth relive those intimate moments, his mind flitting over the instructions of the whore while also shamefully wondering what sweet sounds Keavy capable of, and how he wished to find out. 

“It is hopeless, lord,” the bawdy tone of the Irishman brought him back to the present moment, atop his horse with the crisp air licking his face. Osferth peered towards the men and their smiles exchanged. Uhtred did not look back, but he saw how the corners of his eyes crinkled as well. “We thought the whore would clean his mind of her, but here he is…” 

“Helplessly besotted?” Uhtred offered and only then did his head turn, a kind glimmer in the blue of his eyes. “Osferth, what do you intend to do about this? Allow this pining to accompany you across Northumbria?” 

He still was not sure.

“A woman has telltale signs–”

“He is oblivious of them, lord!” Finan cut in. 

Uhtred continued over the low chortle from the rest of the men. “There will be a moment presented and you will only need to respond to it.” 

Coccham was already thrumming with celebration for the blood month when they returned. Osferth cleaned and changed, weaving throughout the crowds and its combination of music playing and laughter, the rich spices of cooked meat and spilled ale heavy in the air. 

Osferth was determined to find her and Keavy followed him, without question, without hesitation, and they came to the outskirts of the festivities, distant enough to allow some privacy. The golden amber of the fire made her glow, a warmth to her features, accentuating the gold ring that complemented her green eyes and her smile exaggerating the dimple from the scarring on her cheekbone.

She has suffered so much, it reminded him. Uncertainty settled over him and came out in the question. “What am I to you?”

And her answer was lyrical, painting him in a light he did not feel was earned. He felt morose, as though there was a debt owed, so lost in that thought that he only caught the end of the kiss; he tried to catch her arm, to bring her close. 

Instead, he allowed her to walk away. 

Osferth remained rooted to the spot, his eyes looking over the flames that licked the logs and he heard the bawdy tone, once again, of the Irishman. “Don’t let my pet name rot your brain, baby monk,” and he looked to see his mug raised towards him. “You are still a man.” 

His words sparked and Osferth left with a renewed vitality to his steps as he made his way towards the barracks, his knuckles rapping with urgency against her door. Moments ticked away before he realized its vacancy, and felt the returned uncertainty that smothered his fire to find her. Instead, he slipped into his room, lighting a candle and sinking into the mattress, his head heavy in his hands. 

There was a soft tap on his closed door and he did not look up, just a muffled call out. “Come in,” knowing already it would be Sihtric, or Finan perhaps, coming to tease him still. 

But it was a quiet entrance, accompanied with the familiar scent of rosemary and thyme, with the hint of rose petals. He looked up to see Keavy close the door behind her, leaning against flushed with the pink hues that spilled from her cheeks to her chest, that rose and fell with her silent breaths. 

Osferth was quick to push himself to stand, a step towards her. “Keavy, earlier, what I meant to ask you–” 

His question was stilled on his tongue as she moved to press her lips against his, the welcomed warmth as she melded against his chest. It was chaste and when she shifted, his arms moved to wrap around the small of her waist, pulling her flush against him. With his soft moan, her tongue was hesitant to taste but he reciprocated, meeting with the languid pace she set. 

Her touch was shy and his fingers flitted over, taking their turns to remove layers until they were both bare. He noted her trepidation, the solemn expression that robbed him of her sweet smile that he always carried with him. Osferth cupped her face and she leaned into his touch, his thumb careful to trail the scar along her jawbone. 

“I would never hurt you,” he whispered with a kiss, a promise. “I will only go as far as you allow.” 

His heart pulled with the curl of her lips, the glimmer of gold halo from the candle lit reflecting in her eyes. “I know,” and Keavy kissed him again.

Osferth combed his fingers through her soft curls, the smell of roses now lingering with his touch, and he pulled her closer, walking her towards the bed. She moved to lay back against the mattress and his pupils swallowed the blue of his eyes at the sight of her, with how the rose coloring flushed her in the most enticing way. 

Keavy pushed back up to her elbows and his gaze watched the natural slope of her breasts, the soft folds of her curves. “Osferth,” her words were both bashful and bold. “Come here.” 

And he obliged, kneeling between her like before an altar, his lips touching the inside of her knee with a trail of open-mouthed kisses towards her center, hot against the silk of her thighs and each carefully placed to savor, to bask in a scent that was so intimately her own. 

The sweet sounds that spilled from her kiss-swollen lips caused his cock to twitch. “Osferth,” she breathed, her back arching with his touch, taking handfuls of his dirty blonde locks, pulling him closer. 

His palms molded into the inside of her thighs, a gentle squeeze so she was aware as he moved towards her center, his fingers flitting through her dark curls over her silken folds. His tongue was tentative, gentle to begin, and listening for the unmistakable gasp that left her lips, fueled from the passion that was curling at the base of her spine and pinning her to the bed. Oferth hummed against her cunt and her thighs tightened around his face, but he pressed forward with the curl of one finger, and then another, pushing within her velvet walls until she melted with his touch. 

“Osferth,” tears brimmed her eyes, her words, and her hands grasped at the bedsheets. “Please, don’t stop.” 

He hummed again and its vibration, in tandem with the ministrations of his fingers, his mouth, tipped her over the edge. Her ecstasy spilled, flushing throughout her body, a ripple of gooseflesh and her nipples peaked with her pleasure as he continued throughout its entirety, and before he pulled his fingers from her, he placed a gentle kiss to the bloom above her entrance. 

As he cleaned his fingers, she reached to pull him towards her, capturing his mouth with a hungry rapture, enjoying her taste on his lips. His kisses and caresses renewed, with an unadulterated adoration for every inch of her skin bared. 

“Osferth,” she begged between pants, “I need you.” 

Osferth burned with her words and was careful to shift his weight, a genial glide as he sheathed inside her cunt. He paused, burying his face into her neck so she was unable to see his pained expression from how she clenched, steadying his breath as she feathered kisses along his jaw, to the soft divot underneath. 

This is how it is meant to be, was the sweet thought that waltzed across her mind as he turned to capture her mouth. Keavy hummed against his lips, “Osferth, please,” she repeated and only then did he begin to rock against her hips. 

The slow motion of his hips rekindled a prurient pleasure that coiled within her, her nails biting against his pale skin and leaving crescent marks on his shoulders. Osferth panted between his fevered kisses against the curve of her neck and she mewled pitifully with the crash of her second release, with a clenching desperation for his own peak and he groaned, with a low rumble from the back of his throat as he followed after. 

She settled against his chest, curled in the bedsheets and their bare limbs entangled, with nothing but the soft exchange of their breaths. In the quiet, there was a burning curiosity and she dared to ask him. “How long have you felt this, Osferth?” 

And she felt his rumbled hum vibrate throughout his chest before he answered. “Always,” and then he placed a gentle kiss on her hairline.  

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[arcielee]

Farewell Wanderlust

Warnings:  SA mentioned in passing/implied, abuse implied, death mentioned in graphic detailing (because it was deserved) and overall sexism because it is the 9th century. As always, MDNI, 18+ Pairing: Osferth x OFC Word Count: 4857 Summary: Torn from her home country, Keavy finds herself trying to survive across the Irish sea. She happens across Uhtred and his motley crew, and finds herself befriending a monk who is determined to become a warrior.   Author’s Note: This chapter is definitely a hybrid of the show vs the books, with me adding flare to what happened to fit the narrative for this story as it is the fanfiction way. Anyway, enjoy. 💜     Thank you to my darling beta reader @aspen-carter for helping me with this chapter. 💜 Please let me know if you would like to be added to the taglist! Dividers are by @saradika Taglist (Tumblr kindred spirits): @aaaaaamond​ @annikin-im-panicin @watercolorskyy @schniiipsel @aemondx @fan-goddess @babygirlyofthevale @httpsdoll @theromanticegoist @triscy @assortedseaglass @whoknows333 @shesjustanothergeek @heavenly1927 @greenowlfactif @larlarle @babyblue711 @fangirlninja67 @tinykryptonitewerewolf​ @lauftivy​ @tssf-imagines​ (bold means I was unable to tag you!) 

Chapter 4

Coccham thrummed with the return of their lord, and his stride brimmed with an almost arrogance as Uhtred entered the great hall. Keavy thought it endearing to see how he greeted Gisela, how she glowed when his arms wrapped around her waist and pulled her in for a kiss. 

“I have the monk you sent me,” she said, pulling back with her brow raised, her lips curled upwards. 

Uhtred had his own roguish grin. “He has left that life behind and wishes to serve me instead.”

Now both her brows raised, with a hum to acknowledge what he said, and then Gisela beckoned to Keavy to follow behind as they moved back towards the small side room. With their entrance, Osferth pushed to sit upright, his dirty blonde hair mussed, and he smothered a groan. He looked expectantly around before his gaze settled on Gisela. 

“I understand you left the monastery,” her tone held no judgment, and her smile remained on her lips. “You truly wish to serve a heathen, Osferth?”

Keavy peered at Uhtred and saw his brow quirked, his expression amused by his wife’s blunt tongue, but Osferth remained focused, his lips pursed in a thin line. “My uncle Leofric told me your husband is a good man, lady,” and he then looked up to meet her eyes. “A great man.” 

“He said that?” Uhtred of Bebbanburg had a presence preceded by reputation; he was fearsome, tall and built solid, but with Osferth’s words, he seemed to soften at the mention of Leofric. 

“Yes, he did, lord.” 

Gisela ignored her husband, her eyes still focused on Osferth. “And yet, this good man will let you join him for one reason only,” and then she looked to her husband. “To embarrass Alfred.” 

His gaze fell back to Uhtred and he nodded. “It’s true.” 

Osferth brought his legs to the side, pushing himself to stand; though Uhtred was tall, he just peeked just past his height. “That may be the reason you allow me to join you, lord,” and there was a determination that burned, complementing the blue of his eyes. “But I will give you a reason to let me stay.” 

Amusement flickered over his features again, and then Uhtred called for them both to be brought to rooms of their own, back at the barracks that housed his men; there were vacant rooms at the end, with Osferth’s next to her own. 

And Keavy began to find a sense of comfort within Coccham’s walls, beginning with the friendships of Gisela and the abbess.

As a grown woman, Keavy had a newer appreciation for the wit and the conversation of Lady Gisela, and she adored Keavy in return, as well as the extra set of hands to help her with the homestead. The children were taken with the Irishwoman: Stiorra was fearless with her affections, whereas Oswald was more reserved, but still offered shy smiles and would always come when she called. 

The friendship that blossomed with the abbess felt forced at first; Keavy eventually understood that Gisela must have confided in Hild and was relieved to know the abbess’ disposition never changed. Instead, she seemed to exude a warmth with her understanding, her blue eyes watchful and kind as Keavy began to share, little by little, what truly happened in Lunden. In return, Hild shared the horrors that Uhtred rescued her from, and she gifted Keavy the chainmail she wore for her years when she fought at his side. 

Keavy felt choked from the gesture, from finally admitting out loud, “I feel broken, Hild.” 

The abbess’ hands still held calluses, though they started to soften with prayer, and her touch was warm, like a balm to the ache that Keavy carried still. “I did as well, for a long time, and I burned through that anger I carried as I fought alongside Uhtred,” she began, and Keavy felt lighter with her confession. Hild smiled. “But it clouded my mind, kept me from the true purpose of my life and the plan that God–” 

Keavy could not smother her groan and Gisela’s laughter was light above them, calling to the abbess. “Hild, remember we sit in a pagan hall,” she teased, a gold glitter that danced in her hazel eyes. “Keep your God within the four walls that my husband allows you and allow us our own beliefs.” 

Hild held up her hands, her own good-natured smile worn, and Keavy looked to Gisela. “I believe in the true gods, Keavy, and I see that you have been brought here by fate,” she finished, her smile as though she was aware of more than she gave on. 

Fate, how it echoed in her mind with uncertainty, something she pushed aside with crimson cheeks that accompanied her daily routine.

Which included her instruction to tend to Osferth. 

Keavy would wake him with a soft tap on his door, bringing fresh bandages and a plate to share their morning meal. She enjoyed his company, how he was not shy to share about himself and she listened with rapt attention, with a rose color dusting her cheeks. 

Osferth shared his origins, how he was King Alfred’s bastard, though the weight he put behind the word meant nothing to Keavy as she viewed that his blood still held royalty all the same. When she said this, she watched how his dimples lined his cheeks with his pursed smile, “It is not the same, my lady.” 

And Keavy was lost in her thought of how handsome Osferth was, dimples and all. “I am not a lady,” she reminded him, her complexion almost crimson.

As time healed him, she saw how his skin mended together, the bold pink stripe of new skin across his chest, and how the bruising faded into muted shades of green, peeking beneath his chest hair. Osferth was lean, but without his shirt or his albe, she was able to admire the tone to his lithe figure and the pale planes of his chest; she was so lost in her thoughts, her fingers were soft to trace his scar, from his shoulder until the middle of his chest before she realized the intimacy of her touch. 

Osferth was watching her, the brilliant blue of his eyes wide. 

Her hand dropped to her side. “You are healed enough,” she announced, her voice too loud, moving to gather the clean cloths she brought with her. “You have no need for these…” 

She burned, too focused to notice how he reached for her, her name fell from his lips, “Keavy…” 

And she recoiled from his voice, her mortification boiling under her skin. “Excuse me,” she rasped, leaving his room and fleeing back to the hall where she found Gisela and Hild at the large table. They were startled with her abrupt entrance, their attention focused on the red that bloomed on her pale features.

While Hild tilted her head, her brows knitted above, Gisela wore her same knowing smile. “How is Osferth fairing today, Keavy?” her tone teasing, as always. 

She was grateful that Osferth was a gentleman, not breathing a word about earlier and accompanying her when she took the children out from under Gisela’s step. He lifted Oswald to his shoulders, with a slight grimace still, and Stiorra rested on her hip and a quilt on the other, and they walked out to a knoll in a nearby meadow.

It was one of the last sunny days of the season and Keavy laid the quilt on top of the grass, a place to sit as she braided daisies into Stiorra’s curls. The boys found sticks and Oswald preened for the praise as Osferth corrected his stance, while the girls’ cheeks were rosy from cheering them on. 

The evening was her own, as always; after supper was had and the children were tucked into bed, Keavy was able to wander through the village. Often, Osferth would join her, his long legs easily keeping with her pace, his eyes watchful as she explored what she considered to be her newfound sanctuary. 

As the autumn months crept, an evening frost accompanied it, and a large bonfire was often made. They seated themselves on a log, talking under the night sky by the crackling fire, long after Coccham was lulled to sleep. Osferth stood, reaching for her hand, a habit that remained and she was always glad to take it still, and he walked her back to their rooms. 

Her cheeks burned within his peaceful proximity, and she shyly admired his sharp features. In the daytime, she was able to speak freely, unabashedly, and enjoyed when she could cause cracks in his stoic demeanor, to see the upwards curl of his lips. 

But in the quiet of the night, underneath the stars that sparkled against the navy velvet sky, she felt her tongue stick to the roof of her mouth, an inability to string two words together before they arrived to her door. 

“I never thanked you,” she almost whispered and she peered up. His face was shadowed with dark, an offset amber hue from a lone torch still perched in the sconce outside; her cheeks grew warm, her gaze falling down. “For saving me that night in the woods.” 

Osferth hummed, a finger curled under her chin and brought her eyes to meet with his. “You saved me first,” he reminded her, a soft curl to his lips. “Sleep well, Keavy.” 

She slipped into her room, the door closed quick and quiet, her backside pressed against and she covered her face. She could feel the heat of her blush against her palms and her fingers flitted to her jawbone, to her marment; it was a reminder of her lot in life, of her place and purpose supposedly ordained by the Christian God, if she wished to entertain the words spoken by holy men and women. 

She was a shadow of a nursemaid, serving an unpayable debt, and possibly cursed, if she chose to believe the slavers. And Osferth had the blood of a king that she knew thrummed underneath; he was honorable, and held no resentment with his disposition, just an understanding of his place in this world.

“I am cursed by God because of my birth, the sins of my father have already doomed me,” he once shared the night they watched Æthelflæd arrive with her new husband. Keavy could see the similarities between his sister, how they shared the severity that Osferth carried in his features.

“I am cursed as well,” was all she said in response, and she did not dare look to him. 

His words embedded into her mind, pushing aside the so-called fate of the gods, and she saw his drive, his determination to create from nothing. There was a flicker of disappointment when Untred denied him to join the men to retake Lunden, how Uhtred pressed his fist into his shoulder and Osferth flinched, subtle, but enough to be decided that he would remain in Coccham still, to continue to gather his strength.  

Silly girl, she chided herself, pulling from the door and undressing for bed. She knew soon enough that Osferth would be well to go and fight alongside Uhtred, and she would remain in Coccham, braiding daisies into a crown for Stiorra to wear. 

And she laid down with the heavy acceptance of this fate that Gisela spoke of, though her last thought was his touch: how right it felt when he held her hand, how gentle his touch was when he tilted her chin upwards to meet with his gaze…

+ + + +

The first four years of his life was spent in the shadow of the family his father had, separate from the mother he never knew and who died bringing him into the world. His brother was too young, but his sister Æthelflæd always regarded him with a curiosity, a kindness that he did not receive anywhere else in the court. 

Osferth only had one memory of his father, remembering how large his hands felt holding his own, and the hereditary severity that lined his features. Dusk was settling over Wintanceaster and the king walked brisk strides across the cobblestone, pulling Osferth to keep with his pace. 

He recalled when they passed the queen, how her dark eyes glared at him in an unsettling way, in a way that pierced into his chest. Her gaze never faltered, holding his siblings tight at her side; Edward seemed sleepy, and Æthelflæd seemed confused with what was happening.

The queen’s heated gaze followed him, as he looked over his shoulder to see her, leaving Wintanceaster for what he thought would be forever. 

Osferth was quick to understand that this haunted look would follow him throughout his life, something that would accompany the title bastard. Sometimes it did not hold the heat, the hatred of the queen’s eyes, but cruelty all the same with smirks and scoffs, always some visceral reaction.  

This was, of course, until he met Keavy. 

His first morning in Coccham, he laid in his bed and listened for the soft tap on his door; he groaned quietly as he sat up, the wound across his chest felt as if it was tearing open with his movement, with a bruising that bore down into his bones. 

Despite the early hours, her smile was bright and she held a tray with fresh bread, cold cuts, cheese and some sliced fruit. He chewed quietly as she then fretted over his injury, unabashed with his shirtless state, her fingers flitting over the gash and a soft hum or tsk that rolled off her tongue. 

He enjoyed how Keavy was open and honest with him, how easy it was to speak with her. There was no judgment that clouded her green eyes when he finally admitted that he was a bastard, how she did not even flinch at the word. “So, you have the blood of a king in your veins,” she stated, as if it was the simplest thing. 

Until then, the taste of the word was bitter, something he had to learn to not react when it was spoken with venom. Though he was grateful that Uhtred housed both him and Keavy, there was the fluttered anxiety that rippled in his chest when his lady wife admitted to the real reason her husband allowed him to stay. 

The short time with Leofric had him imposing the thought that a man’s worth was carried in his sword and Osferth was determined to be just that; he wished to create a name outside that bastard smog that followed his steps. 

But for now, he did not mind the reprieve for his recovery, nor the company of Keavy. 

His chest healed without infection, thank God or the gods–he was no longer certain. When Keavy came that morning, he watched how her pink lips pursed as she looked him over; the rose color that bloomed on her cheeks was lovely and his skin prickled from her soft touch as her fingers trailed his scar. 

Osferth was silent, unmoving. He watched the sudden crimson to her cheeks when she realized, but he had been too slow to catch her hand as she pulled away, all by sprinting to leave his room. 

It left him flustered, his mind cluttered from her touch, something that felt so intimate in the moment. But her reaction left his stomach curdling with a misplaced feeling. Guilt? His anxiety returned?

He dressed quickly with the intention to follow, instead running into the Irishman and the Dane. They saw the shades of red that plumed on his features. “What’s going on, lover boy?” Finan spoke up, his voice loud as always.

Osferth was aware that they did not consider Keavy the conventional beauty that they would lust over; any time alone with them involved them crowing about his crush, saying it would dissipate the moment his cock was wet. He ignored their words; Keavy was a kind of beauty that resonated from within, something so uniquely her own, with her fine figure, her fair skin, her eyes as green as the meadows that lead to Coccham… 

He disregarded their unsolicited advice–”Go and just kiss her already!”–instead he sought her out, shadowing her task to watch the children that day. He knew that the evening would be their own, and that they would be able to speak freely, boldly, without prying ears. 

This was when she opened about the horrors of Lunden, before they had arrived, and it awoke something within him that he had not felt before. 

A bloodlust, a want for vengeance, and the need to gut the one-armed Dane, Sigefrid Thurgilson. 

Uhtred denied him joining to go to Lunden, but took to heart his words spoken–to gather his strength. He found Finan and Sihtric, and they agreed to show him pell stances, ways to train and prepare to be a swordsman. 

Osferth felt weak at first, a soreness that touched every muscle within his body, but it soon dissipated as he pushed through. Then the men returned and he saw a darkness that accompanied them, along with the news that his sister had been taken by the Danes. 

It was a white heat of anger that flitted across his brow before his stoic nature settled again.

He had only regained his sister, remembering how he watched with Keavy from the shore as Æthelflæd climbed onto the docks, walking the shadow of her husband, her mouth a tight line.

Osferth saw her again later that night when she left the church the nun Hild brought up, hearing her soft steps and seeing her cheeks were wet with tears. He had been making his way towards the barracks, but held still at the sight and she stopped, spotting him, her hands wiping her face. 

“Lady,” he was quick with a formal greeting, bowing his head.

“Osferth,” her voice was sad and he met with her eyes, glassy from her tears. “I… I have not expected to ever see you again,” and a soft smile came to her lips. “Did you come to Coccham to spite our father?” 

Her words warmed his chest with how she openly admitted to the relationship that so many skirted around, or would openly jest–other than Keavy, of course. Osferth watched her for a moment, seeing how their father reflected in her posture, with the same severity of her gentle features. 

“Yes I did,” and his own lips curled upwards in response. 

He offered to escort her back to the great hall, where they would expect her husband. But with the mention of Lord Æthelred, he saw how his sister darkened, in the same way Keavy flinched with the mention of Dane Sigefrid. And he knew that he was not a good man. 

It curdled in his stomach that night, the news of her capture rekindling that burning vengeance and he felt its grip on his heart. 

“Lord,” he called when he saw Uhtred. “I will come with you.”

Uhtred noticed how his jaw ticked with his words. “You will come when we have reason to go,” he placed a hand on his shoulder. “When Sihtric and Rypere come back with news.”

Rypere returned and soon enough they were called by the king for negotiations, the similar echo to the time in Lunden–all ego, and without a satisfying conclusion. As they returned homeward, Osferth saw the worry that lined Uhtred’s face, though he did not learn its cause until a private moment with Finan, when Uhtred shared the truth of his sister, and what she was asking of them. 

“She loves him,” Finan almost laughed at the idea, his tone incredulous. “Did we just not attend her wedding to another man?”

“He is not a good man,” Osferth cut through, and he did not expand. Instead, he looked to Uhtred. “What must we do?” 

They returned to Coccham, to rest, to plan, to wait until Sihtric came; Osferth felt the anxiety knitting into his lower abdomen again, and his steps brought him to Keavy’s door, rapping his knuckles against the wood. 

She opened it, pulling a shawl over her simple cotton dress, its burgundy tones bringing out the emerald of her eyes. “Osferth?” Her tone was a mixture of her pleasure, of her surprise. Keavy stepped aside, opening the door to allow him inside. “What is the matter?” And he was a dam broken, reliving the prior days and its events: from the debt of Wessex to his sister’s true-heart desire. Keavy held a quiet contemplation, allowing the spate of his words that broke down the concern he felt for his kin. “You only want the best for your sister,” and her simple words were a balm, a warmth that soothed the knot in his chest. “What do you need from me?”

He had not thought of that when he knocked, balking a moment before he said, “...I thought I would come for that promised haircut.”

The returned rose color that flushed her cheeks, her smile that tugged at his heart in a way he could not describe. “Very well, allow me to get the scissors from Gisela and we can do that later this evening, once Stiorra and Oswald are asleep.” Her eyes met with his own and he swallowed thickly when she added, “I will come to your room.” 

Ofserth was waiting for her when she came that evening, the same soft tap to his door. Inside, he moved to seat himself on a stool, his legs long and his knees jutted up with his feet on the floor. He closed his eyes as she combed through his hair, humming when she replaced it with her fingers. 

Keavy was methodical and he listened to the clipping sounds of the silver edges, his dirty blonde locks falling to the floor around him as she trimmed away the last remnants of his days at the monastery. 

It was quiet and she set the scissors down; he felt her hands rubbing over his scalp, brushing away the stray hairs and it tickled his ears as it fell to the growing pile. She stopped, her hands paused to cradle his cheeks and he opened his eyes to see the green of her eyes watching him. 

He reached to cup one of her hands against his cheek and her eyes met with his, with the slight quirk of her brow. Osferth took a breath, turning his face and pressing his lips against her palm, before releasing his hold and letting her hand fall back to her side. 

Keavy watched him still, her pink lips parted and wet from her tongue, and he pushed to stand, daring to close the space between them, his large palms settling on the small of her waist. “Keavy,” his timbre low and he saw the flush of color deepen on her features. “May I kiss you?”

She nodded mutely and his palms knitted behind, cradling her lower back and pulling her against his chest; Keavy pressed to her toes, the sweetest sigh that spilled from her lips– 

“Baby monk,” the unwelcome bark of the Irishman jolted them apart, accompanied with the hammered sound against the door. Finan pushed it open, his dark brows lifted at the sight of Keavy, a crinkle to the corners of his eyes as he looked Osferth over with a wry smile that spread across his jaw. “I see you have a new era about ya,” he teased, his hand running over his own low cut. “Looks good on ya.”  

“Thank you, Finan,” Osferth was flushed, his eyes glancing at Keavy before returning to the Irishman and his smug expression.

“Sihtric arrived,” he finished. “It’s time to go.”

He then dipped through the door, leaving them behind with their broken moment. Osferth moved to grab his scabbard, though he wished to grab Keavy, to pull her close once more; instead he knotted the leather around his slender waist.

When he finished, he paused for a moment, his hands balled then his fingers flexed before he looked up to see Keavy. She was standing still, her hands folded in front, her eyes still watchful. Osferth nodded his head and as he left, something caught his sleeve and he looked back to see her fingers pinching the fabric of his albe.

“Return to me, Osferth,” she whispered, her eyes wide.

There was the subtle curl of his lips and he reached for her hold, bringing the back of her hand to lips for a kiss, savoring her smell of lavender and thyme. “I will, Keavy. I swear it.”

That moment replayed in his mind as he met with the men, the hurried relay of the note Sihtric brought and a quick departure from Coccham. They rowed eastward, easing the boat to dock a ways up and away the main docks of Beamfleot. The followed the shadows of the woods that lead towards the fort; Osferth felt the flutter of his nerves, as well as the gaze of Uhtred. “Are you afraid?”

“Am I even allowed to admit that?” Osferth asked back.

Uhtred shrugged. “Osferth, at times we’re all afraid. Courage is just finding the will to overcome that fear. Nothing more,” he reached and placed his palm on his shoulder. “But you must find that courage.”   

Ahead, they spotted the Danes that lined the dock, more than was initially thought and a hazard to their escape; with Uhtred’s command, there was a frenzied onslaught and they left the bodies to litter the Temes. 

They pressed until they reached the walls that surrounded the burh, a ruction echoing the stones. Osferth was offered to be hoisted upwards, and even with his lean length there was still a struggle to climb over the battlement, but he managed to land on the cobblestone curtain wall. 

He followed this pathway, finding it unguarded, but remained low, unseen; once he understood he was truly alone, he dared look over at the clamor of Danes that drank and bellowed below in the fortress. From his spot, he also saw the smoke that began to pour from the Great Hall, accompanied with yells.

He was quick to return and called down. “Lord,” his chest heaving. “Fire!”

“Jump down, baby monk,” Finan called back. The gates creaked open and Danes poured through, spilling and coughing through the mouth of Beamfleot. 

Osferth instead returned, ignoring the yell of the Irishman; he moved quickly, his eyes burning in the smoke that rose, but did not stop until he spotted Æthelflæd, the stream of her dark hair as she followed behind a blonde Dane; he pulled her with urgency, and the roar of his name echoed over the chaos.

“Erik.” 

And Osferth saw him, the same Dane from Lunden, his eyes black and his knifed hand glinted from the growing flames. He moved, peering over the stone wall at the gate’s top, watching how the Dane escort paused, how Æthelflæd now pulled at him, begging him to run.

“You dare betray me, brother?” Sigefrid roared.

“I will pay your share of the ransom,” Erik pulled away from her, both covered in soot and she was stanced with the desperation to run still. But instead, Æthelflæd watched. 

There was the disarray of Danes that fled the fire, paying no mind to the ruined fortress or the ruined kinship. Sigefrid laughed, dark and boisterous. “And how will you pay?” His voice was cruel. “In what? Piss?” 

“I will pay the ransom,” he insisted, almost pleading.  

Sigefrid moved towards him, swelled with fury, and only then did Erik unsheathe his own blade, both hands curled around the grip. “You couldn’t pay a goat to lick the sweat off your balls,” and with those words, Sigefrid lunged at his brother.

There was a clash of steel that rang out and Osferth saw the astonishment that played on his face as his brother parried, gutting him with the knife embedded on his arm. Æthelflæd screamed her heartbreak, watching the blood pour from this man she swore she loved, and she screamed again when Sigefrid turned his attention to her, pulling back his bloodied hand and stalking towards her.

“Æthelflæd!” Uhtred ran to the outside of the wall, Finan and men in tow. The distraction halted Sigefrid at the entrance and without a thought, Osferth drew his sword and leapt over, crushing down on top of Sigefrid, his sword piercing through his chest and lungs. 

The Dane did not cry out, only the wet hissing sound of his life leaving his body as they both crumpled to the ground. His shins burned, but Osferth stood upright, looking to his sister, then to Uhtred. 

He saw how his eyes shone with a new admiration of the bold behavior of the bastard; Uhtred then looked to Æthelflæd, taking her hand and he called for his men to follow. 

Osferth pulled his sword from the dead man and then cut through his forearm, then reaching to grab the blade, the blood nub thumping to the dirt. He then slipped it around his waist and followed after, leaving Beamfleot to burn.

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[arcielee]

Mira thank you so much for your sweet words 💜 I am definitely doing an epilogue because I just love them together so damn much. 😭

Farewell Wanderlust

Warnings: As always, MDNI, 18+ murder by Temes, character death, angst like a mofo, evil plotting, sexual themes, unprotected sex, oral (female receiving) Pairing: Osferth x OFC Word Count: 6941 Summary: Torn from her home country, Keavy finds herself trying to survive across the Irish sea. She happens across Uhtred and his motley crew, and finds herself befriending a monk who is determined to become a warrior. Author’s Note: Thank you @sylas-the-grim for helping me edit this chapter. Thank you everyone who loved Keavy and Osferth [I am not opposed to a epilogue, let me know]. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chonky chapter. 💜 Deireadh is end in Irish.     Dividers are by @saradika Taglist (Tumblr kindred spirits): @aaaaaamond @annikin-im-panicin @watercolorskyy @schniiipsel @aemondx @fan-goddess @babygirlyofthevale @httpsdoll @theromanticegoist @assortedseaglass @amiraisgoingthruit @theoneeyedprince @babyblue711 @itbmojojoejo @girlwith-thepearlearring @tssf-imagines @triscy @whoknows333 @shesjustanothergeek @heavenly1927 @myfandomprompts @fangirlninja67 @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauftivy @vintageypanwitch @heimtathurss [bold means I was unable to tag you!]

Chapter 7

The seasons had gone and Osferth found himself back within the walls of Wintanceaster. Darkness drafted over the city with the swell of storm clouds, heavy with their threat of the last of the summer rains, with flashes of white and its low rumble of thunder; it mixed with the nightfall, casting long shadows from the bold posts of amber light that was stilted in the streets, leading up to the castle. 

His legs ached from the time spent on horseback, as they had traveled North to see Ragnar and his swell of rebellion in Dunholm, only to come back again, flitting amongst the cities that thread throughout East Anglia, Mercia, and then back to Wessex. They moved almost headlong, avoiding the threat of the king that hung over their heads, knitted along with the poisoned whisper of Bloodhair’s seer. 

She was now dead but death followed them still, something now palpable within the castle walls of the city.

There was an eerie familiarity as he moved with deliberate steps, following two paces behind Uhtred, who followed behind the priest, and they moved, quick and quiet, through the corridor. Osferth thought back to the last time his father dared to publicly acknowledge him, how his large palm had wrapped around his arm, his staggered steps on wiry legs to keep pace with the stride of the King of Wessex. 

Until that moment, Osferth had only been a shadow, a murmur of the ealdorman amongst the stone walls. He was only acknowledged by his sister, who would often pull him away to play games, as Edward was too small to be bothered with. 

These were moments he cherished, but they were always fleeting, always ending with the sharp gaze of the queen over her pointed nose; it proceeded the rustle of her skirt with her curt pace, as she would sweep Æthelflæd away for prayer and penitence, leaving Osferth to fade away into the shadows once again. 

If it had been left to the queen, she would see him to not exist within the walls, but here he now walked, as requested by Uhtred, his steps joining the soft echo of their footfalls. They stopped outside an oak door and Beocca held up his hand before slipping into the room first, leaving them for a moment. 

In the quiet, Osferth dared ask. “Why did you bring me here, lord?” 

“Why not?” Uhtred turned to face him, his voice low. 

“You could have brought Finan to witness what the king wished to say,” he explained, pausing only to wet his lips. “But you chose me.” There was a hum to fill the silence and Osferth could see gold rings reflecting from the candlelight in the blues of his eyes; Uhtred did not answer his question. “The last time we were in Wintanceaster, my grief and my actions led to consequences…” 

“You did what was right by your gods, lord.”

There was a subtle quirk of his lips as Uhtred watched him before he continued. “Nonetheless, it did not affect only me, but it still resulted in us being banished and torn from,” and his expression showed consideration for his next words chosen, “those we care deeply for.” 

Keavy.

The thought of her name alone sent an ardent surge through his veins, something that always thrummed beneath, knotting with his yearn for her touch, for her smile again. She remained with him, heavy on his heart, alongside the cross pendant gifted that was safely tucked beneath his embossed, leather cuirass and ratted albe; its cool metal often served as a balm for  the heartsore he woke up with ever since she left for Saltwic. 

It had been thirteen months since he last saw her, since he last touched her or tasted her, her lips haunting the curve of his mouth. He often thought of the moment in the stables, their last kiss shared, how she felt beneath his large palms when he placed them on her hips to help her aback; his fingers ached to let her go and his desperate reach to touch her one last time, trailing up the curve of her calf.

Keavy had looked at him, the green of her brilliant eyes focusing beneath the flutter of her dark lashes; his eyes etched the rose color that nipped at her features, blooming from the cool night’s air, from the urgency to leave the city. 

He grasped at these moments, but they seemed to spill between his fingers, a thousand words perched on his tongue but he could only squeeze her calf gently, he could only manage the simple promise, “I will return to you,” and then she was gone, leaving him to choke on the unsaid. 

“How long has it been?” Untred asked, his voice low, kind, and easing him back into the hallway of the castle of Wintanceaster.

Four hundred and twelve days. “Over a year now, lord.” 

Uhtred hummed again. “Osferth, I brought you here to hold me accountable when we face Alfred, so that we may right what is needed and be able to return to Saltwic, but without the echoes of outcast or fugitive to follow our steps.” He offered a wry smile. 

Osferth felt his heart flutter with his words, his fingers pressing to feel the soft crinkle of parchment of the letter tucked away, its edges fraying, and each word memorized. As they traveled, updates were fleetingly sent from Saltwic, and only just a quick recount from Æthelflæd that all was well, that they, that Keavy, were still safe. 

She studies beside Oswald, who is becoming your namesake, Æthelflæd’s words teased. She is adamant to continue learning so she may send her own words to you. 

His heart held onto these words and the bit of hope they offered, as it was all that could be done with the unprecedented time and travel. But when the threat of Æthelflæd was vocalized in Dunholm, they were quick to come to her aid and learned of Æthelred’s intended ill-will. 

It was a mixture of frustration, of exhaustion, just the sheer disappointment to return and find Saltwic empty… “They are safe,” his sister was quick to say, her eyes flitting from Osferth, then to Sihtric, and the rest of them. “I had them sent to Alencestre when Aldhelm warned me…” and she faltered.

It was a wrath returned and Osferth spoke low. “I will kill him,” and he felt Uhtred rest his palm on his shoulder, grounding him. 

Æthelflæd watched him, a slight curl to her pink lips, and she stepped towards him. “I swore to you that I would keep her safe,” her words just for him and his gaze flicked to meet her own; she reached for his hands. “This is for you.” 

A letter, and he felt the corners of his mouth tug upwards, using the fading sunlight to read. Osferth, it began, the sweet curl of her lettering to the piece of parchment, and he could hear her musical lilt with the few lines she had written, I have not forgotten what you have promised me, and I hold onto the hope that neither have you. I am waiting, still, and I will do so until you return to me.  

The simplicity of her message warmed his heart; he took care to refold its creases and tuck it away, carrying it with him always. In the days that followed, he came across an intimate moment shared between his sister and Uhtred; he saw her blush, her swift steps to pull away from him and her expression when she spotted Osferth. 

He offered his arm, watching how her brow furrowed, the bob of her neck as she swallowed thickly. “Show me the gardens by the chapel,” he offered a scapegoat.

She tucked her fingers in the crook of his arm, keeping with his languid pace; she did not speak of the greenery. “Love is peculiar, isn’t it?” Æthelflæd, if anything, was fearsome, but in that moment she gave a wistful look over her shoulder to see the embrace the seer pressed onto Uhtred. “It has a way to thread within your heart, but life has chapters that must be completed first until it is ready to blossom, or so it seems.” 

Osferth hummed, his steps slowed to keep with her, his mind returning to the words written: I am waiting.

“Do you love her, Osferth?”

It was a relief to admit it outloud, to say something that pressed within his heart, heavy with his steps that traveled northwards and back again. It was a thought that sung with the rising sun and carried throughout to a melodious lull at night. But he also confided his hesitation to tell Keavy just this.

“What keeps you from saying this to her?”

Osferth swallowed, his lips pursed in debate of what words he would choose, deciding to trust his sister: the sin’s of their father and the curse that he was born into. 

She stopped walking and he followed, turning to look at her; he saw the maturity to her beauty, the hereditary severity that lined her lovely face with her smile. “Oh Osferth,” she began, reaching for his hand to hold his attention, “I think life is cruel enough on its own without this perpetual penance. God be damned,” she almost laughed, “I see that Keavy has a strength knitted within her very bones. I believe you should allow her to decide her own fate, to allow her to choose to spend our given time on this earth with you or not.” 

Osferth blinked. “Promise me you will tell her when you see her again,” she continued, and he saw a sadness to her smile, “as I know she loves you.”  

His heart lifted with her words, but the sadness was heavy still with his sister. “What of Lord Uhtred?” His curiosity could not be helped; since the nunnery, he was too aware of the lingering glances, their subtle touches shared, how their every movement was scrutinized from the sharp glare of the witch. 

Plumes of red stained her porcelain tones and her lashes fluttered as she forced herself to keep his gaze. “I believe,” her tone slow with a recognition all her own, “that Uhtred and I are maimed by a great love lost, that our sorrow recognizes one another and we cannot help but be drawn towards each other.” 

Osferth nodded; the guilt, the weight of Gisela’s death nearly killed Uhtred on the way to Dunholm, and this was first he had seen his smile in months. “I only wish for you to find happiness, Æthelflæd.” 

“And I, you, Osferth,” her eyes glassy with her words. “You will always be welcomed in Mercia.” 

They were quick to move, called to Aegelesburg and spoke strategy on how to cripple the Dane army that grew. After the bloodshed, they returned to Coccham and found the village thriving, though once they passed through the archway, Osferth could not shake the haunted feeling of the transitory happiness that seemed an eternity ago. 

The pagan hall had the spilled stain of lords unwelcomed, with their placed ornaments of the Christian God hanging above while they ate their fill; they were seated at the same table where he helped Keavy tutor Stiorra and Oswald, her endless patience and sweet smile, and how Gisela watched over them, her eyes glittering. 

But that warmth was swept from the great hall and Osferth left without a word, following the dirt path that returned him to the room he and Keavy shared. The air was stale, her lingering scent gone, and nothing but a dust that covered the bare furniture left behind. 

He took deep breaths through his mouth, the heartache still pressing, and he felt jolted from his self-wallowing. 

I know she loves you.

He then heard Leofric, his words clawing through the earth, an echo that rang bold from his grave: a man could be set on a path, but only his steps could create his own destiny. 

Osferth felt embolden, something that now seared through his veins, propelling his steps forward with the earth crunching beneath his boots. He thought of the time lost to his damn hesitation, for some curse mentioned by a faith lost, a curse deemed by his very existence and damned by the sins of his father, and how he foolishly allowed it to still his tongue when it came to her.

He knew he loved Keavy, just as Uhtred described once, something that thrummed beneath his skin, in tandem with his heartbeat. 

He moved towards the Temes, to allow a new breath, a moment to clear his mind of this burdened relief carried that now was dissipating with each step. He only stopped when he saw Untred and the witch, but he dared to creep forward, silent, wary, watching how the tension lifted in his lord’s shoulders when he released her and how she drifted away with the current. 

Uhtred seemed surprised as Osferth moved to the dock, reaching to pull him from the river. He was quiet through the confession, how Uhtred was not proud of what he had done, and he was quick to stop his lament. “You have taken control of your destiny, lord,” and his words burned in his chest, as if branded by the Celtic cross worn. “Today, I have decided to do the very same.” 

Curse be damned. 

“I will not leave this city,” and Uhtred’s voice returned his attention back to the hallway, perched outside the king’s door, “until we have been reinstated, free men once more. And besides,” Uhtred was watching him, “don’t you wish to see your father?” 

Osferth returned the stare; this thought had been furthest from his mind, but the words spoken wrapped around his throat and he swallowed hard. The silence was heavy and his voice cracked when he said, “Yes, lord.” 

It was then that Beocca peered out, gesturing to Osferth. “The king wishes to speak with you first,” and the priest moved aside.

Osferth looked to Uhtred for a moment, who nodded his encouragement, and he moved past the priest, slipping into the room. 

Orange hues pooled around the bed from the thick tapers lit and the king was swathed in woolen blankets, propped against overstuffed cushions to hold him upright. Osferth marveled at the vestige of the man from Aescengum months prior, his complexion waxen and his skin taught over his bones, with dark rings beneath his closed eyes. He would have assumed the king was already dead had he not noticed the subtle rise and fall of his chest, the muted labored breaths beneath the layers. 

And then the king opened his eyes, their shared blue that was muddled with his sickness and that wavered until they fell to where Osfeth stood. There was the shudder of his youth, his want to wilt away from the direct gaze, but instead he moved towards the bedside. 

King Alfred watched with bruised, hooded eyes as Osferth seated himself on the ottoman, pulling himself close enough to see that candlelight show the last glimmer of life touching his pallid features. “Osferth,” the king began, his name foreign, spilling from his cracked tongue and lips. 

A cough came, a wet rasp that was covered by a handkerchief spotted with blood; Osferth looked to grab a goblet at the bedside, offering a drink that he gratefully took. When he set the mug down, he felt the king clasped his hand onto his other, a papery thin touch, and Osferth dutifully reached with his other hand, dutiful to his dying father, solemn with his returned gesture. 

“I know what you have done,” Alfred continued between ragged breaths. “I have heard of your bravery,” and he paused. “You are a good man and I am proud.” 

Osferth shifted his weight from his words and the king did not notice, or if he did, he continued anyway. “Death allows you to reflect on your failures, your misdoings in your life,” he released his hold, pressing his palms against the top blanket; the skin clung thin to the bones, his knuckles jutted against. “There is a letter prepared. Bring it to Æthelflæd, she will know what must be done.” 

His eyes followed the weak wave to see the parchment folded and the red wax of the king’s seal placed. “I only ever wished to do what was right by you,” and Osferth jerked back towards the murmur of the king, a man of regal regret, and saw that Alfred held a look of awe, as if it was his first time to truly see his eldest son.  

“Osferth,” he repeated, his voice weak and his eyes glassy. “I am proud.” 

“Thank you,” he breathed, the threat of tears in the same eyes he shared with his father. 

Osferth felt a warm touch on his shoulder and looked up to see Uhtred standing over, a gentle squeeze. He moved to stand, excusing himself to leave the room, pausing in the doorway for a final look at his father, who managed a second wind to greet Uhtred; dutiful until the end.  

Only in the corridor did he dare peer at the letter in hand, at the king’s penmanship that began: To my kinsman, Osferth.  

+ + + +

“I see horsemen.” 

Keavy sat below the tree that Stiorra climbed, her back against the trunk and a tome opened across her lap; the girl was growing long like her mother, allowing a reach for the higher limbs, and still slender enough for the branches to hold her weight. Keavy squinted upwards to where the girl was perched, watching. “Tradesmen?” 

The cool breeze rippled through her hair and she used one hand to push it from her view. “If they are tradesmen, they travel light.” 

Keavy closed the book and set it on top of the quilt spread at the base, pushing to her feet. “Climb down, Stiorra,” she swallowed the tinge of panic to her tone. “It would be best to alert Lady Æthelflæd…” in case they are unfriendly, but she could not say that out loud. 

It had been weeks since the Battle of Holme, as it now known; it was a bloodshed of Danes, a revolt orchestrated by Æthelwold that had been met by Lord Uhtred and his valiant men, as well as the Anglo-Saxon allied militia. Despite the victory, the Danes that escaped flitted across the villages of Northumbria, still raiding, still vengeful.  

“They may be Dane,” Stiorra continued her assessment, her head tilting; it was one of the many traits passed from Gisela, her unwavering fearlessness as in this moment, watching still. “Or some of them, anyway…”

“Stiorra,” her voice was sharper. “Now.”

She reached for a thicker branch to begin her descent, pausing to say, “Keavy,” and she looked down. “It is my father!”

It had been fourteen months since they had arrived at Saltwic; they rode through the night and following day, coming just as the amber streaks of dusk splayed behind the stoned rook. Lady Æthelflæd came to the courtyard at the call of her men, wearing with the same severity of her brother that was etched onto her features. 

She recognized Hild and beckoned them inside at once, with Sigdeflaed guiding the bleary eyed children and Keavy lingering behind with the nun. While Hild recounted the prior days, Keavy was drawn to watch the emotions playing across her fair features in a way that was akin to Osferth, subtle but austere; only when Keavy was mentioned by name was the noticeable flicker, the small curl upwards of her lips.  

“You are Keavy?” 

She felt the blood pour into her cheeks as Æthelflæd turned her attention towards her, with the same blue that belonged to Osferth. “I am,” Keavy gave a small nod.

“I have heard so much about you,” and she smiled with a warmth that reached her eyes. “You are safe here, I swear it. For as long as it is needed.” 

The weeks that followed were quiet, uneventful, though Keavy still kept her seax and dagger on her person out of caution, or perhaps comfort. She still pressed for a new normalcy for both Stiorra and Oswald, who seemed to have aged with their grief. 

Stiorra mirrored her mother in so many ways, though her willful temperament came from Uhtred; she had no interest in her studies, but still would participate, in part to torment her brother, but mostly she pushed to learn how to handle a real blade. Whereas Oswald had grown solemn in Saltwic, embracing the supplied priest for their tutoring lessons, newly dedicated to the faith. 

Keavy remained present, sitting with Æthelflæd, who would often use the time to pen a letter for Osferth. She was aware of the Irishwoman’s gaze and asked her, “Would you care to add something?” 

She blushed as she shyly admitted that Osferth had been teaching her to read whenever he was in Coccham, but never to write; with this Æthelflæd smiled, a soft hum of encouragement for her to sit alongside the priest, taking a personal interest for Keavy to practice her penmanship. 

The seasons rolled away as the autumn’s yellows, oranges, and reds were soon covered by the first dusting of snowfall, enveloping Saltwic in white; the only color shown were the rich tones of primrose that bloomed throughout the gardens. 

Inside, fresh parchment was placed onto the table and Keavy looked up to see the same kind smile, the same kind eyes that she recognized in Osferth with Æthelflæd’s features. “This is for you, so you may write to him,” was all she said.  

Æthelflæd seemed very aware of whatever was between Keavy and her brother, but she still could not help the color that flushed her cheeks. “What would I even tell him?”

“Whatever it is that you are carrying in your heart,” Æthelflæd replied, a knowing smile curling on her rosy lips. 

The empty page seemed to taunt her and Keavy remained seated long after the rest retired to their quarters. The quiet, the solitude allowed her to finally pull from her heart as suggested, blowing on the ink to dry. 

She heard steps and turned to see Æthelflæd returning downstairs with a man in her shadow. Keavy pushed from her seat, her seax and dagger drawn, her heart in her teeth. “Keavy, it’s okay, I know him–” she held up her hands, a flush of color to her cheeks. “We must act quickly.” 

Saltwic was no longer safe and they were to leave for Alencestra at once; the words clawed within her chest as Æthelflæd continued, “I will leave for Wincelcumb, and I will send for Uhtred.” Her eyes were bright with her plan. “You all will be safe there until I come for you… once this matter is dealt with.” 

“Uhtred will kill him,” and Keavy sheathed her steel, her eyes still wary of the man. “They both will kill him.” Osferth.

Æthelflæd nodded. “I hope it does not come to that.”

“Lady, be safe.” Keavy reached for the parchment, folding it. “And… if you see Osferth, could you give him this?” 

Her knowing smile hinted, the newfound worry lifting for a moment until the hushed whisper came: “Lady, we must hurry.” 

The time in Alencestra was long enough for Oswald to announce his departure for St. Wilfrid’s Church, to go back to Wessex, refusing to return with them to Saltwic. Keavy watched him, finally seeing the flare of his father in Oswald, the young man's eyes bold with his conviction. Stiorra was incredulous and only Æthelflæd seemed supportive. 

“Father will understand my decision,” he finished.

But Keavy knew that would not be the case.

They returned to Saltwic just as the snow melted with the returned plumes of color from the flowers that sprouted through, followed by the summer rains that thundered and muddied the earth, and continued until it was blanketed once again with the amber colors of autumn, sprawling as far as the eye could see. 

And they remained still, without word, without direction from Uhtred, without an update from Osferth. Instead, news only came second-hand: the death of the king of Wessex and the succession of the aetheling Edward, and the bloodied battle won against his uncle Æthelwold.

Kevay tried to smother her impatience, her anxiety that knotted in her chest, waiting for a whisper, a murmur of news, to know if Osferth still lived or if he had died. She wondered if she would ever be able to tell him what she failed to write to him.

That she loved him, and she always would.  

And now the words that spilled from Stiorra swept the air from her lungs, her stance wavering slightly. “Stiorra… are you certain?” The girl moved with a newfound eagerness, branch over branch, uncaring how her skirts caught and tore them free. “I see the glint of Serpent-Breath’s handle!” Her tone was gleeful. “He is back as he promised! And he brings your beau!”

Keavy flushed crimson. “You know not what you talk about–”

“I am only young, I am not blind,” she continued with her cheeky tone, teasing just as Gisela had always done. The heartache of her loss remained, but Keavy always pressed for them to recall the good, that it was the love they held for their mother that would keep her memory alive. “I remember how you were sweet on him and besides,” and her grin matched her tone, “I also remember mother saying he was your beau.” 

It was as if Gisela was able to still tease beyond the grave. “Nevermind what she said–” Keavy burned as she struggled for her words. “Just, come down, quick!” 

Stiorra gave another cheeky grin before dropping from the last branch and landing back onto the ground; her cheeks were rosy from the sun, her eyes bright with her discovery. 

Keavy took her hand, the fevered pull of her heart with their hurried steps, her mind repeating the same hope she clung to the prior fourteen months: they have returned, Osferth is here!

It was called throughout and soon there was the spill into the courtyard, the gates opening as they gathered. Keavy stood solid despite the flurried anticipation that trilled her spine, watching until her vision blurred and blinking to clear it again. 

Uhtred led the men into Saltwic and its welcoming cries. Stiorra, who was a young woman in so many ways but at that moment, she was a child again and happy to see her father; she preened as he dismounted, pulling her close and pressing a kiss on top of her head. His steady gaze fell to Æthelflæd, her modest smile and the rose color pluming on her fair complexion as she watched. 

Then there was the reunion of man and wife, with Sihtric quick to pull Sigdeflaed for a kiss, of Finan calling loudly to their public display, but Keavy ignored it all; her eyes sought for Osferth alone. 

And she saw him, further back with Pyrlig, swinging his leg over the cantle and dropping off the side of his horse. He seemed taller than she remembered, a beacon that cut through once his eyes found Keavy, navigating through the men with his long legs. 

She willed herself forward, but remained rooted with her awestruck–he’s here. Osferth pressed forward until he was able to reach for her hand, and she was quick to take it, as she always had, as she always would. 

It was the familiar fit she longed for, how her hand fit into his own; his fingers still slender, his grip hardened with callouses from the reins, from his sword, but was gentle still, and firm with his hold, as if anything less would allow her to float away. Keavy followed his steps as he pulled her away from the crowd–though she felt their eyes follow, and they walked until they came around to the gardens, where the small chapel stood. 

There was the crunch of the auburn foliage with the season change beneath their feet, the cold nipping in the air. Osferth stopped and turned to face Keavy, his hands moving to the dip of her waist; she felt the air wrung from her chest with how he looked at her, the same brilliant blue of his eyes, rose hues that stained his cheeks and the tip of his nose.  

“Keavy,” began the gentle timbre of his voice, another flutter that swept through her with how he said her name, “may I kiss you?” 

She almost cried with his request, but instead gave a small nod; his lips curled, the blood beneath his skin darkening his features, and he dipped his head forward, the soft touch of his lips before he pressed against her. Keavy melted against him, her hands clasping on his forearms with a tight hold to keep her standing. She was unaware she was even crying until he pulled away, his concern knitting his sharp features and his large palms moving to cup her face. 

His touch was still gentle, warm and mindful of her mar, his thumb careful to wipe away the large tears that spilled. “You are crying?” He sounded alarmed, as if he held himself the cause. 

“You came back,” was all she could say, a hoarse whisper that broke away from her throat. 

“Keavy,” his relief washed over and his lips curled upwards, his gaze softening with her words, “I told you that I would.” 

Her laugh was choked with tears and he gave a chaste kiss before he pulled away, not outside of arms’ reach, but space enough to pull the Celtic silver cross from beneath his clothes; it gleamed in the sunlight. “I said I would bring this back. It always seemed to bring me luck,” he teased as he untied the leather. “May I?” 

She nodded again, her hands trembling to gather her dark hair as he moved behind her, bringing the necklace and knotting it at the nape of her neck; her skin rose with his warm touch, his thumb against her spine, and she felt his lips touch, his rumbled hum reverberating throughout her. 

“Would you rather just keep it?” she felt silly with her question, her fingers coming to touch the metal and turning to meet with his eyes. 

Osferth looked to her hand before resting his large palm over, and her heart rattled in her chest. “This is where it belongs,” and she saw how his neck bobbed as he swallowed. “Keavy,” he seemed solemn, almost uneasy, “I know so much has happened, so much that I wish to tell you…” he shifted his weight. “Keavy, I am a man cursed–”

“Osferth?” Her brow quirked. 

He shook his head, searching for the words, “I mean this in the biblical sense–”

“I refuse to hear this, damn the Saxon God,” she burst, the flash of severity brightening her eyes as she spoke. “Your worth is not deemed by the sins of another man!”

Osferth watched her with a pursed smile that deepened his dimples, and he leaned forward to capture her mouth; the kiss was soft, it was warm, and when she sighed, his tongue curled within her mouth, a languid pace to taste. When he pulled back, Keavy sighed again, the warmth burning her cheeks, her lips slightly swollen. “Allow me to finish?” His whisper fanned her face and she nodded numbly. 

“I am cursed, mayhaps,” and his gaze shifted a moment, but he did not continue with that thought, but instead, “I know that I have nothing to offer your affection, but know that with what I have, I will give you. I knew from the moment I saw you, from the moment we touch, how it gave me a sense of home I had never felt before,” he looked at the hold, how her palm curled within his own, the steady rise and fall of her chest, “I wish you to be my wife, Keavy. I love you.” 

And only then did he meet with her eyes, and Keavy could feel how her scar ached with how she smiled. “Say it again, Osferth.” 

“That I am cursed?” He seemed uncertain, and even more as she laughed. 

“No,” and she pulled her hands away, sliding them to curl against the base of his neck, pulling him closer for another kiss. “Only the last part,” she whispered against his mouth. 

Osferth smiled, glowing. “I love you, Keavy.”

And they kissed.  

+ + + +

There was a call for the staff to prepare a feast, for barrels to be rolled out so no mug would be empty, as there was much cause for a celebration this day. 

Æthelflæd and Sigdeflaed pulled Keavy away, helping her scrub every inch of skin and combing her curls with a rose oil gleam; a cream tunic and kirtle was gifted, cinching at her waist, a rich plum that complemented her fair skin and brought out her green eyes. 

There was a soft tap at the door that showed Stiorra holding a garland crown of primroses from the garden. “Just as you would do for me,” she smiled as Keavy placed it on top of her head before pulling her in for a hug. 

Arms linked, they walked back outside just as the last stretch of sunlight tucked away, the beginning blue hues that mixed with the burnt oranges and stars beginning to dot the sky. Keavy felt as if she were walking on the air as they entered the small chapel to see Uhtred, Finan, Sihtric, and the priest Pylrig towards the back where the stained glass reflected the tapers lit. She smiled at the sight of Osferth, and he returned it, his dimples lining his cheeks watching her eager steps to meet him.  

The priest officiated, taking Osferth’s large hand and placing it on top of Keavy’s. He felt her slight tremble and peered to see the flush of color with her grin; his thumb drew small circles and only then did she look to him, the color deepening on her cheeks. 

A quick prayer at the end was followed with a sweet kiss, and Finan crowed loudly. “Fucking finally!”

Night spilled over Saltwic and torches were lit to show the way back, able to follow the rich aroma of the feast prepared; cups brimmed and toasts given to the new king, to the safe return of Uhtred and his men, and to the new lordship, which cause Keavy to look at Osferth.

His grin was shy and he brought her knuckles up for a kiss. “I promise I will tell you everything, but this night I only wish to celebrate my beautiful wife.”

She glowed with his words, leaning forward for a kiss to his jaw with the whisper, “Whatever you desire,” and her tone sultry, “my lord.” 

Osferth did not let go of her hand, his slender fingers interlacing with her own, and she followed his sure steps that led away from the continued festivities and towards the room that had been prepared for them. When they came to the door, he drew her close by bringing the back of her palm to his lips for a gentle kiss, relishing in the flush of color to her cheeks before he opened the door. 

He pulled her inside, making sure to close and lock the door before he turned to capture her mouth; he pressed against her and she moaned in response, her arms wrapping around his neck, his tongue clever to taste. His large hands that had been hardened from battle showed grace with the intricacies of the lacings on her dress, with Osferth pausing to kiss the bit of new skin he exposed until Keavy was fully bare. 

Each touch of his lips seemed to spark against her skin, fluttering to her nerve endings and back again; she felt the coiled fervor in her lower abdomen, a wetness that pooled between her thighs, an ache to be touched by his hands. 

“Osferth,” she breathed against his lips, “I need you.”

But instead he pulled back, taking away the warmth he embodied, and Keavy could not help her soft whine, feeling her blush spill with intimate rose hues that stained her skin. He watched, his eyes rolling over her, his brilliant blue swallowed by his lustful haze and an almost playful curl to his lips. 

Osferth closed the space he created, a hot whisper in the shell of her ear, “I know,” and he moved closer, feeling her shuddered response beneath his fingertips, gentle to touch her hips and bring her flush against his chest; she sighed at the heavy shaft that pressed onto her lower stomach, “I promise, but first…” 

Keavy looked to see a pink dusting that covered his cheeks, his smile almost shy with his continued confession. “You must be first… I certainly will not last.” 

She kissed him again, her fingers pulling at the tunic he still wore; they moved towards the bed, a trail of his clothing in their wake, until she was able to fall back against the mattress. Osferth remained standing, a moment to admire her curves, from the width of her hips to her waist, the natural slope of her breasts and watching their rise and fall with her breath. 

He climbed onto the bed, moving between her plush thighs; it was a scent intimately her own, mixing pleasantly with the fresh straw and linen. Osferth dipped his head to place a kiss to the bloom above her entrance and she sighed, her thighs clenching in response, but his large hands moved to grip into the softness, pulling them apart so he could sink further. 

Keavy felt the blood rush to her head; his touch was familiar, remembered, with his soft nuzzle between and his kisses that led towards her center. She gasped and he only hummed in response, his lips curling upwards as they pressed to savor her essence; it was overwhelming after so long, and Keavy could not help but jump, another gasp that ripped from her chest. 

His hold tightened, his pleading murmur against her folds, “Let me, let me,” as he continued. 

She could not help but squirm, her fingers combing through his locks to root herself, and Osferth hummed again, a vibration that fluttered throughout her. She felt his fingers press against her silken slit, the curl of one digit within and another followed, creating sparks of pleasure that trilled up her spine with his come hither motion; her heart pounded against her chest from his sensual ministrations, the blood roaring towards her center as each euphoric wave began to crest and press against her seams. 

“Osferth,” she cried, pearled tears clumping her lashes together. 

“My beautiful wife,” his breathless praise against her wet cunt, “just like that…”

Osferth continued and her stomach tightened before the coiling passion finally burst, stars dancing before her eyes and her sinful clench around his fingers as he continued to coax through its entirety. Once her breath steadied, once her vision cleared, did she look to see he was now standing, his fingers now wrapped around the base his length, heady and heavy and glistening from her release. 

She pushed to her elbows to meet as he moved on top of her, capturing his lips and she licked herself off his chin with a giggle. Osferth grinned, moving into the cradle of her hips, resting on his elbows to hold his weight, but she clenched her thighs to draw him closer for another breathless kiss. 

Keavy melted against the warmth of his bare skin, the tickle of his chest hair, and his arm dipped between them to line the crown of his cock to her entrance, the gratifying stretch as he filled her. She gasped from the slow roll of his hips, sheathing his length and rekindling a passion with his each thrust; her nails bit into his shoulders, gasping to catch her breath that was being pulled away with the returning crests of pleasure, of something deeper within that caused her walls to flutter. 

“Again?” Osferth was flushed, pleased, but his pace did not falter. 

She could only give a mewled response, a clenching release, an intensity from the depth he reached inside her, and its rapturous pull that left her boneless and breathless, caged in his arms. Osferth followed her over the edge, tucking his head into the junction of her neck to her shoulder, a muted groan as his cocked pulsed within her velvet walls. 

And they laid for a moment before he began to place soft kisses against the curve of her neck, his lips trailing her jaw, and she giggled from his touch. He grinned again, another chaste kiss on her lips before he pulled away, moving to grab a cloth that was draped by the washbin, wringing it out and returning to wipe away the sex, pausing a moment to admire the spill of his seed and how it gleamed against her rosy folds. 

The hour was late when they finally crawled beneath the layers of blankets, of furs, and Osferth curled behind her with a deep inhale then a sigh from feeling the softness of her backside pressed against his chest, from how she fit into his embrace as his arms wrapped around her waist. He nestled further into her curls, a scent sorely missed of rose oil against her flushed skin, until his lips touched the back of her neck, eliciting a sleepy sigh from her lips.

He smiled, the low murmur, “My sweet wife.”

Deireadh.

previous | masterlist

[arcielee]

So far, I have only written for Osferth, but who knows what the muses want? I may attempt others in the future. As always, be mindful of tags and warnings!

𝖔𝖘𝖋𝖊𝖗𝖙𝖍

smutty Osferth drabble Osferth x Female!Reader Warnings: This is just a smutty drabble filled with religious guilt, voyeurism, masturbation, fingering and grinding goodness. Enjoy!

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Insatiable Osferth x Plus Size Reader Summary: Osferth finally has a moment with the barmaid he has been pining for. Warnings: AFAB Reader, kissing, titty sucking, grinding, pre ejaculation because baby monk is thrumming with life being tucked between your thighs, implied sexual themes.

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Command me to be well Lord Osferth x Female!Reader [third person] Summary: Lord Osferth has been injured and she takes care of him. Warnings: Teasing baby monk, mentions of battles, injuries, oral (m receiving), 9th century remedies for bruises?

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Her Salvation, His Damnation Osferth x vampire Female!Reader [third person] Summary: Osferth meets a healer who haunts his dreams. Warnings: AFAB, mentions of amber eyes because its a vampire, edging, oral (m and f receiving), p in v, dubcon for being transformed into the undead.

Silver Coins - part 1 Osferth x Female!Reader Summary: You are paid to be a pleasure for the baby monk. Warnings:  Smutty smut, inexperienced Osferth, oral sex (m and f), p in v.

Peace Beneath the City - part 2 Osferth x Female!Reader Summary: Years have gone by and you receive a familiar visitor. Warnings:  Smutty smut, we got season 5 Osferth coming in with the d that they were fighting over, oral (female receiving), p in v.

Farewell Wanderlust Osferth x OFC Summary: Torn from her home country, Keavy finds herself trying to survive across the Irish sea. She happens across Uhtred and his motley crew, and finds herself befriending a monk who is determined to become a warrior. Warnings: Please be mindful of the warnings for each chapter! Author’s Note: This is complete!

arcie's navi || dividers by @saradika

[arcielee]

Farewell Wanderlust

Warnings:  Death mentioned in graphic detailing, night terrors, SA implied/mentioned, overall sexism because it is the 9th century. MDNI, 18+ Pairing: Osferth x OFC Word Count: 2136 Summary: Torn from her home country, Keavy finds herself trying to survive across the Irish sea. She happens across Uhtred and his motley crew, and finds herself befriending a monk who is determined to become a warrior.       Author’s Note: This will be a hybrid of the books and TLK show. The timelines will be adjusted for the plot and the names will match the Old English/9th Century. Please be mindful of chapter warnings as this shit will have dark moments and mature themes.   Thank you to my darling beta reader @aspen-carter​ for helping me with this first chapter and to my darling @killergirlfuria​​ to help me with the summary, as I am terrible at them. UPDATE: Thank you for this gif! @itbmojojoejo​ ♥  Please let me know if you would like to be added to the taglist! Dividers are by @saradika​​​ Taglist (Tumblr kindred spirits): @aaaaaamond​ @annikin-im-panicin​ @watercolorskyy​ @schniiipsel​ @aspen-carter​ @aemondx​ @fan-goddess​ @babygirlyofthevale​ @randomdragonfires​ @httpsdoll​ @tssf-imagines​

Chapter 1 

The day was warm and bright, a beautiful day suitable for the celebration of the marriage between Æthelred of Mercia to the trueborn daughter of King Alfred. Wessex swelled from the festivities, with the bittersweet smell of ale, foods, and sweat that meshed with the wave of bodies gathering within the city walls. 

Osferth was tall and lithe, able to see over the heads of the crowds, and surefooted to slip in-between the masses as he searched for one man in mind, as his uncle had encouraged.

Uhtred of Bebbanburg. 

Before this, his life had been spent in the shadows of the monastery, well aware of his paternal heritage but unallowed to breathe a word about it. His clandestine confinement consisted of the repetition of scripture and prayer to atone for sins that were not his own, and it did not feed his faith, but instead allowed his bitterness for his banishment to fester within. 

This changed on his thirteenth name day when Leofric came for a visit; he remembered him to be large, his voice low and grizzled as he regaled his time spent with the Dane slayer and he even shared about his mother; she had died during childbirth, but his uncle swore her strength was passed to him. 

“I know you are angry, little man, but this is the safest place for you right now,” and his large palm rested on his thin shoulders, a fatherly squeeze for reassurance. 

Osferth was heartsore when he learned of uncle’s death; the memory of those days they spent together was something he cherished, replaying in his mind and becoming a balm for his bitterness. His grief allowed a moment of complacency until his eighteenth name day when the abbot brought him a sword and a piece of parchment; he realized the scrawl of words belonged to his uncle and they brought a newfound peace, a drive with how Leofric spoke that  a man could be set on a path, but only his steps could create his own destiny. 

The letter ended with a mantra, destiny is all.

So he left the monastery, wearing his weatherbeaten albe and with the baldric wrapped around his slim waist, that kept the gifted sword sheathed at his side. 

He traveled, following the trail of celebrators into Wintanceaster until he saw him ahead, lounging on the steps and surrounded by his men; their eyes were watchful as Osferth pushed forward, he only stopped when he saw the blue eyes of the ealdorman-of-many-monikers focus on him.  

“Lord,” he began, “you knew my uncle, Leofric.” 

He saw how his eyes softened at the mention of the name and Osferth knew he held his attention. “Leofric was a great man,” Uhtred tilted his head up, looking over the young man. 

Osferth nodded. “I have come to serve you, to be at your side as my uncle had.” 

The motley men that surrounded Uhtred varied from Dane to Saxon; he heard the scoff and lilt of a dark haired, dark eyed man who muttered how they had no need for a baby monk. Osferth swallowed, “I have come to serve as a warrior, lord.” His eyes did not leave Uhtred. 

He could see the quiet assessment from Uhtred, how his blue eyes surveyed him, and then he heard a smaller man, who was standing apart, who spoke out loud of his heritage beyond Leofric–that he was Alfred’s bastard. 

“You are Alfred’s son,” Uhtred said, in part a question, but also a clarification. “Your father would not be pleased to learn you’ve come to offer me your sword.” 

“And what has he done for me?” He struggled to smooth the bitterness that edged his tone. “Sent me away so I could become a priest or a monk, to be forgotten or simply denied my very existence altogether?” It was his turn to scoff. “But if I were to stay in Wessex, what would I expect to find? Favour?” 

Uhtred raised his brows with his words and looked over at his Irishman, who only shrugged in response. “You may never see Wessex again,” his eyes did not break away from him.

“Then I would give my thanks to God for that,” and their looks showed Osferth it was not the expected reply. “It is the stench, lord,” he clarified, his eyes flitting around the people crowding the city.  

Uhtred grinned, but before he could speak further, a guard called to his attention that the king called for him. Osferth shifted his weight under the guard’s gaze and Uhtred stood up, his eyes rolled over him once more before he said, “If you have a sword, you may stay,” and followed after the guard. 

His lips curled with what he considered his small victory and his hand fell to the hilt, a pat on the pommel to reassure it was there. He felt the dark eyes of the Irishman focus on him. “Can you wield that, baby monk?” he asked Osferth. 

“Well enough,” he replied and he heard a chuckle, looking behind to see a Dane with his arms wrapped around a woman whose auburn hair burned more red in the sunlight. “Though, I am willing to learn…”

“Well, thank the gods for that,” and the Irishman stepped down and placed a palm onto his shoulder, a squeeze to show comradery, or perhaps to feel for his strength, with a hold that reminded him of his uncle; his grin showed beneath his beard. “Let’s leave this noise and see what you are capable of then, baby monk.” 

+ + + +

Keavy would allow her mind to return to the days she spent at the nunnery, a brief reprieve that allowed her to relive the only bit of peace she experienced since she arrived across the sea. 

It began with the abbess and her pitied look when the slavers rolled through; Keavy was barely ten years of age, thin, quiet, and did her best to stay hidden. She remembered the warmth in her kindly brown eyes when the abbess looked to her and called for the cost of the little girl. 

He had scoffed at first, but when she pressed, he only requested a cup of ale in exchange and it was quickly provided. Keavy watched the bob of his neck, how it spilled from the corners of his mouth and stained his tunic as he downed it. He belched when it was finished and shoved her forward. “She is yours, nun, but know that she has been cursed.” 

She fell to the ground, her legs weak from the weeks at sea, unable to stop herself from hitting the dirt path. Keavy felt the burn in her palms and knees, her scars that lined the left side of her jaw and cheek–a parting gift of desperation from her mam the night their village was raided. 

It was a night seared within her blood and that often returned to her with violent flashes when she slept. She was haunted by the cries from the villagers, how her daid handed her his dagger before taking a sword and leaving to fight with the other men. Her mam had begged and screamed for him not to leave, as anyone could see from the flames curling from the rooftops, licking the night sky, to the blood soaked earth that this battle was already lost. 

Stories had terrorized the coast of Irland of the blood-lust traders and slavers who ravaged the shores, taking whatever they deemed profitable. They spoke of how villages would be nothing but ashes, how the surviving men would be sold off as slaves, of the horrors of what would happen to women and girls. 

Her hands shook as she tied the belt around her waist, hiding the sheath beneath the layers of her skirt while her mam continued her screams. Keavy clung to the dagger as if it would keep her tethered to her daid, crying when her mam finally ripped it from her hold; her own hands shaking as she attempted soothing sounds that were choked by her tears. “I will not kill you, child,” she breathed and Keavy saw the manic fire in her blue eyes. “But you are far too pretty to survive across the sea.” 

Her daid kept the blade sharp, his prized possession that came from his father before and his before that. She did not feel it until it nicked into her jawbone and only then did she cry, the blood spilling onto her clothes; she screamed for her mam to stop and fought back to pry it from her hands when the door barged in. 

They were faceless, large and covered in blood and grime. Her mam was killed without so much as a scream and another grabbed her, searching for cloth for her wound and unaware as she tucked the dagger back into its sheath beneath her skirts. There was the tear of fabric and he pressed it to her face, before dragging her from her home, dragging her towards the shore. 

She would never forget the heat of the flames, how she choked on the soot and smoke as she stumbled over the fallen bodies around; her hand pressing the cloth on her face and the other gripping her side, holding the handle of the blade. There was a bold moment that seized her chest, to plunge it into his side and run to find her daid, but then she saw him, one of the dead amongst the many bodies, with his sword in his hand and his eyes empty as they bored forward. 

Keavy remembered how the fear replaced and gripped her heart and her vocal chords; she would not scream because she knew that no one would come for her. 

She did not know how she survived crossing the sea, nor could she remember much more than the crude stitches that were given onboard, an attempt to save her, and the burn of her fever that ached her bones. “It is because God has a plan for you, little one,” the abbess would tell her later.

“I am cursed,” she would say, partly in defiance, partly to watch the reaction of the abbess and her wide brown eyes. 

“Hush, child,” she would scold her, as always. “That man was a godless heathen and knew not what he said. He thought your worth was equal to a cup of mead!”

The nunnery she was brought to was built to overlook the rolling fields of Ebchester, with a river that curved through the hills. Here the abbess seemed relentless for the salvation of Kaevy’s soul and Keavy would allow the repetition of her fables and scriptures, all while palming the Celtic silver cross she wore beneath her plain tunic. 

She remembered the day when Lady Gisela arrived, how her kindred spirit called to her and the lady was all too pleased with the bold Irish girl who shadowed her steps. The abbess allowed her to stay, Dane or not, and Keavy was delighted with her company over the other Saxon nuns. 

Gisela had a kind smile and took care to answer her questions about her life before Ebchester. Keavy admired her worldly insight and her attention was rapt to the stories she told her about the love she shared with Uhtred of Bebbanburg. 

“My lady, how do you know he will come for you?” Keavy asked, with a genuine curiosity of the faith Gisela held that seemed comparable, if not stronger, to the faith the nuns held for their Christian God.

“It is something you know,” Gisela smiled and it was as bright as the sun that warmed them. “You will know this when you are older.” 

Keavy saw a glimpse of Uhtred of Bebbanburg, of Uhtred Ragnarsson, when he arrived as the savior promised. The day began with the arrival of strange men who spouted of the power of their God and how it allowed them to marry Gisela against her wishes; the abbess held onto Keavy tightly as she struggled forward, choking on the same helplessness she felt the night her village burned. 

Uhtred was a force when he arrived, barging through the doors; when the abbot refused to be quiet, he killed him to silence him. The nuns cried, but Gisela and Keavy watched him. “Child, look away,” the abbess had whispered, but she was a young woman now and could not help the sense of satisfaction she felt as she watched the abbot bleed out on the wood floors. 

Keavy remembered when they had left and for the first time she had prayed, not to a deity in specific, but the quiet prayer for Lady Gisela to enjoy her happiness. The stories she had shared stayed with her and allowed a sense of hope that she had not felt before.

Chapter 2 | masterlist

[arcielee]

Farewell Wanderlust

Warnings: As always, MDNI, 18+ past trauma mentioned, sexual themes, unprotected sex, grinding, oral (female receiving), fighting and death, holy ground being disturbed? Pairing: Osferth x OFC Word Count: 5138 Summary: Torn from her home country, Keavy finds herself trying to survive across the Irish sea. She happens across Uhtred and his motley crew, and finds herself befriending a monk who is determined to become a warrior. Author’s Note: I apologize for the delay, irl is being tedious for me, but I very much know how this story will end. We have one more chapter to go! It is still very much a hybrid of the show and the books, with me adding flare as needed to fit the narrative. Anyway, enjoy. 💜     Thank you @theromanticegoist for being my beta reader and offering me a sliver of your insight and talent. Thank you my darling @itbmojojoejo for the gif you took the time to create for me. 💜 Dividers are by @saradika Taglist (Tumblr kindred spirits): @aaaaaamond @annikin-im-panicin @watercolorskyy @schniiipsel @sylas-the-grim @aemondx @fan-goddess @babygirlyofthevale @httpsdoll @assortedseaglass @amiraisgoingthruit @tssf-imagines @triscy @whoknows333 @shesjustanothergeek @greenowlfactif @larlarmojo @babyblue711 @fangirlninja67 @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauftivy @vintageypanwitch @heimtathurs (bold means I was unable to tag you!)

Chapter 6

Keavy awoke to the morning light streaming through the cloth that was pinned over the window, allowing a muted, dawning glow to fill the room. She wiped the haze from her eyes and realized the intimate tangle of bare limbs beneath the furs; her gaze moved from the nightstand, from the candle that burnt to its wick and its wax spill onto the wood, and drifted to Osferth, who was curled at her side. 

Her slight movement stirred him and he gave a sleepy groan, his arm reaching to wrap around her waist and pulling her against his torso. Soft laughter spilled from her lips with the tickle of his chest hair, his lips soft against her hairline. “Good morning,” she whispered, craning her neck with a phantom kiss to his jawline. 

Osferth hummed, tilting his chin downwards to find her lips. “Good morning, beautiful,” his voice was drowsy and each word punctuated with a gentle kiss. 

She burned from his touch, from his words–no man before had called her beautiful, especially not a Saxon man. “Do not tease me, Osferth,” her breath fanned his cheeks and she saw his dimples peeked with his smile.

“I would never,” and he kissed her again. 

Keavy smiled against the press of his lips, shifting to spread her legs as he moved closer, cradled against her hips; he hummed his pleasure, careful to place his weight on his arms that were propped on both sides, with a slow rhythm of his hips. She sighed as his hardness pressed between her thighs, the genial rub against the flush of her arousal. 

“Osferth,” she gasped, arching against him. “I shall never grow tired of this.”  

“Do not tempt me,” his mouth moved along the column of her neck, placing kisses until he came to the junction of her shoulder and nipping softly; she sighed again, her skin raising in response. “I may never allow you to leave.”

But inevitably they would, the begrudging pull from the sex soaked linen and allowing the cool air to nip at their skin. Keavy poured the chilled water from the ewer into the porcelain basin and they were quick to clean and dress; she fetched a small vial and her pecten to comb through her dark locks.

She palmed the rose oil gifted from Gisela, working it into her curls, which allowed the polished bone to glide through to style. Osferth came up behind her, his hands gentle to touch and his fingers threaded through to finish braiding her hair. “A man of many talents,” she teased him, her cheeks crimson with his gesture. 

“Of course,” his voice low, his attention focused as he knotted the end. “How else do you believe Sihtric manages his hair?” 

Her laughter was lyrical, and he smiled; she reached for his hand, her fingers interlacing with his own, and he pulled her outside. The fallen fresh snow glittered with the sun’s light and their breath was white clouds that rose above them; their hands knitted with a soft swing that synchronized with their slow steps as they made their way towards the great hall. 

The doors groaned open and the attention shifted towards them; it was the Irishman who began his cheer, with the rest following. “It’s about fucking time,” and Finan’s smile was bright against his dark beard, while a rose color dusted their features as they took their seats at the table to join them. 

Winter settled over, which kept the men in Coccham; Keavy did not mind and enjoyed the new comfort with the new routine. She slowly created space for Osferth within her room, enjoying how his scent lingered over the shared space, especially in the furs and blankets from when they curled beneath them, sharing an intimate warmth as they talked about their days.  

Outside of Coccham, the snow billowed high against the walls and isolated the village from the rest of Wessex. The inside thrummed still, with pathways that weaved within, the spirits high from the rich harvest despite the cold. An occasional traveler would wander through, taking a moment by the fire and delivering any letters, one which was addressed to Osferth from Lady Æthelflæd.

That night the great hall was alive with liquored cheer, but her focus remained on Osferth as he stepped away a moment to break the seal. To the untrained eye, it could be considered an eager want to read the letter from his kin, but Keavy saw the brief press of his lips into a thin line and the flicker of worry that knitted between his brows as his eyes flitted over the parchment in hand. 

Keavy did not wish to draw any attention, but waited as the night waned away, when they began to file out into the night to find their beds. She reached for his hand and they returned to the privacy of the room they now shared, which was dark with a slight chill. Once the door was closed and candles lit, she felt Osferth press up against her, a pillar of warmth on her backside; she sighed as his arms wrapped around her waist, his face nuzzling beneath her scarf and the soft press of his lips to her skin. 

“What news did your sister have for you?” Her hand reached back, her fingers combing through his golden locks towards the back of his head.

Osferth hummed and she felt the curl of his lips into a smile. “You read me as well as her words written.” 

She turned in his arms to face him, pressing to her tiptoes for a chaste kiss in response. “With the time I have invested, Osferth, I should hope so,” her brow raised to hint the teasing of her tone. “Do you wish to talk about it?”

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against her own for a moment, slow breaths to intake her fragrance of lavender and thyme, her hint of rose oil in her tresses. Osferth pulled back, taking her hand and moving to sink into the straw mattress.

Keavy followed him, but remained standing between his legs, quiet and watchful as his long, slender fingers that played with her own, his forehead lined as he struggled to find the words. “My father,” he began but it was said as if there was a bitter taste to his tongue. Osferth swallowed and began again. “The king’s health has been failing.” 

In the last few years, King Alfred had the reputation for being perpetually ill but without actually dying; Lady Æthelflæd wrote her worry that their father’s luck, or perhaps the favor with his God, was finally coming to an end, or so she believed. “I know he will reach out to Uhtred when winter ends,” and he finally met with her eyes, a glassy shine to his brilliant blue. “Perhaps to ask that Uhtred swear his fealty to Edward.” 

She nodded, aware that Æthelflæd was his sister but that Edward was always referred to by his name. “He would never agree to it,” Keavy whispered, one hand coming to touch his jaw. “To swear fealty to a boy would last until the end of his life.” 

Osferth nodded and his lashes fluttered closed, leaning into her touch and releasing the hold of her hand; she moved to touch the other side of his face and he reopened his eyes, looking up at her once again.

Before their intimacy finally bloomed between them, she had first become his confidant and, in return, he was her haven embodied. Right now she saw the solemn severity that lined his features, she saw the uncertainty, the weight of the future of Wessex, a burden not belonging and, at the same time, imbedded into his blood.

Her thumb trailed the sharp edge of his jawline. “Let the king call for Uhtred when the snow melts, he will handle him,” and her tone grew coy, “but right now the snow piles high and we must stay warm to survive.” 

She leaned forward, another chaste kiss to tease his lips, and his hands moved in response, grabbing her waist and pulling her closer. Keavy grabbed fistfuls of her skirt, rutting the fabric up to straddle him, the soft plush of her thighs caging him to the bed. 

His hold moved to cradle her lower back, pulling her against his chest, his head tilting back and pressing his lips to the underside of her jaw. “We must stay warm,” his hot whisper tickled and she tried to pull back with a smile, a giggle, but his grip held and brought her back, capturing her lips with his own. 

Keavy moaned and his clever tongue deepen the kiss, as if he was drawing the very breath from her lungs; she wrapped her arms around his neck, leveraging for a slow grind forward against the hardness that pressed through the crotch of his trousers, pulsating from the pressure of her clothed cunt. 

Osferth groaned into her mouth and the vibration sent a trickling desire down the length of her spine; his tongue tasted her, his dexterous fingers loosening the ribbons that laced her backside. Their clothing fell to the floor, quick with the cold that seeped in, and he pulled her beneath the layers of their bed, a kiss to the inside of her knee and a trail of open mouth kisses that led to her core.

She sighed with the familiarity of his touch, his lips, and the beginning glints of pleasure sparked before her eyes, leading towards the precipice of her release. A warmth coiled in her lower abdomen as his fingers curled within, one after the other, and she moaned with his ministrations that pushed her over the edge, her blossomed release that spread and pressed the very seams of her being. 

Osferth followed through its completion with the sinful squelch of her cunt pulsating around his fingers, almost to that brink of overstimulation, before he withdrew and carefully climbed on top of her. She was breathless and beautifully flushed from her climax, a soft mewl spilled when she felt his length press against, heavy and warm and wanting. 

Keavy combed her fingers through his hair, pulling him close for a kiss and savoring her taste on his tongue, while her thighs wrapped around his slender waist. She sighed sweetly as he molded to her curves, the weight of him and the tickle of his chest hair against her bare skin. 

His arm reached between, lining himself with her entrance; Keavy moaned when he pushed in, his head dipping into the curve of her neck with his own low groan from how her velvet walls clenched in response. Osferth waited a moment, allowing her the time still needed to adjust to his size, and he only moved when she found his mouth with a hungry kiss to urge him. 

The gentle thrusts of his hips began to rekindle the flames licking her bones, the curtails of her prior release still tingling throughout; the crushing closeness, the tickle of his hot breath against her skin and his pace quickened with the flutter of her walls; there is a tandem of their release, the sounds of her sighs and his guttural groan that reverberates through them both. 

Every moment spared would be this entanglement of limbs, curling into one another flushed from their climax and until their breaths were an exchange. Eventually, the snow began to thaw and the spring greenery struggled through the cold mush left behind. The earth warmed still and Osferth’s prediction of a letter from the king did not come until the midsummer months. 

They packed to travel to Wintanceaster as commanded or as asked, depending if you spoke with the Lord or Lady of Coccham. 

Gisela complained with good nature and grace, swollen with the life that grew within her. She sighed her complaints of her size as Uhtred took her hand, careful to guide her steps towards the cart. “It will not be able to hold me,” she smiled with her words.

Uhtred kissed her hand, his other arm wrapping around to lift her inside. “If the wheels split, I will carry you myself,” and his eyes glittered as he teased her, pressing forward to steal another kiss before moving back towards his horse. 

Gisela shook her head, her lips pursed into another smile, and her gaze fell to both Keavy and Osferth, with him helping her to mount her horse. “This will be your fate one day,” she called to them, smiling still and raising one brow. “And I will be the one on horseback!”

Keavy flushed from her words, unable to look at Osferth, unable to stop the curl of her lips into a smile from Gisela’s teasing. 

Their time together in the last few months had been everything she always hoped for, but she could not help the flutter of apprehension that it would never be more. The thought knotted in her chest late at night when Osferth would curl against her backside, the warmth of his palm on her stomach, but she found it was the one thing she could not say outloud to him. 

She confided in the great hall where Hild began to speak scriptures and Gisela waved her off, seated with her swollen ankles propped up. “Away with your Ephesians, Hild. Do not listen to that nun,” she said to Keavy and her dark eyes glittered. “Is he good to you?”

Osferth was and so much more. He showed consideration for her in his every action, something that was without effort and just seemed natural for him: from how he filled his plate to share with her, how he took her hand to lead their steps together, with how his eyes brightened, alert, always aware of their surroundings as if he would do anything to keep her safe. She loved their time together, at the end of the day when he would curl into her, the soft trail of his fingers along the length of her spine and back, or how they would comb through her dark curls with gentle kisses along her hairline. 

She was crimson when she finally answered. “He is very good to me.” 

“Then that is enough,” and her tone clipped with a sense of finality, and Keavy tried her best to tuck the thought away. 

But it still lingered; she was aware of his bloodline, of the royalty that ran through his veins that was stronger than the sins of King Alfred. Keavy assumed the day would come when he would want a wife of his equal, a true Saxon lady of reputation and not some marred, cursed cailín from across the Irish sea.

“Marriage is only a title, a status, an exchange of goods when had,” Gisela argued. “I see how he is with you and it is the actions of a man that speaks of his character.”

This was now the thought that she clung to.

It was then that Finan barked to the caravan prepared, reclaiming her attention, and they made their way towards Wintanceaster.

+ + + +

They had barely arrived when the king called Uhtred away, leaving the rest to settle into the home of the priest and his wife, Thyra; she held the same fierceness as her kin, Uhtred, but had a softer deliverance with it, instilled with the bold blue of her eyes. 

Their home was comfortable with a rich fragrance from the supper prepared over the open flame; the children played amongst themselves, with Sihtric’s son alongside Oswald and Stiorra, and the men made their round trips to the alehouse to refill their cups, their spirits high. They crowded around the table to eat and with the shortage of seats, only then did Osferth pull Keavy into his lap, relishing in the sight of color that tinged her cheeks. 

Uhtred returned, soured with the news they were to sunder tomorrow, heading towards the Burh of Aescengum on his advice that the king sought from him. “Unfortunate this is the one time he listens to you, lord,” Finan teased him, but he could only manage a grim smile in return. 

The following morning, the stables were cluttered as the wives came to bid their farewells, with Keavy among them. Osferth curled his finger beneath her chin and tilted her head back, pressing his lips against her own with his promise, “I will return to you.”

Her smile was forced, but her eyes were bright from the kiss. 

The sun shone overhead and moved behind them as they went eastwards, the city of Wintanceaster shrinking away. A comfortable silence settled over with the ambling gait of their horses, until Uhtred decided to break it. “I believe it is time you take a wife,” he began, his lips curling as if he was aware of something already. “It is time that you got married.” 

There was a low chorus of chuckles from Sihtric and Finan behind them. “I have thought of it,” Osferth admitted. 

This was a thought that reverberated within him, something that rattled his bones whenever he was in proximity of Keavy, something ignited with her touch, with her lilt. It followed him, heavy in the air that surrounded them and it mixed with the sickly sweet scent of sex and sweat above their bed shared; his throat was thick with his want to whisper the words: my sweet wife.

But also was the thought that he was a bastard and the curse bond with it. The holy book of Dueteronomy taught how this curse would follow for ten generations because of his illegitimacy. As a boy, he did not mind it, but as he matured, he now found that it clawed at his heart from the moment he had kissed Keavy. 

Osferth knew then that he loved her, and that perhaps he always had, as it gradually blossomed more over the years. He enjoyed the sharpness of her emerald eyes, how well she fit into his embrace and he would bury his face into her dark curls. Most of all, he admired her strength and her resilience; Keavy had been shy and hesitant to share the cruelty that destiny littered her path on the way to him; the thought that his curse could possibly add more suffering to it pained him, especially when she already survived so much.

Uhtred raised his brow. “Just thought?”

“Usque ad decimam generationem,” the Latin spilled from his lips and he continued, “I could not… my children would be cursed, their children too, and every child for ten generations.” 

Osferth tried to avoid this pending biblical curse that clung overhead, but too often he would be cuntdrunk, with the taste of her lips too enticing and the sinfully sweet clutch of her velvet walls all too consuming. It was only when the post-coital haze wore off that the thought would return: bastard begot bastard, his curse continuing. 

“So every bastard is doomed?”

Osferth hummed, his eyes forward. “I do not see the king taking ownership for his… mistakes.” 

There was another chortle of laughter and Osferth only hummed again. Ahead of them was the low smoldering glow of the ruined village of Alton, the remains of a guarded church coming to view when Uhtred called to him. “Let us ask your God what else can be done.”

But God had seemed to abandon the parish and instead they found a woman of many names: a seer, a witch, the devil reincarnate. Sihtric moaned of the curse that followed with her capture, voicing his concerns until it was palpable and heavy overhead. Only Finan was bold enough to say, “Do not speak of it, it only gives it strength,” and it was left alone, but lingered on the edge of their minds.

The Battle of Farnham, as it would be remembered, was a slaughter of Danes and their victory was sung throughout Wessex, following their return to the city. It was surreal with the echo of bells off of the Roman structures that were still rooted throughout the city, the swarm of the crowd and their cheers for King Alfred and his men, for their victory and safe return. 

Osferth peered through, his eyes sharp for Keavy, or even Gisela, but instead he spotted the nun Hild; he saw how her face was drawn with grief and the nursemaid in her shadow, holding a bundle to her chest. Before he could say a word, Uhtred quickly dismounted and pushed through towards her; Osferth instead swung his leg over, following after Beocca back to his home, relief washing over when he saw Keavy seated inside with Stiorra and Oswald. 

The priest moved to kiss his wife and Keavy pushed to her feet, enveloping in Osferth’s arms; he pulled back to kiss her, finding her cheeks stained with tears that confirmed the news plainly written in Hild’s expression outside. 

Gisela was gone. “I could not save her,” she whispered hoarsely and he pulled her close again, a soft kiss on her hairline. 

With the summer months waning away, the night came with its chill and its sorrow. Osferth took Keavy’s hand and they moved outside the city walls, towards the holy ground where Gisela had been buried; Hild breathed a quick prayer and the men grabbed their shovels, upturning the fresh grave.

Uhtred watched as the flames licked up the sides of the lumber stacked, the poignant smell of death masked by the smoke that curled up into the silver light of the moon. “It is beautiful,” and Hild wet her lips, her voice a reverent whisper amongst the splintered pops of wood. “It is as though she is drifting away from the earth and upwards towards the heavens.” 

The amber glow of the funeral pyre cast its golden dysphoria over him, his cheeks shone with his tears and he wilted with wracking sobs that echoed emptily against the trees. Osferth moved to his side and Finan quickly to the other, a strong hold of their lord, with their whispered words of comfort offered to him. 

“Death is unavoidable, it is a part of life,” he rasped, his palmed gripped Osferth and his glassy eyes locked onto him. “It is inevitable, but love is not and you must always take the moment when it is offered.”  

As their attention returned to the blaze, Osferth dared peer back to see Keavy. She held onto the hand offered by Hild, pale in the moonlight and her features tight with her grief aflare, reflecting her tear streaked cheeks, and he had the intrusive thought. 

She is lovely still. 

Uhtred’s words was something repeated in his mind as they retreated back inside the city, returning to their beds; it was a soft echo still in his mind as he pulled her flush against his chest, something that resonated when he felt the gentle press of her lips to the underside of his jaw, nestling into his embrace. Osferth held her close throughout the night, his fingers tangled in her dark curls and his other hand rested on her hip, the soft expansion with her every breath eventually lulling him to sleep. 

The lamenting lessened in the days that followed. Though the grief remained, there was room for a sense of clarity, for Uhtred to announce they were leaving Wintanceaster at once. Osferth saw how he was haunted with Gisela, how the city now served a reminder of his love that was lost.

He knew this would follow them back to Coccham and he thought back to that summer day years before, when he first came to swear his sword to Uhtred and what he promised, his words–“You may never see Wessex again,”–but still they remained, tethered by the oath to the king. 

Osferth only truly understood his sister’s words when he saw their father at Aescengum; he almost did not recognize the cadaverous man had it not been for his crown, his regalia that hung from his thin frame. The dark force that escorted him from Wintanceaster was now grey in his complexion, with silver streaks in his hair and beard, a brittle man that a strong gust could have swept away. 

He also thought of what else she wrote, how she encouraged him to come to her estate, to come to Mercia; her letters tempted him to go, to take Keavy and to travel North. 

But instead he stayed, now spurred with the unspoken exigency to ready the horses, to leave the city at once, and it was interrupted when Beocca called for Uhtred, stating the king called for him again. They watched him leave before continuing, with an unease that lingered behind. 

Later, Osferth first spotted his return, his grief partnered with a fervor as he called to him, to Finan and Sihtric. The city thrummed, holy ground has been disturbed, and soon the king’s guard arrived, but the men of Coccham were already standing guard, with a palpable choler that solidified their stance. 

In that moment, his sister’s words returned. “We need to get them out,” his voice was low, whispered to Sihtric; Finan continued to needle Steapa and his men, bold as always. The Dane quirked his brow at Osferth. “The children, your wife and son,” he continued, before adding, “and Keavy.”

Sihtric steeled his jaw, a sharp nod to acknowledge his words. “You have a plan, baby monk,” but it was not a question, more a statement. 

Osferth hummed, his eyes locking onto Hild as she pressed through the men, a beacon for peace and her tongue chastising them all. 

“You were goading him,” she hissed to Finan as she moved past him. 

The Irishman raised his brows in response. “I was, Hild. And enjoying it.” 

“So the abbess may enter, but I may not?” Steapa sounded incredulous and Osferth took the moment, a quick nod to Sihtric, before falling behind in her steps. 

Finan squared off, just as bold. “We’re afraid of the abbess.” 

Osferth slipped behind Hild, leaving the nun to have her scathing exchange with the kept witch while he moved towards Keavy. She was seated by the bed, the children tucked away as she ushered soft tones to soothe them. 

He thought back to their days together in Coccham, their rosy-cheek smiles now hallowed with the somber undertone that clung to their small frames. Osferth felt the loss of Gisela, as she was kind to him, but understood that the children felt it tenfold. 

“We need to leave the city,” he murmured low enough for her to hear; Keavy looked to him, her lips parted to ask but his low timbre continued, cutting through the tension of the room. “Lord, we need to get the children and women out of the city.” 

The focus turned towards them. “I cannot have them return to Coccham,” Uhtred began, his tone wry. “That land belongs to the king and I am not in his favor.” 

“I am aware,” and he paused, a look stolen to take in Keavy, his gaze trailing the severity that lined her face and spilled into the scar along her jaw. Osferth then looked back at Uhtred. “We should send them to Saltwic, lord.” From the corner of his vision he saw Keavy stiffen, how her green eyes darkened and pinned him where he stood, but he did not look away from Uhtred. “My sister will never forget what you have done for her and I know she will be the sanctuary needed,” his tongue wet his lips, “I agree with Hild. You should call for Beocca and hear the demands of the king to serve as a distraction.” 

Uhtred nodded, his focus returning to Hild. “I am willing, but in exchange for the safety of our children, for our women,” and she watched him, her eyes flitting back and forth his face. “I worry about getting them out of the city.” 

Osferth now looked to Keavy, but her attention was rapt, her grip tightened on the handle of the seax that hung at her side. “I will protect them, lord,” Keavy stepped forward, a slight tremor to her tone. “I swear it on Lady Gisela.” 

“I will also go with them, Uhtred,” Hild sighed. “I will first tell Beocca that you are ready to listen and then I will see that they are escorted to Saltwic.” 

Uhtred offered a small smile and Hild was gone; Beocca was quick to arrive with the demands of the king, which called for silver and his vow to the aetheling. Uhtred pushed to stand, following Beocca out into the night, pausing to hand his sword, Serpent-Breath, to Finan and his eyes landed onto Osferth. 

“You know what to do.”

Time slipped through their fingers with this newfound urgency, licking their heels to quick their steps to the stables the moment the guard shifted to follow Uhtred and Steapa. The sleepy haze was wiped from the children’s eyes by the hem of Hild’s sleeve, the hushed tears and kisses exchanged between Sihtric and his wife, Sigdeflaed, while Finan saddled the last mare.

Osferth felt the slight tremble of her hold and looked down at Keavy, her eyes watchful, almost doleful. “You will be safe in Saltwic,” he whispered in the shell of her ear as he pulled her close. “This is for the best, this will keep you safe.” 

She pulled back, her brow furrowed with her sharp nod, her breath caught in her throat and she swallowed the threat of tears. “I know this, I understand this is the logical thing to do and yet…” and she took a deep breath, her hands moving to untie her necklace. “Osferth, I want you to take this and for you to bring it back to me.”

He leaned forward and his skin prickled with her touch as she knotted it behind the nape of his neck; the silver cross gleamed in the little light offered. “Return to me, Osferth,” her voice was small.

He pressed closer and captured her lips, her honeyed kiss a balm for his resolve. Osferth moved to help her onto the backside, then he picked up Stiorra who nestled in front–one child for each rider. His hand then fell to touch Keavy’s ankle, sliding up beneath her skirts and he gently squeezed her calf; she looked down at him. “I will return to you,” he promised.

Her response was a pained smile, another quick nod, and she brought her heels against to trot behind Hild and Sigdeflaed. Osferth followed behind until they passed through the gates, and remained until they were silhouettes in the night. 

Finan clasped his hand onto his shoulder and Osferth looked at the Irishman. “We will see them again. Soon, baby monk,” he promised. “Now help with the gate.”  

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[arcielee]

Farewell Wanterlust

Warnings:  Sexism because it it the 9th century, tw: noncon, sexual assault mentioned, violent actions and torture describe. MDNI, 18+ Pairing: Osferth x OFC Word Count: 4107 Summary: Torn from her home country, Keavy finds herself trying to survive across the Irish sea. She happens across Uhtred and his motley crew, and finds herself befriending a monk who is determined to become a warrior.      Author’s Note: This will be a hybrid of the books and TLK show. The timelines will be adjusted for the plot and the names will match the Old English/9th Century. Please be mindful of chapter warnings as this shit will have dark moments and mature themes.     Please let me know if you would like to be added to the taglist! Dividers are by @saradika​ ♥ Taglist (Tumblr kindred spirits): @aaaaaamond @sirenofavalon @annikin-im-panicin @watercolorskyy @schniiipsel @aspen-carter @aemondx @fan-goddess @babygirlyofthevale @randomdragonfires @httpsdoll @triscy @assortedseaglass @whoknows333 @shesjustanothergeek​ @heavenly1927​ @greenowlfactif​ (bold for those I could not tag, but requested!) 

 Chapter 2

It had been ten days since the brothers, Erik and Sigefried, besieged Lunden. 

The city fell easily, which was something Keavy knew was inevitable from the mumbled worries of his lordship Æthelstan, something that he shared between her and his mug of ale. Though he had been baptized, she still saw the Dane that thrummed beneath the flesh and how it vibrated with that instilled knowledge, haunting him late at night to know that despite the structured wall that surrounded them, they did not have the manpower to keep it properly guarded. 

Keavy had been sent to Lunden after her refusal to join the nunnery in an official capacity. She was well aware of the weight of her decision, how it would uproot her, but the abbess did not fault Keavy for her choice; she knew this from the soft touch of her hand to her cheek that was not damaged, her simple gesture of understanding before she left Ebchester. 

She had grown into a strong-willed woman, both bright and vivacious. In all accounts, she was lovely as her mam claimed: she possessed womanly curves that pressed the seams of her simple frocks, with a milky white complexion and dark ringlets that billowed with her every determined step. 

Though Saxon men admired these physical traits, they all were overlooked the second their eyes fell to the parting gift from her mam. Her scar had healed dark, with blood red markings from the crude sutures that knitted the flesh together; it curled below her chin and stretched back towards her ear, with a second slash into her cheek downwards to her jaw bone. 

She was aware she was a gift for the baptism of Æthelstan of East Anglia but did not mind him; she was pleased to learn how he almost pitied her, which in turn allowed her a freedom within the city limits. He had noted right away how the Saxon men would be quick to look away with the superstitious whispers that she was a witch, some with a visible shudder, and were quick to disregard of her existence; he understood the blemish would allow her to be overlooked and she served as a set of eyes and ears amongst the cityfolk. 

Keavy ignored it all, their reactions, readily accepting her role and requesting to be trained alongside his men, so she could properly handle a sword. And he allowed it. 

It was a freedom she now mourned as she found herself pinned under the dark gaze of Sigefried these last ten days. 

The Danes had come under the cover of night and she awoke to the screams that rolled from the shores, echoing in the stone halls of the manor. She moved from the bed, throwing on her frock and cloak, grabbing her dagger and tucking the silver Celtic cross beneath her neckline. Keavy moved quickly from the castle, hiding in the shadows of the city as she made for her escape. 

She had come across a guardsmen, a young man she recognized from training in the courtyards, and he reached to take her hand. They moved together, quick and quiet amongst the bloodshed, slipping into an alleyway of cobblestone where they found a lone Dane taking a piss. 

The lad pushed her backwards, perhaps with a gallant effort to defend her but instead he was killed quickly. This distraction allowed her to draw her own blade and plunge it into the softness underneath the Dane’s jaw, far enough to gut his tongue so he could not scream. 

As she watched the blood seep between the stones, she thought back to the night when the slavers came and she knew from the haunting echo of slain screams that Lunden was lost. She wiped and sheathed her dagger, removing the silver cross, and wrapped both in her blood stained cloak. Keavy then picked up the sword and used it to lift some of the stones, burying it beneath, then dipping her fingers into the fresh blood that pooled and marking the stones.

She swore that she would survive this as well, that she would return for it, but if not, let it remain buried rather than be taken. 

Once she finished, a looming figure stepped to block her path. His face was shadowed and closer she saw his pupils were blown, which made his eyes as black as the night. He looked past her. “Did you kill them?” His tone gravely, and he said it with a smile that reached his eyes in a way that made her skin crawl. “You have killed one of my men so I ask how will you repay for this loss?” 

Her arms trembled with her grip on the sword, her fear rooted her stance but wavered under his dark eyes.  “I am not afraid to die tonight, Dane,” she spat back at him, but her bold tone cracked and betrayed her. 

His laugh was deep and reverberated around her. “I can see this,” and he was quick to close the space between them, knocking the steel from her grasp. It clamored to the stone and she felt his hot breath on her face. “You are not Saxon,” his larged palm grabbed her face and she felt the burn of her scar from his hold. “Do they teach their women across the Irish sea to fight?” 

She would not answer him, but she also did not look away. He only chuckled, his hand moving to grab a handful of her curls and pulling her as he made his way back towards the castle. Keavy grit her teeth, struggling to keep with his steps and ignoring the cheers from the Danes they passed as he took her to one of the rooms. 

Her fear now settled into her core, but she would not give the satisfaction of screaming as she knew still that no one would come for her. Lunden now belonged to the Danes and she knew her mam never considered that the marr given would not be a deterrent for their heathen cocks. 

It was fortunate and unfortunate how Sigefried seemed entertained by her stubbornness, her refusal to seek his favor and, in return, he would try and frighten her, to see the cracks in her practiced stoic mask. “When my cock tires of her, I will hump her with my good hand,” she once heard him say to his brother, the blonde Dane named Erik, and they laughed as he lifted his knifed arm.

Keavy just watched him with her steeled gaze, ignoring how her fear shuddered the length of her spine. I am cursed, she thought. Whatever faith the abbess tried to behest from the days spent in Ebchester died in the bed she was forced to share with the Dane. 

Each day dragged with her pettied struggle to remain alive. The Danes seemed insatiable in every sense, but she made sure to serve and refill their cups as the ale, which allowed her to slip from his grasp some nights, but the following day he would return his attention to her with a hungover vengeance. 

On the tenth day, she remained in the shadows of the courtyard, watching as the Danes nailed men to crosses. They were priests sent from Æthelstan to negotiate and the brothers treated them as sport. 

She watched, stone faced and her heart heavy, trying her best to block out their screams. Just the prior night she had been tasked to feed them and she managed to slip them apples from the orchid and hard cheeses along with the bread rationed for them. They begged her to free them but one had been quick to shush the men. 

“Do not risk their fury,” he warned her. His head was shaved, his beard haggard and his expression severe on his already hardened face; he made sure to thank her for the fresh fruit before she left them. 

Now she watched these same men with her solemn expression as they were nailed to the wood, the screams echoing throughout the courtyard. Keavy felt the eyes of Sigefried on her and he beckoned her closer; her steps felt heavy as she brought herself to stand behind and between him and his brother. 

“I still do not understand how this kills a man,” Sigefried casually commented, unaffected by their tortured cries. 

His brother shifted his weight, his unease more apparent. “Sigefried, take his head and be done with it,” and there was the hint of him pleading. 

“A cross kills a man slowly, lord, over days,” and their attention turned towards the same priest that spoke to her last night. In the sunlight, she saw the dirt on his face and the dark circles that framed his dark eyes. “It is both torture and execution.” 

“There,” his brother clasped his hand onto his shoulder. “You have your answer. Now take his head and be done with it.” 

And Keavy could no longer hear their exchange, her focus now fastened onto the men that walked towards them; her eyes watched the one who led them, his presence perking the interest of one of the heavier Danes that stood off to the side. 

“Uhtred Ragnarsson,” he announced. 

His very name breathed fire into her chest, a renewed flame for hope. 

Uhtred of Bebbanburg. 

Her mind returned to the stories that Lady Gisela had shared, how she swore of his honorable spirit. Keavy watched him like a beacon presented for her freedom. “Lord Uhtred of Bebbanburg,” her voice rasped to interrupt and the eyes of the men fell to her, stopping the exchange they were having. “My lord, I know your lady wife.”

She saw that her words caught his attention and she burned under his hard stare, but before she could continue, she felt the backhand of Sigefriend catch her across her mouth. Her knees buckled and she fell back into the dirt, the taste of iron in her mouth, but she did not let it falter her words. “I owe her a debt, lord.”

As she prayed that the words would hold weight and take root, Uhtred peered at Sigefried. “Who is she to you?”

From behind, she saw the tension in his shoulders, but his response was nonchalant. “Just some Irish whore we found here,” his tone was sly with his following implication and it made her stomach curdle with disgust, “I have been having my fun with this one.” 

Her jaw steeled, another crack in her mask, and she could feel how she trembled from his words with a white fury that burned within. 

Uhtred paid her no mind, his focus remaining on Sigefried. “She seems irksome to you, but perhaps she would serve my wife better, to repay this debt owed,” a smirk played on his lips. “You claim bygones today and my family grows. The extra hands can be of better use than to play with your cock.” 

She burned, but she heard the dark chuckle of Sigefried. “She may frighten your children,” and he gestured to his jaw with cruel humor. 

“They have strong stomachs,” another voice spoke and her heart lifted with the familiar lilt of his diction. 

Keavy did not dare lift her eyes from the boots of the men that spoke of her like she was not present. Her chest tightened with her struggle to steady her breath and the silence rolled over them with a palpable tensity that stricken her bones. 

“Of course,” Siegfried began, his words were slow and heavy with venom. “As a gesture of goodwill.” 

For the second time in her life, she found her worth being bartered and then a large palm reached to grab her shoulder, shoving her forward. Keavy fell in front of them, catching herself on her hands and knees, and they burned from the impact. 

“Osferth,” and she looked up to see Uhtred watching her. “Take her to the docks and wait for us there.” 

“Yes, lord,” and a shadow stretched over her. She felt a hold that held no maliciousness, no ill intent, just the gentle touch that belonged to the man called Osferth. His slender fingers wrapped above her elbow and he helped her to her feet; she saw how he towered over her, how his eyes bore into her own.

His features, his jawline were sharp but she saw a kindness, a softness to the expression he held; it complemented his eyes, a color that reminded her of the spring days at Ebchester, when the sky was without a cloud to blemish the brilliant blue. 

Osferth began to pull her away from the crowd of men who now called for food and drink, and she followed him, her mind vibrating with the realization that she would soon be gone from this damned city. 

+ + + +

There was something almost akin with how the Irishman instructed his swordsmanship that reminded Osferth of the days he spent with his uncle, years ago. Finan was not as tall as him, but he was sturdy, with a surliness that peaked beneath his dark beard and his dark brow that furrowed above his scrutinous gaze; Leofric had a hardness that had been embedded into his demeanor and would edge into his timbre, whereas Finan’s lilt brought a comfort to his critiques. 

“You have a pretty solid foundation, but your stance is a bit lazy,” Finan chewed on some straw, reaching forward to correct his posture. “But if I was a betting man, I would guess you wouldn’t be killed right away.” 

They remained in Wessex for several days, indulging in the celebration with an insatiable want of women and ale. Sihtric remained knitted at the side of the same woman with auburn hair, while the rest were seated around a table, their cups overflowing and spilling into the wood as they crowed when they learned of Osferth and his virginity. 

He argued his time spent at the monastery hardly allowed women to flow through, but Finan would not hear of it. “There are things in life you must allow yourself, an almost right of passage for any man,” and it was the first time he noted a genuine grin beneath his beard. Finan grabbed the pitcher to refill his cup and Osferth took a grimaced sip, the taste bitter and burned down his throat. “Don’t worry, baby monk, you will learn to love it.” 

Uhtred offered insight about quality over quantity and Finan guffawed in his mug. He continued on about his wife, how when he saw her, he just knew. “With ale, you must accept whatever has been poured into your cup,” Uhtred swirled whatever liquor remained in his mug, “but a good woman is something you must be able to decipher and then cherish.” 

Osferth watched the hue of pink that washed over his cheeks, whether from his thoughts of his lady wife in Coccham or perhaps the ale. “How did you know, lord?” His naivety pressed.

Uhtred smiled at him, bringing his fist to thump against his chest. “It is in here, it is something that tells you.” 

Osferth remembered that moment when they were in the courtyard at Lunden, when he first saw her. 

They had left Wessex on horseback towards the shores of the Temes; Mercian lords had accompanied them and the boats were a reprieve from their ceaseless, loud complaints. They followed the river to the docks of Lunden that bustled with merchants, who seemed unaffected by the siege. 

They followed behind Clapa, who led a wide berth with his large steps as people parted to allow him to pass, and they pushed until they came to the courtyard, halted by the body crudely displayed upright on a cross. Their unease shuddered off when Finan spoke with certainty, “Tis’ a death, nothing more.”

Osferth found that the vulgar show of sacrilege vested a response instilled from his days at the monastery and he crossed himself, his dirty blonde locks spilling forward when he bowed his head for a quick, silent prayer for the dead man. 

The sun poured into the courtyard ahead and Danes were staggered around with a half-interest in the grotesque crucifixion demanded. The attention turned onto them and Osferth found himself fixated the moment he saw her, how still she stood in the Dane brothers’ shadows. 

There was a severity in her green eyes as she looked them over and they brightened with a familiarity, something that flickered across her pale features. She wet her pink lips before she dared speak out loud, claiming their attention as well as the backhand from the dark haired brother. Her knees buckled and she fell back, her lips now red with blood, her eyes burning. 

“Don’t do it, baby monk,” Finan growled, low, and he felt the touch of his hand to his stomach. Osferth realized his fists were clenched. “I see your eyes have not left her–let him handle it.”

Though the words did not ease his rigid stance, he remained rooted at the Irishman’s side, his eyes watchful. Osferth thought back of his last day at the monastery, the warm meal prepared for him and the comfort of the bed he had slept in for the prior eighteen years. The abbot had approached him to ask if he truly wished to leave this humble life behind and he had answered earnestly that he had to go. There was a pull from the echo of his uncle’s words that regaled Uhtred of Bebbanburg, how he was an honorable man, how he was a fair man, and this was what propelled his steps to leave this life behind. 

Destiny is all. 

And in the courtyard, he saw the personification of his uncle’s words with how Uhtred bartered with Sigefried to hand over this woman, with her eyes that burned. 

The Dane had shoved her forward and Osferth moved outside his volition towards her, breaking away from Finan and with the covered command from Uhtred to take her to the docks, a way to conceal his unprecedented action. Osferth helped her stand, pulling her away from the courtyard and the heathens that filled it. 

His steps were not hurried, but his long legs made for a long gait as he moved to exit the city, his hold on her hand keeping her in the wake of his steps as he pushed through the crowds. 

“Please, priest,” he heard her say and he peered over his shoulder, slowing his steps and watching her as she looked over the buildings they passed, her eyes almost frantic. “Please, before we leave, I must take what belongs to me.” 

Osferth stopped and turned to face her, his chin tilted down to look at her. He watched the rose coloring dust her fair cheeks and the tip of her nose, how the pink clashed with the scar that lined her cheek and jawline. His eyes returned to her own and he only said, “I am not a priest.” 

She blinked then tried to correct herself. “Forgive me, monk–”

“I am not a monk, nor a holy man any longer,” he interrupted, his brow knitting over his eyes. “I am simply Osferth,” he added and he felt a warmth that bloomed in his chest from how she peered up at him through her dark lashes; he admired the bright green of her eyes with a halo of gold that burned around her pupil with her stare. 

She watched him for a moment before she reached to take his hand, her palm dry and cool against his own. He allowed her to lead until she made a noise of recognition, moving down an alleyway until they came to where blood had clearly been split, with markings that burned dark against the stonewall. 

Without a word, she dropped to her knees, her fingers desperate to pull up the stones before he unsheathed his sword and offered its leverage. She finally unearthed a dark piece of fabric, almost black with the mixed stain of blood and soil that broke off in chunks as she unraveled to reveal a silver, detailed cross and a dagger. 

She first slipped on the necklace, tucking the pendant beneath her neckline, and then her fingers trembled with its hold as she tried to fasten the belt around her wait. There was a moment he wished to reach forward to help her, but instead he let his hand fall back to his side. 

When she finished, she turned to face him with her face flushed; he saw blood was smeared across her chin and she wiped her hands on her skirt, her dark curls limply falling to in front of her face. Osferth felt that warmth cradling his heart, but said nothing and offered his hand to her. He was pleased how she took it without  hesitation, how well it fit within his own, and they made their way towards the docks. 

Once outside the gates of Lunden, he felt he was able to take a deep breath, though the waste thrown on the shores were still rancid. “Wait here, lady,” he said, his tone low and kind, and he went to find a bucket of cleaner water and rags. 

When he returned, she only said, “I am no lady.” She dampened the cloth to wipe away some of the blood and dirt, her pearly complexion showing through the streaks. “You may call me Keavy.” 

He nodded, his eyes still watchful as she cleaned away the grime; his gaze trailed the scarring again, a deep blood red for the new skin. “Was he…” he began and he gestured to his jaw, “was he the one who did this to you?” 

“It was from before,” she answered and he saw how her hands fidgeted with the cloth. “Osferth,” she spoke his name slowly and he liked how it rolled with her Irish lilt, “have you been in service to Uhtred of Bebbanburg for a while?”

He shook his head, a small smile to his lips. “No, lady, only a few days now.”

“Just Keavy,” she corrected him with the slight tilt of her head and he burned from the tensity of her green eyes. “Do you think he has sound judgment? Is he a fair man?”  

He noted the trepidation of her voice and the concern that lined her question. “From what I have seen and learned about him, he is very just,” and he paused a moment before he added, “I will say that he is a man that respects honesty and will give it in return.” 

Her lips pursed in response and she nodded with the soft movement of her curls.

Osferth wished to reach forward and pinch a tendril between his fingers, to find his tongue and press for more, but instead he heard Uhtred call to them; they both looked to see him and the men in tow, making their way towards the docks. They split to their respective boats and Osferth stepped in, turning to take her hand and help her as she made her way forward to sit on the behind the stempost, where Uhtred now held onto. 

They rowed out with the collective grunts with each pull; Osferth felt the burn between his shoulder blades as they made their way against the flow of the Temes. A silence settled over the men until they seemed far enough from Lunden before Uhtred asked: “What is the debt owed to my wife?” 

Osferth looked up, watching how her shoulders wilted and then squared with her breath. “She saved my life, lord.”

Uhtred looked back at her with an amusement that played across his face. “How did my wife save you?” he clarified. 

“By allowing me to use her name to escape the Danes that held Lunden,” she admitted and then allowed a shaky exhale. “I knew her from when she stayed in Ebchester, until you came for her,” she added with one breath. 

“Ebchester?” Finan called from behind, his tone light. “Did you ever confess to Beocca that you killed a holy man?”

The men chortled and Osferth felt a sly smile of his own that widened when Keavy turned around to watch their response. Her relief was apparent and there was a glow with her smile, the dimples on the left side of her face exaggerated by her scarring.

She is lovely still, came the intrusive thought to his mind. 

“He is aware,” Uhtred called out over their laughter. “And he understands why it was warranted!” Their laughter swelled over their boat alone, while the Mercians followed silently in their wake as they made their way back to Wintanceaster.

previous | Chapter 3 | masterlist

[arcielee]

Farewell Wanderlust

Warnings:  Mentions of sexual assault, implied PTSD, detailed bloodshed. MDNI, 18+ Pairing: Osferth x OFC Word Count: 3896 Summary: Torn from her home country, Keavy finds herself trying to survive across the Irish sea. She happens across Uhtred and his motley crew, and finds herself befriending a monk who is determined to become a warrior.  Author’s Note: Stiorra and Oswald are aged up a bit. Again, this is a hybrid of the book series and Netflix series. 💜 Thank you @itbmojojoejo​ for being my beloved beta reader. Enjoy!      Please let me know if you would like to be added to the taglist! Dividers are by @saradika​  💜 Taglist (Tumblr kindred spirits): @aaaaaamond @sirenofavalon @annikin-im-panicin @watercolorskyy @schniiipsel @aspen-carter @aemondx @fan-goddess @babygirlyofthevale @randomdragonfires @httpsdoll @triscy @assortedseaglass @whoknows333 @shesjustanothergeek​ @heavenly1927​ @greenowlfactif​ @babyblue711​ (bold for those I could not tag, but requested!)

Chapter 3

The air seemed sweeter the further west they went, just the soothing rhythmic row as they followed the curves of the Temes. Ahead, Keavy spotted horses grazing near the shore and they docked, greeted by a man who called to Uhtred. “I had them brushed, lord,” his words searching for favor. “And fed as well!” 

Uhtred rewarded him with a silver coin for the care and the men began to climb from the boats. She appreciated that Osferth lingered, his hand outstretched to take her own, his firm grip that helped her onto solid ground. She smiled at him before her attention returned to the horses; she took shy steps towards one whose ears twitched with her approach, its large eyes watching her. She held out her hand flat and giggled with the way its muzzle tickled her palm. 

“You will be riding with me, Keavy,” and she turned back to see Osferth moving towards her, his arms folded behind his back. His tongue wet his lips. “Have you ridden one before?” 

“I have not,” and she smiled again, her hand moving to follow the crest and reaching on her tiptoes to try and scratch behind its ears. “What must I do?”

As the men found their respective horses, she followed Osferth to a brown mare with a white diamond on her forehead. He allowed her a moment as she held her palm out once again, her tentative scritches to the jawline before he stepped closer, taking her hand to place on the cantle. “Keep your hold here,” his voice was low with his command, before he kneeled with knitted hands to cup her step and help her aback, and then he pulled himself up. 

Keavy burned as he settled himself behind her, the feel of his solid chest against her backside and the same tenderness of his touch as before, respectful, almost hesitant. She grabbed the reins and held them for him, her soft sigh when he reached around her to take them.

They began towards Wintanceaster and she found his presence was not suffocating, unlike how she felt around the Thurgilson brothers and their men. There was a comfort, a consideration with his subtle actions towards her, how he held his arms to hover above her thighs until she placed her hand on his forearm to show he could rest them on top, to his warm tone in the shell of her ear as he explained the simplicity of riding horseback. 

“Keep your hold with your thighs,” and she flushed with his words. 

It was uneventful otherwise, just  the soft murmuring exchanges between them; Osferth allowed her to take the reins and she smiled with how his palms fit over her hands, the vibration of his chest with the low instructions that tickled her ear. 

Once in Wintanceaster, they dismounted and only then Keavy noticed the man from before, his brown eyes squinting in recognition of her. “I am so pleased you escaped, priest,” she said. 

He introduced himself as Pylrig. “The Lord allowed me an opportunity I had to take,” his smile grim beneath his haggard beard. “I am glad you are out of their shadows. It seems, perhaps, that He has something planned for you as well?” 

She gave a noncommittal hum in return and Pylrig and Uhtred left, the Mercian lords following behind them. “What do we do now?” Keavy turned to look at who stayed behind.

She saw the glint in the Irishman’s eyes, a wolfish grin beneath his beard. “Now, cailín, we will fill our time with food and ale while Uhtred relays to the king what we saw in Lunden,” and they began to move towards the tavern; Finan dipped into the doorway and looked back to Keavy. “In return, the king will question Uhtred’s loyalty and I assume we’ll be banished back to Coccham within half a day.”

She made a face. “That seems…absurd.”

“Ay,” he agreed, “but that is what we do. Still plenty of time to drink, though,” and with that he called out to the owner. “We need pints!”  

They settled around a table and Keavy felt the curl of apprehension as the mugs were set down for them. But as the night continued, as the ale flowed, she did not see the flare of cruelty the liquor seemingly brought out in the Danes in Lunden, but instead her cheeks were rosy from laughter they shared stories. 

The night waned away and eventually Uhtred returned, calling to Keavy. She pushed from the table, her limbs heavy from the day, and followed behind him as they pushed towards the bar. Uhtred spoke with the man and her eyes flitted over the tavern, returning to the table and catching the brilliant blue of Oferth’s steady gaze; she felt her lips curl upwards but he quickly returned his attention to the men. 

An ewer was placed in her hands, folded fabric draped over her arms, and she looked to follow Uhtred. They came to an empty room with empty beds, moving towards another door where a smaller room was attached. 

Inside was a bed small enough to fit within and a crude, wooden table with a shallow washbin on top with a looking glass that hung above. In its smudged reflection she spotted the empty gaze of a stranger, realizing the dark circles beneath her eyes and the beginning bruise on her chin from the backhand earlier. 

Keavy suddenly felt very tired. 

“I imagine you need your rest from the day,” Uhtred spoke like he had heard her thoughts. “My men will continue to drink, but we will not bother you.”

“Thank you, lord,” her voice was hoarse and she looked into his eyes for a moment. “I did not mean to lie… I will repay the debt to Lady Gisela, she truly did save me–” 

“She spoke of Ebchester before,” he interrupted her, pausing in the doorway a moment. “She told me there was a girl who had the spirit that reminded her of me,” and he smiled. “I understand you did what was needed to survive and I trust that you will repay your debt.” 

He left her, closing the door behind, and she exhaled deeply, a release of the anxiety that bound tight in her chest, her exhaustion lifting from her shoulders, and she looked at her reflection once again. 

Among the fabric she found cleaned rags and peeled the frock she wore, her hands and eyes flitting over the damage caused from the prior days: the dark bruising on her thighs, the scabbing on her hip from the sheath worn on his sword hand…

Keavy shuddered off the memories; she poured the cool water from the ewer and used the homemade soap to scrub every inch, to remove the grime of Lunden, to peel away that tainted layer of skin. Her chest felt tight until she saw her reflection once more, a raw redness that now flushed her pale skin, and she finally felt she could breathe again. 

She slipped on the tunic and crawled beneath the covers, allowing herself to cry until she fell asleep. 

+ + + +

The next morning, Osferth was first in the stables; he was feeding straw to his mare when Finan and Sihtric rounded, with Clapa clamoring behind. “Don’t worry, baby monk,” the teasing lilt of the Irishman was loud, “she has to ride with you, as you are the slimmest of us all.” 

He felt his blush reach to the tips of his ears as they chuckled, but before he could say a word, Uhtred then walked up with Keavy. Osferth felt his eyes go to her, admiring the curve of her neck shone with how her dark hair was braided back, the leather strap of her necklace peeking beneath the collar of the oversized tunic worn, her waist was cinched from the belt that held her dagger. 

Osferth fell back a step when she approached, the warm crimson of his cheeks spreading to his neck and chest from how bright her eyes shone, from the sweetness of the smile she offered him. 

He swallowed thickly. 

It was the boom of Finan’s voice that brought his attention back. “Where to, lord?” 

As expected, they were to return to Coccham. Like yesterday, Osferth helped Keavy up first before he climbed up behind her, swallowing the mixed scent of wood ash with lavender and thyme on her skin. She nestled against his chest and he swallowed again as he reached for the reins, caging her against him. 

Uhtred moved his horse to the front and the rest fell in line, following the trodden path that led back to Coccham. Finan paced his horse alongside and Osferth was quiet as he listened to them talk of Irland; he shared his somber story of a love left behind, how she was ripped away and when he tried to retrieve her, he became cursed with the blood that was shed. 

“I believe your curse remains in Irland,” her voice was soft and Osferth peered down, watching as she turned to face Finan, his eyes trailing the marr that lined her jawbone. “That it remains in the soil across the sea.” 

Despite the tragedy Finan shared, his tone was still teasing. “Do you feel as if your fortune is turning now?” 

Keavy pursed her lips together. “I would have said no if I was asked a few days ago,” she admitted, looking back in front of them. “However, I keep being informed by holy men and women that their God has a plan for me.” 

“Do you believe that?”

“No, but I can respect it,” and she was quiet a moment before she added, “I choose my own fate.” 

They followed the sun as it curved above and began to tuck away into the treeline, the evening shadows stretching until Uhtred called them to dismount and set camp. Osferth climbed down and reached for Keavy. “Your legs may be unsteady,” he warned her and she gripped his arms to balance herself. 

“Osferth,” but he saw she was smiling, his name the sweetest sound on her tongue, “I am sore.”

His cheeks dimpled with his own grin. “I swear your legs will grow use to it,” he offered. 

As they settled around the fire, Uhtred called Sihtric for the first watch. It seemed only a moment that his eyes closed before the Dane woke him, and Osferth pulled himself upright and placed his sword across his lap, watching the silver light that poured through the trees as the others continued their fitful sleep. 

When he tried to wake Finan for his turn, he received a grizzled, “Fuck off, baby monk.”

So Osferth watched as the fire dulled to a glowing ember when a soft cry caught his attention; he looked to see Keavy flinch in her sleep, her eyes opening wide and her breathing rapid. 

“Keavy,” Osferth called to her, his voice low; he moved closer, careful, “Keavy, you are in Wessex.” 

She pushed herself upright, nodding her understanding. “Just a dream,” her voice was weak and she took a deep breath. “Osferth, should you not be sleeping?” 

He felt himself grow warm under her gaze, grateful the fading fire masked the coloring in his cheeks. “Finan is a heavy sleeper,” he mumbled. 

“Then allow me to keep you company,” and she wrapped the fur around, moving to seat herself on the log he rested against. “Tell me your years spent in the monastery and we can compare with the ones I spent with the nuns.” 

Keavy kept her tone light, unwilling to attempt to sleep again, so he fed a log to the fire and they talked with the low crackling of the rekindled flames. They shared the stories of their paths and what brought them to Uhtred; there was an ease, a comfort, with their exchange and he mentioned her words from earlier. “My uncle told me something similar,” and Osferth looked to her, “how it is our steps that create our own destiny.” 

Keavy hummed, a smile on her lips as she poked the flames with a stick. “Wise words,” and she bit her bottom lip. “So, this was your choice, then? You truly left the monastery behind?”

“I would say.”

“Well, if I was you,” she continued, almost shy when she looked to him, “I would cut my hair, to shed the remnants of that monk lifestyle, perhaps along with the pet name they chose for you.” 

Osferth watched her and she grinned with her words, her scar deepening the dimple in her cheek, and the fire seemed to breathe life, warmth into her features. His tongue wet his lips and he looked away. “Perhaps I will,” was all he managed and then he pushed himself to stand, excusing himself for a moment. 

In part it was to relieve his bladder, but also he needed a moment to breathe; his steps pulled him deeper into the trees, with the thoughts of the amber glow from the flames and how they reflected the golden halo in her eyes.

+ + + +

Keavy did not care for the night, as it allowed shadows for traders, for slavers, for Danes to roam without consequence. She remained seated for a moment, allowing the blood to leave her cheeks as she listened for his footfalls, the crunch of the leaves beneath his feet until they faded too far for her comfort. She knew she should allow him his privacy, but her stomach knotted and it compelled her to follow after, as though something within the trees beckoned to her.

Her own steps were soft and she soon spotted the lithe figure of Osferth, his backside to her, as well as a hulking shadow that crept towards him, with a sword and shield in hand. Without a thought, without a sound, she sprinted forward, her dagger gripped in her hand.

Osferth turned towards the noise and she heard the sickening crunch of the shield that cracked across his chest; he fell back against the ground, the air swept from his lungs. 

She struck into the back of the leather cuirass; the Dane cried out, her other hand grasped and pressed until the blade sunk to its handle into his flesh. There was the wheezed escape of his last breath and he collapsed to his knees, falling face first into the earth.

Keavy remained standing over the body. 

Osferth looked to her and she stared back, her eyes wide. “Are you hurt?” her voice trembled, spilling from her lips. 

He did not answer and his expression seemed pained with his fluid motion, pushing to his feet and unsheathing his blade, shoving her aside and swiping across. Keavy fell back and she looked up to see his blade connect with the throat of another Dane, not deep enough to sever but enough for his head to snap back and the body to crumple to the ground. 

“Quick,” Osferth rasped, moving to pull the blade from the backside of the first Dane and handing it to her, “there will be more.” 

They ran, leaving behind the men slain, away from the sound of more that followed after. “Uhtred,” Osferth gasped, his lungs burning with the alarm. “Finan! Sihtric!”

Uhtred and his men moved quickly, as a unit, bleary eyed but their swords drawn, quickly creating a circle and facing outwards to whatever was coming. Osferth pulled Keavy and they tucked into the readied stance of men; she felt his soft touch, his gesture for her to step back, but she saw his unsteady hold of his sword arm and her own tightened around her dagger that was still red with blood. 

Keavy could feel her heart pounding against her rib cage as she watched the Danes move towards them, seeing a heavier set Dane that step forward. “Uhtred Ragnarsson,” his tone almost gladsome as he sheathed his sword.

But the rest did not relax until Uhtred sheathed his own sword, calling the Dane by the name Hæsten. They listened to the awkward exchange over what he claimed to be a misunderstanding, that Hæsten continued on that his men paid with their lives. “Had we been aware they were your men, we would have just continued on our way, Uhtred.” 

“And which way is that?” Uhtred called as they retreated back towards the woods, which brightened as the moon tucked away and the early hour of the morning began to peek through the treeline. 

Hæsten wore a sleazy grin. “Why, to Lunden, of course.” 

As the Danes made their way, the adrenaline seemed to follow. With the mumbled command to break camp, Keavy looked to Osferth and saw him hunch forward, his hand pressed to his chest with a staggered step. She moved towards him, but Finan was quicker to catch him; she saw the blood begin to stain through the thick, burlap fabric of his albe, creating a diagonal line of red from his shoulder and across his chest. 

A satchel was brought and Finan moved quickly to remove the layer, and after a lookover he began to wrap the wound, trying to staunch the bleeding. Keavy shared what happened in the woods as Uhtred watched; there was a glimmer of pride to his features and his brow raised when he asked, “You killed them?”

“I killed the first one, lord,” she corrected, but her eyes did not leave Osferth. His complexion seemed ashen and he smothered a grimace as Finan knotted the fabric. “Osferth beheaded the second one.” 

“We will celebrate your first bloodshed once we’re back in Coccham,” the Irishman grinned and clasped his hand on the shoulder that was not bandaged. Osferth’s eyes fluttered from the touch, but he kept quiet. “I don’t believe anything is broken, but I know you will be sore, baby monk.” He then looked up to Uhtred. “It may be best to have Lady Gisela look him over, lord.”

Uhtred nodded, calling Sihtric to accompany them, announcing that Keavy would ride with Osferth and return to the village as quickly as possible. “We will not be far behind,” he finished while the men continued to disband the camp. 

Keavy pulled herself onto the horse, turning to help Finan with Osferth behind her. He groaned softly when seated and she pulled him arm with the whisper, “Wrap your arm around me, I swear I won’t let you fall.” 

There was a warmth from his hold and it spread to her cheeks as he rested his jaw on her shoulder. Her heels pressed to quicken to a trot, keeping the pace with Sihtric, and she felt the vibration of his groan. Keavy placed her arm on top of his, her hand over his own with a soft squeeze. “Hang in there,” her voice was so low that she was certain he would not have heard, but she felt his hold tighten around her waist. 

Coccham was a welcomed sight, its walls built sturdy amongst the trees at the Temes’ shore; the village was coming alive in the early hours of the morning with the callouts of their return. Lady Gisela stepped from the main house with two children in tow, and her brow raised when she spotted them. 

“Sihtric, you return without my husband and instead bring me a face that I do not know…” and her lyrical tone broke off, a smile pulling at her pink lips with her recognition, “and a face that I do remember.” Gisela gave a sweet sigh of disbelief. “Welcome, Keavy.” 

Had Osferth not anchored her with his grasp, she felt certain she would have fallen from the horse with the surge of relief that washed over her. Sihtric dismounted and moved to help them down, explaining, “Uhtred is not far behind us, lady,” his tone almost apologetic as he gestured to Osferth, “but he needs your help.” 

Gisela nodded, her children passed off to another set of hands, and they moved back to the hall, towards a side room with a cot. She was not fazed with the removal of the bloodied bandage, her tone was kind but sharp with her instruction and Keavy was quick to return with a filled ewer and fresh bandages. 

Her composure was the same as Keavy remembered from the days at the nunnery, she had the same gentleness with the soft flit of her hands across Osferth’s chest. The sunlight poured through the window and Keavy could see the gash from the shield edge that struck him, with a bruising color that bloomed around it. 

“Nothing is broken,” her sweet tone said with certainty, “and the bleeding has stopped, so sutures are not needed. However, you are bruised to the very bone. You will need rest, to allow the skin to mend, whoever you are.”

Sihtric supplied, “He is Alfred’s bastard,” and Keavy saw the discomfort that played across Osferth’s face from the words spoken. 

“I am Osferth, lady,” he rasped. “I am simply called Osferth.” 

Gisela only smiled, finishing the fresh wrappings and then wiping her hands before she stood up. “Well Osferth, you will rest here until my husband returns and tells me what we are to do with you.”

“Thank you, lady,” he sounded weary, but his hooded eyes still watched Keavy as she moved from his side to follow back into the main hall. 

Sihtric left to tend to the horses left out front and Gisela then turned her focus onto Keavy, her hazel eyes glinting with a golden warmth as she looked her over. She still glowed with the same prowess Keavy remembered, with a matured beauty that accompanied her motherhood. “You have grown into a woman,” she began, gesturing for Keavy to sit with her at the table. A cup of ale was poured, a clean plate filled, and she quietly thanked her. “Let us begin from when we last saw one another in Ebchester.”

It was a dam broken as she shared the summary, beginning with her service to Guthrum of East Anglia, to the siege of Lunden and about the brothers Erik and Sigefrid. 

She could not control the hurt that choked her words and Gisela reached across, taking her hand into her own. “My sweet girl,” and her sweet voice was a balm for her broken soul, “I spoke to Uhtred that you were clever, and you did what was needed to survive still. You can rest, as you are now welcomed here, always.”  

“Thank you, lady,” she sipped from the goblet, the ale burning her throat. 

It was then Gisela called for her children and she met Stiorra, a bright eyed little girl who had only begun to walk, and Oswald, who smiled shyly from behind his mother’s skirts. “My hands are full with them and your help would be welcomed.”

Keavy smiled and felt shy to ask, “Should I bring a plate to Osferth, lady? I would think he would be hungry.” 

Gisela watched her, a shift in her smile, something knowing that played behind her eyes and the dark lashes that framed them. “He will need to be tended to,” she agreed, and a fresh plate was brought out. “His bandages will also need to be changed, so you should continue to check on him daily until he is well enough.” 

“Yes, lady,” and her green eyes were bright with her returned smile.

previous | Chapter 4 | masterlist

[arcielee]

So, continuing with my ☆ arcie's 1k challenge... what would you like me to post next?

Now before you're like, "Dammit, Arcie, I voted in the last one and still haven't gotten my sad boi Aemond!"

It is being reviewed and will be posted soon, promise! 💜

[arcielee]

Arcie!! My love, my beauty… might I ask what you are currently working on? Anything fun we might expect you to release soon? 😈🤪🥰

My darling anon 💜

So, I did do a poll where Osferth x Reader won... and I am struggling to create something. I don't know if I am still hung up with Osferth x Keavy, but I am struggling to put words to Google docs and create something for you all.

With that said... I have been working on this tragic Aemond x Stark!Reader one-shot that has been in my mind since June. Now with Hozier's new album, it has been a muse and I am finishing that up.

The talented @aegonx created this amazing gifset and the amazing @itbmojojoejo has winter rose dividers on the ready for me.

So not fun... but more emotional ruin?

I hope you all enjoy it. We'll see. 😂

[arcielee]

Farewell Wanderlust

Warnings: As always, MDNI, 18+ murder by Temes, character death, angst like a mofo, evil plotting, sexual themes, unprotected sex, oral (female receiving) Pairing: Osferth x OFC Word Count: 6941 Summary: Torn from her home country, Keavy finds herself trying to survive across the Irish sea. She happens across Uhtred and his motley crew, and finds herself befriending a monk who is determined to become a warrior. Author’s Note: Thank you @sylas-the-grim for helping me edit this chapter. Thank you everyone who loved Keavy and Osferth [I am not opposed to a epilogue, let me know]. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chonky chapter. 💜 Deireadh is end in Irish.     Dividers are by @saradika Taglist (Tumblr kindred spirits): @aaaaaamond @annikin-im-panicin @watercolorskyy @schniiipsel @aemondx @fan-goddess @babygirlyofthevale @httpsdoll @theromanticegoist @assortedseaglass @amiraisgoingthruit @theoneeyedprince @babyblue711 @itbmojojoejo @girlwith-thepearlearring @tssf-imagines @triscy @whoknows333 @shesjustanothergeek @heavenly1927 @myfandomprompts @fangirlninja67 @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauftivy @vintageypanwitch @heimtathurss [bold means I was unable to tag you!]

Chapter 7

The seasons had gone and Osferth found himself back within the walls of Wintanceaster. Darkness drafted over the city with the swell of storm clouds, heavy with their threat of the last of the summer rains, with flashes of white and its low rumble of thunder; it mixed with the nightfall, casting long shadows from the bold posts of amber light that was stilted in the streets, leading up to the castle. 

His legs ached from the time spent on horseback, as they had traveled North to see Ragnar and his swell of rebellion in Dunholm, only to come back again, flitting amongst the cities that thread throughout East Anglia, Mercia, and then back to Wessex. They moved almost headlong, avoiding the threat of the king that hung over their heads, knitted along with the poisoned whisper of Bloodhair’s seer. 

She was now dead but death followed them still, something now palpable within the castle walls of the city.

There was an eerie familiarity as he moved with deliberate steps, following two paces behind Uhtred, who followed behind the priest, and they moved, quick and quiet, through the corridor. Osferth thought back to the last time his father dared to publicly acknowledge him, how his large palm had wrapped around his arm, his staggered steps on wiry legs to keep pace with the stride of the King of Wessex. 

Until that moment, Osferth had only been a shadow, a murmur of the ealdorman amongst the stone walls. He was only acknowledged by his sister, who would often pull him away to play games, as Edward was too small to be bothered with. 

These were moments he cherished, but they were always fleeting, always ending with the sharp gaze of the queen over her pointed nose; it proceeded the rustle of her skirt with her curt pace, as she would sweep Æthelflæd away for prayer and penitence, leaving Osferth to fade away into the shadows once again. 

If it had been left to the queen, she would see him to not exist within the walls, but here he now walked, as requested by Uhtred, his steps joining the soft echo of their footfalls. They stopped outside an oak door and Beocca held up his hand before slipping into the room first, leaving them for a moment. 

In the quiet, Osferth dared ask. “Why did you bring me here, lord?” 

“Why not?” Uhtred turned to face him, his voice low. 

“You could have brought Finan to witness what the king wished to say,” he explained, pausing only to wet his lips. “But you chose me.” There was a hum to fill the silence and Osferth could see gold rings reflecting from the candlelight in the blues of his eyes; Uhtred did not answer his question. “The last time we were in Wintanceaster, my grief and my actions led to consequences…” 

“You did what was right by your gods, lord.”

There was a subtle quirk of his lips as Uhtred watched him before he continued. “Nonetheless, it did not affect only me, but it still resulted in us being banished and torn from,” and his expression showed consideration for his next words chosen, “those we care deeply for.” 

Keavy.

The thought of her name alone sent an ardent surge through his veins, something that always thrummed beneath, knotting with his yearn for her touch, for her smile again. She remained with him, heavy on his heart, alongside the cross pendant gifted that was safely tucked beneath his embossed, leather cuirass and ratted albe; its cool metal often served as a balm for  the heartsore he woke up with ever since she left for Saltwic. 

It had been thirteen months since he last saw her, since he last touched her or tasted her, her lips haunting the curve of his mouth. He often thought of the moment in the stables, their last kiss shared, how she felt beneath his large palms when he placed them on her hips to help her aback; his fingers ached to let her go and his desperate reach to touch her one last time, trailing up the curve of her calf.

Keavy had looked at him, the green of her brilliant eyes focusing beneath the flutter of her dark lashes; his eyes etched the rose color that nipped at her features, blooming from the cool night’s air, from the urgency to leave the city. 

He grasped at these moments, but they seemed to spill between his fingers, a thousand words perched on his tongue but he could only squeeze her calf gently, he could only manage the simple promise, “I will return to you,” and then she was gone, leaving him to choke on the unsaid. 

“How long has it been?” Untred asked, his voice low, kind, and easing him back into the hallway of the castle of Wintanceaster.

Four hundred and twelve days. “Over a year now, lord.” 

Uhtred hummed again. “Osferth, I brought you here to hold me accountable when we face Alfred, so that we may right what is needed and be able to return to Saltwic, but without the echoes of outcast or fugitive to follow our steps.” He offered a wry smile. 

Osferth felt his heart flutter with his words, his fingers pressing to feel the soft crinkle of parchment of the letter tucked away, its edges fraying, and each word memorized. As they traveled, updates were fleetingly sent from Saltwic, and only just a quick recount from Æthelflæd that all was well, that they, that Keavy, were still safe. 

She studies beside Oswald, who is becoming your namesake, Æthelflæd’s words teased. She is adamant to continue learning so she may send her own words to you. 

His heart held onto these words and the bit of hope they offered, as it was all that could be done with the unprecedented time and travel. But when the threat of Æthelflæd was vocalized in Dunholm, they were quick to come to her aid and learned of Æthelred’s intended ill-will. 

It was a mixture of frustration, of exhaustion, just the sheer disappointment to return and find Saltwic empty… “They are safe,” his sister was quick to say, her eyes flitting from Osferth, then to Sihtric, and the rest of them. “I had them sent to Alencestre when Aldhelm warned me…” and she faltered.

It was a wrath returned and Osferth spoke low. “I will kill him,” and he felt Uhtred rest his palm on his shoulder, grounding him. 

Æthelflæd watched him, a slight curl to her pink lips, and she stepped towards him. “I swore to you that I would keep her safe,” her words just for him and his gaze flicked to meet her own; she reached for his hands. “This is for you.” 

A letter, and he felt the corners of his mouth tug upwards, using the fading sunlight to read. Osferth, it began, the sweet curl of her lettering to the piece of parchment, and he could hear her musical lilt with the few lines she had written, I have not forgotten what you have promised me, and I hold onto the hope that neither have you. I am waiting, still, and I will do so until you return to me.  

The simplicity of her message warmed his heart; he took care to refold its creases and tuck it away, carrying it with him always. In the days that followed, he came across an intimate moment shared between his sister and Uhtred; he saw her blush, her swift steps to pull away from him and her expression when she spotted Osferth. 

He offered his arm, watching how her brow furrowed, the bob of her neck as she swallowed thickly. “Show me the gardens by the chapel,” he offered a scapegoat.

She tucked her fingers in the crook of his arm, keeping with his languid pace; she did not speak of the greenery. “Love is peculiar, isn’t it?” Æthelflæd, if anything, was fearsome, but in that moment she gave a wistful look over her shoulder to see the embrace the seer pressed onto Uhtred. “It has a way to thread within your heart, but life has chapters that must be completed first until it is ready to blossom, or so it seems.” 

Osferth hummed, his steps slowed to keep with her, his mind returning to the words written: I am waiting.

“Do you love her, Osferth?”

It was a relief to admit it outloud, to say something that pressed within his heart, heavy with his steps that traveled northwards and back again. It was a thought that sung with the rising sun and carried throughout to a melodious lull at night. But he also confided his hesitation to tell Keavy just this.

“What keeps you from saying this to her?”

Osferth swallowed, his lips pursed in debate of what words he would choose, deciding to trust his sister: the sin’s of their father and the curse that he was born into. 

She stopped walking and he followed, turning to look at her; he saw the maturity to her beauty, the hereditary severity that lined her lovely face with her smile. “Oh Osferth,” she began, reaching for his hand to hold his attention, “I think life is cruel enough on its own without this perpetual penance. God be damned,” she almost laughed, “I see that Keavy has a strength knitted within her very bones. I believe you should allow her to decide her own fate, to allow her to choose to spend our given time on this earth with you or not.” 

Osferth blinked. “Promise me you will tell her when you see her again,” she continued, and he saw a sadness to her smile, “as I know she loves you.”  

His heart lifted with her words, but the sadness was heavy still with his sister. “What of Lord Uhtred?” His curiosity could not be helped; since the nunnery, he was too aware of the lingering glances, their subtle touches shared, how their every movement was scrutinized from the sharp glare of the witch. 

Plumes of red stained her porcelain tones and her lashes fluttered as she forced herself to keep his gaze. “I believe,” her tone slow with a recognition all her own, “that Uhtred and I are maimed by a great love lost, that our sorrow recognizes one another and we cannot help but be drawn towards each other.” 

Osferth nodded; the guilt, the weight of Gisela’s death nearly killed Uhtred on the way to Dunholm, and this was first he had seen his smile in months. “I only wish for you to find happiness, Æthelflæd.” 

“And I, you, Osferth,” her eyes glassy with her words. “You will always be welcomed in Mercia.” 

They were quick to move, called to Aegelesburg and spoke strategy on how to cripple the Dane army that grew. After the bloodshed, they returned to Coccham and found the village thriving, though once they passed through the archway, Osferth could not shake the haunted feeling of the transitory happiness that seemed an eternity ago. 

The pagan hall had the spilled stain of lords unwelcomed, with their placed ornaments of the Christian God hanging above while they ate their fill; they were seated at the same table where he helped Keavy tutor Stiorra and Oswald, her endless patience and sweet smile, and how Gisela watched over them, her eyes glittering. 

But that warmth was swept from the great hall and Osferth left without a word, following the dirt path that returned him to the room he and Keavy shared. The air was stale, her lingering scent gone, and nothing but a dust that covered the bare furniture left behind. 

He took deep breaths through his mouth, the heartache still pressing, and he felt jolted from his self-wallowing. 

I know she loves you.

He then heard Leofric, his words clawing through the earth, an echo that rang bold from his grave: a man could be set on a path, but only his steps could create his own destiny. 

Osferth felt embolden, something that now seared through his veins, propelling his steps forward with the earth crunching beneath his boots. He thought of the time lost to his damn hesitation, for some curse mentioned by a faith lost, a curse deemed by his very existence and damned by the sins of his father, and how he foolishly allowed it to still his tongue when it came to her.

He knew he loved Keavy, just as Uhtred described once, something that thrummed beneath his skin, in tandem with his heartbeat. 

He moved towards the Temes, to allow a new breath, a moment to clear his mind of this burdened relief carried that now was dissipating with each step. He only stopped when he saw Untred and the witch, but he dared to creep forward, silent, wary, watching how the tension lifted in his lord’s shoulders when he released her and how she drifted away with the current. 

Uhtred seemed surprised as Osferth moved to the dock, reaching to pull him from the river. He was quiet through the confession, how Uhtred was not proud of what he had done, and he was quick to stop his lament. “You have taken control of your destiny, lord,” and his words burned in his chest, as if branded by the Celtic cross worn. “Today, I have decided to do the very same.” 

Curse be damned. 

“I will not leave this city,” and Uhtred’s voice returned his attention back to the hallway, perched outside the king’s door, “until we have been reinstated, free men once more. And besides,” Uhtred was watching him, “don’t you wish to see your father?” 

Osferth returned the stare; this thought had been furthest from his mind, but the words spoken wrapped around his throat and he swallowed hard. The silence was heavy and his voice cracked when he said, “Yes, lord.” 

It was then that Beocca peered out, gesturing to Osferth. “The king wishes to speak with you first,” and the priest moved aside.

Osferth looked to Uhtred for a moment, who nodded his encouragement, and he moved past the priest, slipping into the room. 

Orange hues pooled around the bed from the thick tapers lit and the king was swathed in woolen blankets, propped against overstuffed cushions to hold him upright. Osferth marveled at the vestige of the man from Aescengum months prior, his complexion waxen and his skin taught over his bones, with dark rings beneath his closed eyes. He would have assumed the king was already dead had he not noticed the subtle rise and fall of his chest, the muted labored breaths beneath the layers. 

And then the king opened his eyes, their shared blue that was muddled with his sickness and that wavered until they fell to where Osfeth stood. There was the shudder of his youth, his want to wilt away from the direct gaze, but instead he moved towards the bedside. 

King Alfred watched with bruised, hooded eyes as Osferth seated himself on the ottoman, pulling himself close enough to see that candlelight show the last glimmer of life touching his pallid features. “Osferth,” the king began, his name foreign, spilling from his cracked tongue and lips. 

A cough came, a wet rasp that was covered by a handkerchief spotted with blood; Osferth looked to grab a goblet at the bedside, offering a drink that he gratefully took. When he set the mug down, he felt the king clasped his hand onto his other, a papery thin touch, and Osferth dutifully reached with his other hand, dutiful to his dying father, solemn with his returned gesture. 

“I know what you have done,” Alfred continued between ragged breaths. “I have heard of your bravery,” and he paused. “You are a good man and I am proud.” 

Osferth shifted his weight from his words and the king did not notice, or if he did, he continued anyway. “Death allows you to reflect on your failures, your misdoings in your life,” he released his hold, pressing his palms against the top blanket; the skin clung thin to the bones, his knuckles jutted against. “There is a letter prepared. Bring it to Æthelflæd, she will know what must be done.” 

His eyes followed the weak wave to see the parchment folded and the red wax of the king’s seal placed. “I only ever wished to do what was right by you,” and Osferth jerked back towards the murmur of the king, a man of regal regret, and saw that Alfred held a look of awe, as if it was his first time to truly see his eldest son.  

“Osferth,” he repeated, his voice weak and his eyes glassy. “I am proud.” 

“Thank you,” he breathed, the threat of tears in the same eyes he shared with his father. 

Osferth felt a warm touch on his shoulder and looked up to see Uhtred standing over, a gentle squeeze. He moved to stand, excusing himself to leave the room, pausing in the doorway for a final look at his father, who managed a second wind to greet Uhtred; dutiful until the end.  

Only in the corridor did he dare peer at the letter in hand, at the king’s penmanship that began: To my kinsman, Osferth.  

+ + + +

“I see horsemen.” 

Keavy sat below the tree that Stiorra climbed, her back against the trunk and a tome opened across her lap; the girl was growing long like her mother, allowing a reach for the higher limbs, and still slender enough for the branches to hold her weight. Keavy squinted upwards to where the girl was perched, watching. “Tradesmen?” 

The cool breeze rippled through her hair and she used one hand to push it from her view. “If they are tradesmen, they travel light.” 

Keavy closed the book and set it on top of the quilt spread at the base, pushing to her feet. “Climb down, Stiorra,” she swallowed the tinge of panic to her tone. “It would be best to alert Lady Æthelflæd…” in case they are unfriendly, but she could not say that out loud. 

It had been weeks since the Battle of Holme, as it now known; it was a bloodshed of Danes, a revolt orchestrated by Æthelwold that had been met by Lord Uhtred and his valiant men, as well as the Anglo-Saxon allied militia. Despite the victory, the Danes that escaped flitted across the villages of Northumbria, still raiding, still vengeful.  

“They may be Dane,” Stiorra continued her assessment, her head tilting; it was one of the many traits passed from Gisela, her unwavering fearlessness as in this moment, watching still. “Or some of them, anyway…”

“Stiorra,” her voice was sharper. “Now.”

She reached for a thicker branch to begin her descent, pausing to say, “Keavy,” and she looked down. “It is my father!”

It had been fourteen months since they had arrived at Saltwic; they rode through the night and following day, coming just as the amber streaks of dusk splayed behind the stoned rook. Lady Æthelflæd came to the courtyard at the call of her men, wearing with the same severity of her brother that was etched onto her features. 

She recognized Hild and beckoned them inside at once, with Sigdeflaed guiding the bleary eyed children and Keavy lingering behind with the nun. While Hild recounted the prior days, Keavy was drawn to watch the emotions playing across her fair features in a way that was akin to Osferth, subtle but austere; only when Keavy was mentioned by name was the noticeable flicker, the small curl upwards of her lips.  

“You are Keavy?” 

She felt the blood pour into her cheeks as Æthelflæd turned her attention towards her, with the same blue that belonged to Osferth. “I am,” Keavy gave a small nod.

“I have heard so much about you,” and she smiled with a warmth that reached her eyes. “You are safe here, I swear it. For as long as it is needed.” 

The weeks that followed were quiet, uneventful, though Keavy still kept her seax and dagger on her person out of caution, or perhaps comfort. She still pressed for a new normalcy for both Stiorra and Oswald, who seemed to have aged with their grief. 

Stiorra mirrored her mother in so many ways, though her willful temperament came from Uhtred; she had no interest in her studies, but still would participate, in part to torment her brother, but mostly she pushed to learn how to handle a real blade. Whereas Oswald had grown solemn in Saltwic, embracing the supplied priest for their tutoring lessons, newly dedicated to the faith. 

Keavy remained present, sitting with Æthelflæd, who would often use the time to pen a letter for Osferth. She was aware of the Irishwoman’s gaze and asked her, “Would you care to add something?” 

She blushed as she shyly admitted that Osferth had been teaching her to read whenever he was in Coccham, but never to write; with this Æthelflæd smiled, a soft hum of encouragement for her to sit alongside the priest, taking a personal interest for Keavy to practice her penmanship. 

The seasons rolled away as the autumn’s yellows, oranges, and reds were soon covered by the first dusting of snowfall, enveloping Saltwic in white; the only color shown were the rich tones of primrose that bloomed throughout the gardens. 

Inside, fresh parchment was placed onto the table and Keavy looked up to see the same kind smile, the same kind eyes that she recognized in Osferth with Æthelflæd’s features. “This is for you, so you may write to him,” was all she said.  

Æthelflæd seemed very aware of whatever was between Keavy and her brother, but she still could not help the color that flushed her cheeks. “What would I even tell him?”

“Whatever it is that you are carrying in your heart,” Æthelflæd replied, a knowing smile curling on her rosy lips. 

The empty page seemed to taunt her and Keavy remained seated long after the rest retired to their quarters. The quiet, the solitude allowed her to finally pull from her heart as suggested, blowing on the ink to dry. 

She heard steps and turned to see Æthelflæd returning downstairs with a man in her shadow. Keavy pushed from her seat, her seax and dagger drawn, her heart in her teeth. “Keavy, it’s okay, I know him–” she held up her hands, a flush of color to her cheeks. “We must act quickly.” 

Saltwic was no longer safe and they were to leave for Alencestra at once; the words clawed within her chest as Æthelflæd continued, “I will leave for Wincelcumb, and I will send for Uhtred.” Her eyes were bright with her plan. “You all will be safe there until I come for you… once this matter is dealt with.” 

“Uhtred will kill him,” and Keavy sheathed her steel, her eyes still wary of the man. “They both will kill him.” Osferth.

Æthelflæd nodded. “I hope it does not come to that.”

“Lady, be safe.” Keavy reached for the parchment, folding it. “And… if you see Osferth, could you give him this?” 

Her knowing smile hinted, the newfound worry lifting for a moment until the hushed whisper came: “Lady, we must hurry.” 

The time in Alencestra was long enough for Oswald to announce his departure for St. Wilfrid’s Church, to go back to Wessex, refusing to return with them to Saltwic. Keavy watched him, finally seeing the flare of his father in Oswald, the young man's eyes bold with his conviction. Stiorra was incredulous and only Æthelflæd seemed supportive. 

“Father will understand my decision,” he finished.

But Keavy knew that would not be the case.

They returned to Saltwic just as the snow melted with the returned plumes of color from the flowers that sprouted through, followed by the summer rains that thundered and muddied the earth, and continued until it was blanketed once again with the amber colors of autumn, sprawling as far as the eye could see. 

And they remained still, without word, without direction from Uhtred, without an update from Osferth. Instead, news only came second-hand: the death of the king of Wessex and the succession of the aetheling Edward, and the bloodied battle won against his uncle Æthelwold.

Kevay tried to smother her impatience, her anxiety that knotted in her chest, waiting for a whisper, a murmur of news, to know if Osferth still lived or if he had died. She wondered if she would ever be able to tell him what she failed to write to him.

That she loved him, and she always would.  

And now the words that spilled from Stiorra swept the air from her lungs, her stance wavering slightly. “Stiorra… are you certain?” The girl moved with a newfound eagerness, branch over branch, uncaring how her skirts caught and tore them free. “I see the glint of Serpent-Breath’s handle!” Her tone was gleeful. “He is back as he promised! And he brings your beau!”

Keavy flushed crimson. “You know not what you talk about–”

“I am only young, I am not blind,” she continued with her cheeky tone, teasing just as Gisela had always done. The heartache of her loss remained, but Keavy always pressed for them to recall the good, that it was the love they held for their mother that would keep her memory alive. “I remember how you were sweet on him and besides,” and her grin matched her tone, “I also remember mother saying he was your beau.” 

It was as if Gisela was able to still tease beyond the grave. “Nevermind what she said–” Keavy burned as she struggled for her words. “Just, come down, quick!” 

Stiorra gave another cheeky grin before dropping from the last branch and landing back onto the ground; her cheeks were rosy from the sun, her eyes bright with her discovery. 

Keavy took her hand, the fevered pull of her heart with their hurried steps, her mind repeating the same hope she clung to the prior fourteen months: they have returned, Osferth is here!

It was called throughout and soon there was the spill into the courtyard, the gates opening as they gathered. Keavy stood solid despite the flurried anticipation that trilled her spine, watching until her vision blurred and blinking to clear it again. 

Uhtred led the men into Saltwic and its welcoming cries. Stiorra, who was a young woman in so many ways but at that moment, she was a child again and happy to see her father; she preened as he dismounted, pulling her close and pressing a kiss on top of her head. His steady gaze fell to Æthelflæd, her modest smile and the rose color pluming on her fair complexion as she watched. 

Then there was the reunion of man and wife, with Sihtric quick to pull Sigdeflaed for a kiss, of Finan calling loudly to their public display, but Keavy ignored it all; her eyes sought for Osferth alone. 

And she saw him, further back with Pyrlig, swinging his leg over the cantle and dropping off the side of his horse. He seemed taller than she remembered, a beacon that cut through once his eyes found Keavy, navigating through the men with his long legs. 

She willed herself forward, but remained rooted with her awestruck–he’s here. Osferth pressed forward until he was able to reach for her hand, and she was quick to take it, as she always had, as she always would. 

It was the familiar fit she longed for, how her hand fit into his own; his fingers still slender, his grip hardened with callouses from the reins, from his sword, but was gentle still, and firm with his hold, as if anything less would allow her to float away. Keavy followed his steps as he pulled her away from the crowd–though she felt their eyes follow, and they walked until they came around to the gardens, where the small chapel stood. 

There was the crunch of the auburn foliage with the season change beneath their feet, the cold nipping in the air. Osferth stopped and turned to face Keavy, his hands moving to the dip of her waist; she felt the air wrung from her chest with how he looked at her, the same brilliant blue of his eyes, rose hues that stained his cheeks and the tip of his nose.  

“Keavy,” began the gentle timbre of his voice, another flutter that swept through her with how he said her name, “may I kiss you?” 

She almost cried with his request, but instead gave a small nod; his lips curled, the blood beneath his skin darkening his features, and he dipped his head forward, the soft touch of his lips before he pressed against her. Keavy melted against him, her hands clasping on his forearms with a tight hold to keep her standing. She was unaware she was even crying until he pulled away, his concern knitting his sharp features and his large palms moving to cup her face. 

His touch was still gentle, warm and mindful of her mar, his thumb careful to wipe away the large tears that spilled. “You are crying?” He sounded alarmed, as if he held himself the cause. 

“You came back,” was all she could say, a hoarse whisper that broke away from her throat. 

“Keavy,” his relief washed over and his lips curled upwards, his gaze softening with her words, “I told you that I would.” 

Her laugh was choked with tears and he gave a chaste kiss before he pulled away, not outside of arms’ reach, but space enough to pull the Celtic silver cross from beneath his clothes; it gleamed in the sunlight. “I said I would bring this back. It always seemed to bring me luck,” he teased as he untied the leather. “May I?” 

She nodded again, her hands trembling to gather her dark hair as he moved behind her, bringing the necklace and knotting it at the nape of her neck; her skin rose with his warm touch, his thumb against her spine, and she felt his lips touch, his rumbled hum reverberating throughout her. 

“Would you rather just keep it?” she felt silly with her question, her fingers coming to touch the metal and turning to meet with his eyes. 

Osferth looked to her hand before resting his large palm over, and her heart rattled in her chest. “This is where it belongs,” and she saw how his neck bobbed as he swallowed. “Keavy,” he seemed solemn, almost uneasy, “I know so much has happened, so much that I wish to tell you…” he shifted his weight. “Keavy, I am a man cursed–”

“Osferth?” Her brow quirked. 

He shook his head, searching for the words, “I mean this in the biblical sense–”

“I refuse to hear this, damn the Saxon God,” she burst, the flash of severity brightening her eyes as she spoke. “Your worth is not deemed by the sins of another man!”

Osferth watched her with a pursed smile that deepened his dimples, and he leaned forward to capture her mouth; the kiss was soft, it was warm, and when she sighed, his tongue curled within her mouth, a languid pace to taste. When he pulled back, Keavy sighed again, the warmth burning her cheeks, her lips slightly swollen. “Allow me to finish?” His whisper fanned her face and she nodded numbly. 

“I am cursed, mayhaps,” and his gaze shifted a moment, but he did not continue with that thought, but instead, “I know that I have nothing to offer your affection, but know that with what I have, I will give you. I knew from the moment I saw you, from the moment we touch, how it gave me a sense of home I had never felt before,” he looked at the hold, how her palm curled within his own, the steady rise and fall of her chest, “I wish you to be my wife, Keavy. I love you.” 

And only then did he meet with her eyes, and Keavy could feel how her scar ached with how she smiled. “Say it again, Osferth.” 

“That I am cursed?” He seemed uncertain, and even more as she laughed. 

“No,” and she pulled her hands away, sliding them to curl against the base of his neck, pulling him closer for another kiss. “Only the last part,” she whispered against his mouth. 

Osferth smiled, glowing. “I love you, Keavy.”

And they kissed.  

+ + + +

There was a call for the staff to prepare a feast, for barrels to be rolled out so no mug would be empty, as there was much cause for a celebration this day. 

Æthelflæd and Sigdeflaed pulled Keavy away, helping her scrub every inch of skin and combing her curls with a rose oil gleam; a cream tunic and kirtle was gifted, cinching at her waist, a rich plum that complemented her fair skin and brought out her green eyes. 

There was a soft tap at the door that showed Stiorra holding a garland crown of primroses from the garden. “Just as you would do for me,” she smiled as Keavy placed it on top of her head before pulling her in for a hug. 

Arms linked, they walked back outside just as the last stretch of sunlight tucked away, the beginning blue hues that mixed with the burnt oranges and stars beginning to dot the sky. Keavy felt as if she were walking on the air as they entered the small chapel to see Uhtred, Finan, Sihtric, and the priest Pylrig towards the back where the stained glass reflected the tapers lit. She smiled at the sight of Osferth, and he returned it, his dimples lining his cheeks watching her eager steps to meet him.  

The priest officiated, taking Osferth’s large hand and placing it on top of Keavy’s. He felt her slight tremble and peered to see the flush of color with her grin; his thumb drew small circles and only then did she look to him, the color deepening on her cheeks. 

A quick prayer at the end was followed with a sweet kiss, and Finan crowed loudly. “Fucking finally!”

Night spilled over Saltwic and torches were lit to show the way back, able to follow the rich aroma of the feast prepared; cups brimmed and toasts given to the new king, to the safe return of Uhtred and his men, and to the new lordship, which cause Keavy to look at Osferth.

His grin was shy and he brought her knuckles up for a kiss. “I promise I will tell you everything, but this night I only wish to celebrate my beautiful wife.”

She glowed with his words, leaning forward for a kiss to his jaw with the whisper, “Whatever you desire,” and her tone sultry, “my lord.” 

Osferth did not let go of her hand, his slender fingers interlacing with her own, and she followed his sure steps that led away from the continued festivities and towards the room that had been prepared for them. When they came to the door, he drew her close by bringing the back of her palm to his lips for a gentle kiss, relishing in the flush of color to her cheeks before he opened the door. 

He pulled her inside, making sure to close and lock the door before he turned to capture her mouth; he pressed against her and she moaned in response, her arms wrapping around his neck, his tongue clever to taste. His large hands that had been hardened from battle showed grace with the intricacies of the lacings on her dress, with Osferth pausing to kiss the bit of new skin he exposed until Keavy was fully bare. 

Each touch of his lips seemed to spark against her skin, fluttering to her nerve endings and back again; she felt the coiled fervor in her lower abdomen, a wetness that pooled between her thighs, an ache to be touched by his hands. 

“Osferth,” she breathed against his lips, “I need you.”

But instead he pulled back, taking away the warmth he embodied, and Keavy could not help her soft whine, feeling her blush spill with intimate rose hues that stained her skin. He watched, his eyes rolling over her, his brilliant blue swallowed by his lustful haze and an almost playful curl to his lips. 

Osferth closed the space he created, a hot whisper in the shell of her ear, “I know,” and he moved closer, feeling her shuddered response beneath his fingertips, gentle to touch her hips and bring her flush against his chest; she sighed at the heavy shaft that pressed onto her lower stomach, “I promise, but first…” 

Keavy looked to see a pink dusting that covered his cheeks, his smile almost shy with his continued confession. “You must be first… I certainly will not last.” 

She kissed him again, her fingers pulling at the tunic he still wore; they moved towards the bed, a trail of his clothing in their wake, until she was able to fall back against the mattress. Osferth remained standing, a moment to admire her curves, from the width of her hips to her waist, the natural slope of her breasts and watching their rise and fall with her breath. 

He climbed onto the bed, moving between her plush thighs; it was a scent intimately her own, mixing pleasantly with the fresh straw and linen. Osferth dipped his head to place a kiss to the bloom above her entrance and she sighed, her thighs clenching in response, but his large hands moved to grip into the softness, pulling them apart so he could sink further. 

Keavy felt the blood rush to her head; his touch was familiar, remembered, with his soft nuzzle between and his kisses that led towards her center. She gasped and he only hummed in response, his lips curling upwards as they pressed to savor her essence; it was overwhelming after so long, and Keavy could not help but jump, another gasp that ripped from her chest. 

His hold tightened, his pleading murmur against her folds, “Let me, let me,” as he continued. 

She could not help but squirm, her fingers combing through his locks to root herself, and Osferth hummed again, a vibration that fluttered throughout her. She felt his fingers press against her silken slit, the curl of one digit within and another followed, creating sparks of pleasure that trilled up her spine with his come hither motion; her heart pounded against her chest from his sensual ministrations, the blood roaring towards her center as each euphoric wave began to crest and press against her seams. 

“Osferth,” she cried, pearled tears clumping her lashes together. 

“My beautiful wife,” his breathless praise against her wet cunt, “just like that…”

Osferth continued and her stomach tightened before the coiling passion finally burst, stars dancing before her eyes and her sinful clench around his fingers as he continued to coax through its entirety. Once her breath steadied, once her vision cleared, did she look to see he was now standing, his fingers now wrapped around the base his length, heady and heavy and glistening from her release. 

She pushed to her elbows to meet as he moved on top of her, capturing his lips and she licked herself off his chin with a giggle. Osferth grinned, moving into the cradle of her hips, resting on his elbows to hold his weight, but she clenched her thighs to draw him closer for another breathless kiss. 

Keavy melted against the warmth of his bare skin, the tickle of his chest hair, and his arm dipped between them to line the crown of his cock to her entrance, the gratifying stretch as he filled her. She gasped from the slow roll of his hips, sheathing his length and rekindling a passion with his each thrust; her nails bit into his shoulders, gasping to catch her breath that was being pulled away with the returning crests of pleasure, of something deeper within that caused her walls to flutter. 

“Again?” Osferth was flushed, pleased, but his pace did not falter. 

She could only give a mewled response, a clenching release, an intensity from the depth he reached inside her, and its rapturous pull that left her boneless and breathless, caged in his arms. Osferth followed her over the edge, tucking his head into the junction of her neck to her shoulder, a muted groan as his cocked pulsed within her velvet walls. 

And they laid for a moment before he began to place soft kisses against the curve of her neck, his lips trailing her jaw, and she giggled from his touch. He grinned again, another chaste kiss on her lips before he pulled away, moving to grab a cloth that was draped by the washbin, wringing it out and returning to wipe away the sex, pausing a moment to admire the spill of his seed and how it gleamed against her rosy folds. 

The hour was late when they finally crawled beneath the layers of blankets, of furs, and Osferth curled behind her with a deep inhale then a sigh from feeling the softness of her backside pressed against his chest, from how she fit into his embrace as his arms wrapped around her waist. He nestled further into her curls, a scent sorely missed of rose oil against her flushed skin, until his lips touched the back of her neck, eliciting a sleepy sigh from her lips.

He smiled, the low murmur, “My sweet wife.”

Deireadh.

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