#sigebriht

[lord-aldhelm]

The Last Kingdom 3.10

[anoncat6]

PETRICHOR | sihtric x oc | part twelve

part one

12. tidman, thyra, and a fire

They had rowed back to Coccham, retaking Gisela’s hall and home without a shed of blood. The Bishop Erkenwald was now leaving for Winchester, and upon Uhtred’s orders they were to join him, pretending to act as a guard. He and Osferth would follow soon after they killed Skade, and minus one curse. 

Arriving at Winchester, Steappa had allowed them to enter, though not before a tedious delay. Sihtric, Finan and Ghylena now stood at the stables.

“Is that Aethelwold the sword-Dane I see?” Finan mocked, “Looks like you’ve mislaid an eye.”

“I see you perfectly, Finan. Though I do not see your master.” “Unsurprising.” Ghylena muttered. 

���Uhtred. Where is he?” Aethelwold’s face was marred and grisly, but Ghylena thought he looked just as ugly as he always had.

“Standing at your blind-side, perhaps.” Finan threw, and Sihtric huffed a laugh.

Moving on towards the steps to the palace, Ghylena moved to approach the Bishop Erkenwald.

“Bishop!” She put on a sickeningly sweet voice, “Bishop, pardon me, but I heard from the men that there is to be a wedding?” “Edward is to marry, yes. A sweet girl, like yourself.” 

Ghylena smiled wider, hoping to hide the disgust in her eyes, “Yes, of course. Only it is that I love a good wedding— I myself have found great peace in my marriage. I was wondering if it would be acceptable were my friends and I to stay a short while? Just long enough to enjoy the celebrations, Lord, that is all.” 

The Bishop nodded, falling for her supplication, “You are welcome, Lady, I’m sure, as are your people.”

“Many thanks to you, Bishop.” Ghlyena smiled as serenely as she could as the man walked away.

Finan and Sihtric approached behind her then. 

“Laying it on a bit thick, weren’t we?” An Irish accent lilted.

Ghylena’s bare grin dropped, her cheeks aching as she snipped, “Do you want the plan to work or not, Finan?”

Sihtric stood in front of her now, a small bouquet of pleasant flowers in hand. She sent him a questioning look, but his only reply was to reach into her hair and place the delicate flowers throughout her braids. She stared at him in awe.

“Awk, ye wee sap.” Finan feigned disgust, before being jumped by the unforeseen arrival of Osferth.

“Walk with me, Lena. We are not needed for this part.” Sihtric suggested, tucking the last bloom behind her ear.

Still entranced by her thoughtful husband, Ghylena about managed a nod before he smirked— enjoying his effect on her— and dragged her away by the hand.

<>

They had been walking and talking for most of the evening, and now night had come, and still they basked in each other’s presence, content in their brief peace.

Emerging from a side street back into a main line, Sihtric was the first to spot Aethelwold and his men as they strutted towards Beocca’s house.

Turning to look down at her, Sihtric kissed Lena’s forward before ushering her forward, “Go, follow them, go!”

Nodding, Lena dashed after them, throwing a look behind her to see Sihtric running to alert Finan and the rest of their men. Resting her hand lightly at her stomach, Ghylena followed Aethelwold’s band through the roads until they came upon Beocca’s house.

Pyrlig appeared then, standing between the horde and their target.

“If it is not the disgraced, yet forgiven Lord Aethelwold, sword drawn. You have stopped, I see, outside this house. ”

“You should show a little respect, Father Pyrlig.” Aethelwold simpered.

Pushing through the cloaked men, Ghylena stood herself beside Pyrlig.

“I believe it is you who should show some decorum, Lord Aethelwold. Or did Alfred take your manners as well as your eye?”

“You would let a woman stand with you as an equal, Pyrlig?” Aethelwold simpered.

“I would let this woman stand for me any day, which is more than I can say for you, Lord.”

“Father,” Lord Sigebriht spoke now, “There is an outlaw walking free.”

Pyrlig pretended to be afraid, looking from side to side as he replied, “An outlaw? Who?”

“It is not your place to ask.” Aethelwold looked away.

“And it is not your place to raid someone’s home, Lord.” Ghylena declared.

Soon after this, Beocca came out of his home, with Aethelwold surrounding the house with his men before Sihtric arrived with their back up. Thyra exited the home then, settling the dispute by allowing the men to enter and search. 

“Beocca, I have been listening. If these men wish to look inside our home, then we should allow it. We have nothing to hide, nothing at all. Please, come inside, Aethelwold.”

After searching the building and coming up with nothing, the men left; Uhtred hidden under the floorboards in an emergency ditch built by Thyra.

Father Beocca spoke as Aethelwold left, “Where in God’s name is he?” 

<>

A man had harassed Thyra in the streets, she came home crying, and Hild had been the first to notice. Not soon after, Beocca had exploded into the streets, Uhtred and his warriors following close behind.

Beocca was red-faced, enraged and chewing at the bit.

“TIDMAN! I’m looking for a rat named Tidman!” Beocca yelled, “Are you Tidman? I asked, are you Tidman?”

Aethelwold appeared then, always popping up where he’s not wanted.

“Father Beocca, good morning. And Uhtred, free man of Wessex.”

“I’m looking for a man named Tidman. Does the coward belong to you?” 

“He does not.” “I am not a coward,” the lump on the bench spoke then, a great big shit of a man who’s mouth was too big for his jaw, “What is it you want, priest?”

Eyes lit with excitement, Ghylena couldn’t wait to see the priest hit him. 

“What I want, oaf, is for you to heed my warning. Speak to or go near my wife again and I shall beat the shit from you! It is a promise.” “I called your woman a Dane, is that… is that not what she is?”

“Have you not understood me?” Beocca leaned closer, “You don’t appear to be the cleverest of men.” 

“Do you speak to me as a man or a priest?” Tidman’s teeth were yellow, if not brown.

And then Beocca pounced, head butting the man and roaring “Does that answer your question!? DOES IT?!”

Ghylena laughed, wide-mouthed and whole-heartedly giggling with joy at the sigh of Tidman’s comeuppance. She stood behind them all, leaning against the wall now with her hands on her hilts, watching the magic unfold. Since Osferth’s news of Skade’s death, Ghylena felt lighter and more alive, as if the clouds had finally parted on a crisp winter morning.

The men moved to pull Beocca off Tidman, but Ghylena could see Sihtric smiling, unable to hide his mirth at the shock of a priest beating a man.

When Beocca lied and claimed to be calm only to lunge for him again, giving Tidman a bloody nose and straw-covered back, Ghylena felt herself glowing with pride and satisfaction. 

Good, she thought, Show them that Thyra is not unprotected.

<>

Alfred died the next day.

Being that Beocca had to be at the front of the hall, performing the funeral rites, Ghylena had offered to kept Thyra company and as such, was now stood beside her friend, enduring the same intolerable pestering as she from the rat Tidman.

Shoving into their backs, Tidman kept his voice low, unwilling to create a fuss. It was only for Ghylena’s respect for the dead that she did not turn around to break his nose.

“You Danes should not be here.” He hissed.

Seeing Thyra’s anxiety, and feeling extremely uncomfortable herself, Ghylena took her by the hand and silently led her from the hall.

Once outside the doors, she spoke, “Let’s just take you home, hm?” 

Smiling in thanks, Thyra still seemed unsettled as she replied, “Yes, that sounds like a good idea.”

When they had come within sightline of the home, Tidman made his presence known, throwing rocks and insults at their backs. Unwilling to frighten Thyra more, Ghylena simply grit her teeth and ushered her to the house. 

“Come Thyra, get inside and I will handle him. Bolt the door, hide.” 

Rushing to the house, Ghylena managed to push Thyra through the doorway, right before turning around into the stinking presence of Tidman. She hadn’t realised how close he had been behind them, gasping in shock and instantly regretting it whenever she inhaled a lungful of his sweat and stench.

Schooling her expression, Ghylena turned her head up to look him in the eye, and felt her stomach roll at the hungry look in his eyes.

He was so close to her that if she lifted her arm in front of her it would be touching his chest, and she felt trapped. Having just been at the palace, she was weaponless, forced to leave her daggers outside the hall before entering.

Tidman clearly had secured his own weapons before stalking them.

“Come no closer!” She couldn’t help the waver in her voice, realising that no-one knew where she was and that she might need help. 

“Little Dane wants to play hero, does she?” Tidman snorted.

“Little Dane would drop you to your knees in the square, shit-stain.” His insults had gotten to her, raising a flare of her temper in defiance of her fear.

Suddenly, he shot forward, invading her space and forcing her to back into the door. 

He smirked, and his rotten breath stank. “Not so feisty now, are we?”

Ghylena steeled herself, tilting her head before suddenly punching him in the gut and trying to run under his arm. 

She nearly made it, 2 paces behind him before he reached around and caught hold of her hair, still with Sihtric’s flowers braided through it. 

A yelp of pain shot from her as he yanked her backwards, fisting his fingers against her scalp before throwing her to the ground.

Wincing from pain and gasping for air after being winded, Ghylena took one second too long to recover, and then he was on top of her. A growl of frustration left her as he held her arms down, legs on either side of her waist and pinning her with his weight. 

“Bastard!” She yelled, spitting in his face with precision.

Her saliva dripped from his eye now, and apparently she had finally broken his inflated ego, making him give up on trying to harass her. 

Using his grip on her hair to slam her skull into the floor, he brutally knocked her out before climbing off of her.

Spitting on her unconscious body, he turned to Thyra’s home, and left with one hushed promise. 

“I’ll come back for you after I’ve had the redhead.”

<>

The heat and noise was what roused her.

Ghylena slowly dragged her eyes open, head pounding and confused as to where she was.

Searing flames roared around her, and the yells of desperate men rang into the night. 

Pushing herself up from the ground, Ghylena steadied her feet beneath her before moving away from the burning house as fast as she could.

What in holy hells happened? How did I end up here? She thought.

Fumbling away from the smoke, Ghylena heaved clean air into her lungs as her hand raised to her head, confused by the sticky feeling on her skin.

She winced, pain splicing her head as her fingers came away bloody.

Staring at the red, her memory came rushing back to her in that moment.

Tidman.

Thyra.

Was Thyra alright? Was she still in the house? Ghylena turned to the fire again, face growing in horror as the building was engulfed, and began to crumble.

Still dizzy, and with a thumping headache, Ghylena didn’t hear Sihtric when he first ran to her. Only when he turned her by the shoulder to face him, looking her in the eyes and shaking her from her horrified stupor, did she hear him.

“Lena! Lena, what happened?! You’re bleeding?” He was frantic.

Shaking her head, she could only choke out one word, “Thyra.”

Finan came running then, joining the men who were desperately trying to fight the blaze, but it was hopeless. The thatched roof of the porch dropped to the ground then, as Finan asked for Thyra’s whereabouts. Lena started to cry then, helpless dread eating at her stomach. 

Thyra was still inside, trapped in a death that Ghylena helped create.

The fire only burned hotter.

-> up next: 'ambush in the forest'...

Tags: @travelingmypassion

[ivarthebadbitch]

Saxon failsons of Wessex and Mercia...the time has come to form a support group and/or unionize

[wildwren]

// most CURSED among God’s kin are aethelings // 

E for language

an Aethelwold character study / shitpost 

click here and here for the brilliant edits that partly inspired this // also, in general this writing is deeply inspired by @volvaaslaug​ and their meta and fic 

One.

Weak, they say. They say he is weak. A weak fool, isn’t he? Something to laugh at, something to piss on as they step over him in the gutter.

A fool, of course. He IS a fool — shall I do a dance for you? Shall I make you laugh as you cut my throat? Sometimes he even knows it, he knows he is a fool, and in those moments he tells himself: BE A FOOL. Be a fool, because the Earth is full of dead aethelings. Throat-cut aethelings, back-stabbed aethelings, elf-shot aethelings, aethelings with blood soured by poison, aethelings dead and dead and dead — most CURSED among God’s kin are aethelings.

Read below or on AO3

Be a fool, he says, and what is a fool? What IS a fool? Is foolishness caught from the drink like slurred speech? Does it come from the cunts of loose women? WHAT IS A FOOL — is it a man who drinks and fucks — a man who knows the curse of the aetheling — a man who knows the Earth is just shit and piss — and ice at the edge of the trough — and a short life — and a long death — and a longer torment beyond —? Is that a fool?

God is in the suffering, they say. In the hiss of sin, but only in its shame. God is in the shame, and the punishment, and the cold bite of iron on flesh, and the cold bite of the stone when the fire has gone out, and you must endure, endure, endure without reprieve. That is God, they say. That is godliness.

But HE knows, he knows that God is in the wine, that God is in the tits, the soft curve of flesh, the warm comfort of a body. God is the rush in the belly from the ale, and the hard, hot laughter that lives in the throat when the world is softened for a moment, by pleasure, by ease.

It’s the Devil that’s in the shame.

He should know.

He should know about shame.

So now: a dead father, a dead king. Which is worse? Now, an unloved aetheling, a foolish aethling, which is worse? Now, a cold blade, or a hot shame? He knows which one is worse.

But for that, he is a fool. So he will be a fool. And he will try not to die.

Two.

He’s doing alright. Truly. A clean face, a clean tunic, not so drunk right now, don’t you see it?

He’s doing alright — the flower of Wessex sold to Mercia for the price of a song — he’s doing alright — two brothers sold their freedom for the price of another man’s life — he’s doing alright — a fortress selling itself for the price of vengeance, for the price of greed. He’s doing alright.

He watches, and he understands. It is a selling place, this world. This world, it’s a place of shit, and piss, and selling. And that’s alright, he’s alright, he can learn - buying, selling — land, honor, dignity — it’s alright. Even though the cost always changes, even though the price is never fixed, or rather, it is fixed, but it is fixed on someone else’s will. Even though HE never has enough to pay.

It’s alright.

He’ll watch, as land and wealth is divvied out among men while he, he is always somehow missed. He’ll watch, as Wessex sells itself back for the flower it already sold. He’ll watch, as men more powerful than himself deny their own ambition, for the sake of — what? Disgust? Of him? Fear? Of Alfred? Of Wessex? Wessex, HA, Wessex. Wessex is just the bodies of men, pissing, shitting, dying men. It does not breathe, it does not die like men do.

But still, he will act.

He will act, while others simply talk, and wait, and PRAY — HA-HA-HA —!

He will act, and they will not know that is was he who wielded the blade, the blade that saved Wessex from itself.

Three.

What is Wessex?

Is it Alfred? Is it Edward?

He thought it was God, and dead men, and soil filled with dead men. But now it’s just Alfred, and Edward, and England.

What is England?

What is another dead Dane? The soil is full of them, too, it’s choking with them, full of dead Danes like it’s full of dead aethelings, and they do not rise, they DO NOT, he knows that now. What is a brother, a lover, a cousin, a leader? IT’S JUST ANOTHER DEAD DANE. Another DEAD DEAD Dane. And the Earth is full of them, and the air is thick with them, and he could build a wall around the whole of Wessex just with the corpses of dead Danes like stones, and their blood the mortar, and their shit the mud.

But such a wall would be for Alfred, for Alfred’s kin, and for Alfred’s fruit to ripen on the vine. So he will not build such a wall. But he will not weep, either, not for another dead Dane.

What is another dead woman? What is a cousin, a kin, a Queen, a daughter of Alfred — just ANOTHER DEAD WOMAN, and the Earth is full of them, too. Bellies stretched to bursting from birthing, blood sick, bone weary, spilling their lives on the soil like seed, rotting into something God might love. What is another dead woman to Wessex?

Nothing.

Nothing.

Not this woman. England has already eaten her. She was the sacrifice at the foundation — her marriage the builders’ rite, her body the stone. They all watched as her blood was left on the altar, so why should she not be the broken cross laid before the conquered hall? What’s another dead woman to Wessex? Everything, and nothing.

What is another dead King? Aethelred Cyning, Alfred Cyning, Edward Cyning, AETHELWOLD CYNING, what is another DEAD KING? The world is built on the backs of dead kings, the swords are forged from the bones of dead kings, so what’s another dead king to Wessex?  Wessex IS a dead king.

What is another dead friend? What is a friend? A FRIEND? A friend, he laughs. What is a friend in a world of lords and serving men? Uhtred is not a friend, Cnut is not a friend, Offa is not a friend, Sigebriht is not a friend. Shared blood in battle is not enough to make a friend, shared treachery is not enough to make a friend, shared silver is not enough to make a friend, THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS A FRIEND, there’s no friend for an AETHELING, not when one man must be the lord and the other his hand. And if he’s not a friend, he’s just another a man.

And what’s another dead man to Wessex? What’s another dead man to England?

Just another dead man.

And the ground is full of them.

And they will not rise.

[pokeasleepingsmaug]

The entire time Aethelwold is talking about Edward and Sigebriht, Sihtric just looks So Tired and it perfectly sums up how everyone feels about Aethelwold.

[cheapcakeripper]

The Last Kingdom Audition/Casting Trivia

Jeppe Beck Laursen as Haesten https://vimeo.com/161766163, Jeppe originally auditioned for a different, minor role in February 2015, a month later they asked him to read for Haesten, he was told he got the role 3 weeks before the filming started in May 2017

Stig Henrik Hoff as Dagfinn https://vimeo.com/185203669 and as Gelgill https://vimeo.com/164552706

Brida’s casting call was for an American or British actress, Emily Cox did e-casting and then she was invited to a casting with producers, after she’d been cast she’s been taking part in auditions for other main roles

Lewis Goody as Sigebriht https://vimeo.com/237632190

Scott Virgo as Uhtred https://vimeo.com/96002107

Alexander Dreymon sent a selftape in April 2014, after sending more self-tapes and doing two screen tests over Skype & in London he finally got the role in September

Alexander Shore as Uhtred https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UlbATwSuBPY

Skade casting call was directed at actresses between 20 and 40 years old who should look innocent, but could play malicious, there was a seer scream part required during audition/in selftapes

Roby Schinasi as Cnut https://vimeo.com/232505577

Thea Sofie Loch Naess was approached by TLK production when she was auditioning for a role in “Sweetbitter” in Los Angeles, she filmed her tape in her living room in Oslo

Magnus Samuelson was headhunted by producers to play the role of Clapa

after getting the role of Ragnar the Fearless Peter Gantzler had to overcome his fear of horses

Morten Lützhøft as Gelgill https://vimeo.com/164893877

[lord-aldhelm]

Aldhelm | The Last Kingdom 3.10 (Part 2)

Aldhelm and Aethelred meet with Aethelwold and Sigebriht to discuss Aethelwold's plan.