#vikings france

[illustratus]

Charlemagne anxiously observes the approach of ships carrying Norman raiders by Alphonse de Neuville

[atomic-chronoscaph]

Devils from the Sea - art by Alessandro Biffignandi (1974)

[artthatgivesmefeelings]

Évariste Vital Luminais (French, 1821-1896) The Invasion, n.d. Museum of Fine Arts Boston

[viking-raider]

SALT IN OUR WOUNDS - CHAPTER VII

Summary-> Receiving help from Pastor Zane draws out more than contact with Gus's men.

Pairing-> Gus March-Phillipps/Reader

Word Count-> 3.5k

Chapters-> I II III IV V VI

Warnings-> PG-13: WWII!AU, Language, Deception, References to WWII, Fluff, Use of the word Nazi, Angst, Confessions

Inspiration-> The one and only Chaos Major, Gus March-Phillipps.

Author’s Note-> This is a work of Fiction, pulled from my imagination. Had this chapter sitting in my Google Docs forever, just waiting for me to finish editing it.

Divider by->  @FIREFLY-GRAPHICS!

-> If you would like to get notifications for my writing! Just follow my Tag List blog, @VIKING-RAIDER-TAGLIST as well as my @VIKING-RAIDER-LIBRARY and turn on the notifications for it! It’s that easy!’ Ao3-> DRAGON_DWELLER

Gus felt speechless as you came downstairs, his mouth going dry, looking you over. Even elbows deep in a steaming bucket of soapy liquid or in a simple skirt and blouse, you looked gorgeous. But the navy-blue sailor dress you wore, accented by three white buttons running down from its faux wrap v-neck, with a matching belt and flats, had only enhanced your beauty in every way possible. It paired well with the dark blue suit and white dress shirt Gus had tailored the afternoon before. Its fabric, still smooth and warm from your iron an hour ago, paired with tan braces, shoes polished until he could use them as a mirror, and a gray tie that Edmund had kindly lent him.

“You look beautiful.” He rasped, gulping thickly.

You bit your lip and shyly glanced away. “Thank you. You look very dapper yourself.” You complimented him back, rubbing your bare arm. “Do you have what you need?” You asked, composing yourself as you took a step closer to him, reaching up to adjust his tie slightly.

“I do.” Gus nodded, lightly patting his chest, where two envelopes of an identical letter were tucked in the inside pocket of his jacket.

“Good.” You whispered back, clearing your throat and brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Then, we should go. We don’t want to be late, it’s impolite to keep a man of God waiting.”

“That’s what I’ve been told.” Gus chuckled, turning to grab your coat from the hook by the door and helped you put it on, before slipping on the overcoat the tailor had given him. “What is Pastor Zane like?” He asked, as the two of you started the walk to the modest parish church; a ten-minute walk away.

“He’s very kind and has a wit about him.” You replied, slipping your hands into your coat pockets. “He’s not much different from his sister, Mrs. Moulin. He’s a little younger than her, from what I’ve gathered over the years of knowing the two of them. He felt the calling of God, when he was a young man, after he and his father survived the sinking of a fishing boat. Proclaims that he and his father were clinging to the overturned hull, expecting to die, and did what any man in mortal fear would do; prayed to God. He begged the Lord, that if he managed to save them, so his sister and mother could have a provider, that he would commit his soul to him for all eternity.”

“I see his prayer was answered.” Gus stated, offering you his arm, as the two of you cross the road, passing by the fountain in the village square.

“It seems to have been.” You nodded, looping your arm through his. “Another boat happened to be sailing by and saw the sinking vessel, and it stopped to rescue them. Pastor Zane joined a seminary two years later, then returned here when he graduated to run the Village’s parish church.”

“And Edmund trusts him.” He asked, an edge to his voice.

You looked up at him, brow creased slightly, understanding his hint. “We all trust him, Gus.” You replied, protectively. “He’s a good man and he won’t betray you to anyone. You’ll see when you meet him.”

“I trust you.” He said softly, giving you a gentle smile.

The walk was refreshing. You pointed out little things about Saint-Thuney to Gus and greeted the few residents that were out and about as well, popping in and out of the bakery or salon. With a gentle bend, the Village’s paved roads and sidewalks transitioned into a well-worn dirt church lane, where the weathered stone building sat upon the crest of a small hill. There was a wire fence on the left, the backside of a small sheep enclosure. To the right were waist-high hedges, and just over the top of the emerald leaves, headstones could be seen from inside the Village cemetery.

“It’s a real Eden here in Saint-Thuney.” Gus commented, watching the wooly sheep graze.

“It really is.” You agreed, nodding with a small upturn at the corner of your mouth. “It’s almost easy to forget there’s a war going on.” You commented, as the hum of a plane moved overhead.

“Almost.” He agreed, feeling the weight of the letters in his pocket as you reached the top of the hill.

Gus pulled open the heavy, wooden door of the church and stepped aside, ushering you inside the quiet, cavernous sanctuary. The pews were mostly empty, minus a woman in the front pews, but she was motionless and lost in prayer. The flames of the lit votive candles on either side of the altar flickered with the Village's hopes and prayers. It felt both peaceful and eerie to Gus. He observed you pause before a Caen-stone stoup pedestal, dipping your finger into the still Holy Water and quickly crossing yourself; mumbling a silent prayer. Licking his lips, Gus repeated your action, not wishing to be disrespectful. You made your way down the aisle, towards the back of the altar, where, along the wall, was a huge, ornate confessional, and gestured to the only open door.

“You confess here.” You told him, with a light of intent in your eyes.

“Thank you.” Gus replied, nodding his head and casting his eyes piously to the polished floors. “It’s been some time since I’ve confessed.” He admitted, moving past you to the confessional.

“Pastor Zane will take excellent care of you, then.” You said, patting his arm, then left him to light a votive candle, carefully side-eyeing the praying woman.

Gus closed the door on the confessional, plunging himself in darkness as he sat down on the teeny, uncomfortable seat. The partition between the confessional stalls slid open and the dark silhouette of a man filled the grated gap.

“In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.” A deep voice rumbled. “Peace be with you.”

“Amen.” Gus replied, clearing his throat. “It has been some time since I’ve confessed, and I will tell you, Father, I likely have many things to confess to. But my most urgent confession is one that a mutual acquaintance of ours has enlightened you on already.”

“Yes, I believe so already, my son. I am Pastor Zane, and take you to be Gus, the one staying with Edmund’s sister.” Zane inquired, cutting to the chase.

“I am, Pastor.” Gus confirmed, removing the letters from his pocket. “I was told you would be able to send these letters to their destinations for me.” He said, tapping them against the screen.

Pastor Zane hummed, opening the screen and reached out for the letters, but Gus didn’t let them go readily. “I assure you, God as my witness, these letters will see the people they’re meant for.” He assured Gus, his voice steady.

“For a holy man, that’s more than I can ask.” He answered, letting them go. “How long will it take?”

“That will depend on how badly the Germans are hindering my contacts.” Zane told him, tucking the letters inside his vestments. “If all is well, then no more than a week and a half. If the Germans are being difficult, two or three.”

Gus sighed, slumping against the back wall of the confessional. “Not ideal. But I suppose it’ll have to do. Is there no way for you to get them there sooner? Telegraph, perhaps?” He inquired, cocking a brow at him in the dark space.

“If my men can not get your letters to them in a month, then they will wire them. But, this is our way.” Zane informed him, his tone immovable.

“Fine then.” Gus hummed, resigned. “Well, I came here under the guise of marrying that incredible woman just out there.” He said, nodding at the door. “What do we need to do for that?”

“Nothing, you aren’t truly marrying her.” Zane answered, shaking his head.

“People think I am.”

“And you will likely be gone in a month.” the Pastor countered, cocking a brow at Gus, curious as to why he was so intent on the subject. “I will simply say I gave you both my blessing to marry, should anyone ask. All the two of you must do is keep whatever charade you’ve been doing up.”

“Hm.”

“Unless, it is not one.” Zane dared to say, narrowing his eyes slightly.

“I-”

“This is confessional, my son, what is said here, stays here.”

Gus was quiet for a moment, before drawing in a deep breath. “I do find myself in love with her. But I know, for her safety, I can’t be.” He confessed, smoothing his palms over his thighs.

“The heart wants what the heart wants.” Zane said, his voice echoing an odd tone of familiar yearning. “But it is the soul that pays. As long as she doesn’t know your intentions, don’t act upon them. It will be easier that way. She’ll be able to move on, when you are gone.”

“I know that.” Gus huffed, standing up and exiting the confessional, agitated.

“Are you all right?” You asked, as Gus stopped beside you, seeing the deep valley between his brows.

“I’m fine.” He answered, picking up a wick and using one of the burning candles to light it. “It’s just been sometime since I’ve confessed; it touched a sore spot.”

“I’m sorry.” You said softly, reaching out to gently touch his arm. “I’ll be right back.” You told him, stepping away to slip into the confessional yourself. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been a week since my last confession.” You uttered, crossing yourself.

“In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.” Pastor Zane replied in a calm voice. “Tell me of your sins, child.”

You drew a shallow breath. “I’m unsure if it is a sin, Pastor Zane. Perhaps, it is, because it’s selfish.” You paused, brows drawing together as your heart thumped against your ribs, like a Blitz, your mouth working for a second, before the words finally found their way out. “I don’t want him to go. I don’t want Gus to leave.”

“I love him.” You confessed aloud, your voice breaking.

“Oh, my dear sweet girl.” Zane sighed, shaking his head. “No, and while our almighty Lord may consider that lustful, I do not believe that’s your intention. You are both young, living in a frightening time in our history. You did a brave and Christian thing, by saving him that day, and perhaps feel a bond with him for it. However, Gus must leave, when his people arrive to retrieve him. He does not belong here with us. He belongs back wherever he came from, and you must let him go.”

You scrunched up the skirt of your dress and let out a shaky breath. “I know. I doubt he even feels the same.” You mumbled, biting your lip. “Well, those are all my sins, Father.”

“Very well, my child.” Zane nodded, bowing his head slightly. “For your sin, I assign you the penance, ten Glory Be’s.”

Accepting your penance, You finish your confession and Pastor Zane sealed it with the sign of the cross and a soft amen, before you exit the confessional, only feeling slightly better about what you had told him. The door to Pastor Zane’s side of the confessional opened and the tall, robed clergyman stepped out, salt-and-pepper head ducked to clear the low door. He offered you a smile that almost instantly warmed your heart, his kindness evident in his expression and bright, coffee-brown eyes.

“How is your family?” He asked, the formality of confession left in the Confessional.

“They’re all very well, thank you.” You replied, nodding your head respectfully. “My father sends his respects as usual, and Edmund promised to come to the next services.” You informed him, watching his eyes move away from yours to something behind you. “As for Willa, she is her usual self.” You said, feeling the commanding aura Gus radiated and turned to smile up at him.

“Gus, this is Pastor Zane.” You introduced them properly to one another.

“A pleasure.” Gus greeted him, reaching his hand out.

“Quite.” Pastor Zane replied, taking Gus’s hand between his and giving it a hearty shake. “I am so excited at the prospect of the two of you wedding.” He told Gus, his eyes making a quick sweep of the church, spotting the still praying woman. “My sister will be so thrilled at having such joyous festivities in the village.”

You chuckled, knowing how much Mrs. Moulin loved throwing parties, when given the chance.

“I’m grateful you’ve agreed to marry us.” Gus replied, his shoulders somewhat tense. “Especially without knowing a jot about me.” He smirked, snickering.

“Ah, if this fine, young lady has such feelings for you, then you are truly worthy.” Zane assured him, waving it off and noticed the woman stand from her pew. “Well, I must return to confessions. We shall see each other again, for that special day.” He smiled, motioning the woman into the box. “Have a blessed day.”

“You as well, Pastor.” You bid him, grinning back. “See, that went well, didn’t it?” You said, looking up at Gus.

“You can say that.” He replied, his fingertips tracing the length of your spine. “Is there anything else you need to do here?” He asked, looking about the modest room.

“No, I lit the candles Papa asked me too.” You said, shaking your head.

“Very well, back home we go.” Gus declared, offering you his arm and turning you both towards the church doors.

The doors creaked open, the sound echoing, to reveal Remi entering as he removed his tan, newsboy hat and tucked it into his back pocket. He started, seeing you and Gus coming towards him from down the aisle of pews, but he quickly composed himself.

“What are the two of you doing here?” He asked, upon meeting the two of you at the stoup, dripping his fingers in.

A bashful smirk crossed your lips and you turned your face into Gus’s arm for a moment, feeling like a caught child for some reason. A chuckle rumbled in Gus’s chest, witnessing your shy gesture, and his hand came up to brush against your cheek, affectionately. Remi studied the two of you, setting his stubbly jaw at the close intimacy the two of you were displaying so openly.

“We came to ask Pastor Zane to marry us.” Gus confessed to the shopkeeper, his eye moving back to Remi’s.

“M-marry?” Remi choked, his resolve breaking with shock.

“Yes.” You nodded, biting your lip. “Gus and I intend on marrying. I think I’ve allowed him to wait long enough.” You said, looking up at Gus with a soft look.

“Years.” Gus cooed, holding your chin between his fingers and ducked his head to brush his lips against yours in a sweet kiss; stealing your breath away. “But now, I have you in my grasp.” He smirked, pulling back slightly.

“From the day we met.” You sighed, licking your lips and tasting Gus on them.

“Well,” Remi cleared his throat and dipped his fingers back into the stoup, crossing himself. “I congratulate the both of you on your engagement.”

“Thank you.” Gus nodded his head, politely. “It’s kind of you.”

“Quite.” You agreed, offering him an appreciative smile. “We’ll let you get to whatever you were doing, and I’ll see you later on.” You said, brushing past him and out the door, moaning softly as the cool ocean breeze rushed around you, cooling your heated skin.

You were in disbelief that Gus had been so bold as to kiss you, your mind a hurricane of thoughts and emotions, that you hadn’t realized he was speaking to you.

“I’m sorry?” You cleared your throat, shaking your head to focus on him.

Gus chuckled, looking down at you. “I was saying, it’s a really lovely day out.”

You frowned for a moment, before concentrating on the world around you. The sky was a lovely shade of cyan with streaks of clouds racing across it, yet not a drop of rain threatened to fall from them. The shining sun steadily crested from behind the church, its rays warming your back and shoulders, and glittered off the restless waves of the Channel below, like gold. The breeze that had cooled you continued to flow about you and Gus; rustling the Sycamores, Sweet Chestnuts and Hawthorns that populated the Church lane and Village. It filled your noses and lungs with the pleasant and fortifying scent of the ocean.

“It really is.” You agreed, a content smile upon your face.

Gus studied your face, before you looked back at him, he felt his heart swell. His love for you only grew with each second the two of you spent together. But the knot in his stomach tightened, knowing how much he had to go, especially now the more he fell for you. Gus would not put you in harm’s way. He’d rather throw himself back into the Channel than for that to happen.

She’ll be better off. Perhaps, once I’m gone, she’ll find someone that’s right for her. He thought, plastering a smile on his face as you looked at him. Maybe, she and Remi will fall in love. But, maybe, until then…

“Would be a shame to hurry home.” Gus pointed out, finding his voice again.

You blinked at him. “We could walk along the beach for a bit?” You suggested, cocking your head at him.

“Sounds nice.” He nodded, offering you his arm again and the two of you strolled back towards the Village.

Ignoring the turn onto your street, you guided Gus leisurely towards the beach, pausing on the sandy sidewalk to take your flats and stockings off, not wanting them to get sandy and wet. Gus followed your action, taking off his shoes and socks. Both of you left them there on the sidewalk, for when you returned on the way home. The breeze was stronger down on the beach, whipping your hair free of its pins and into your face. Gus slipped off his overcoat and draped it over your shoulders, giving you a wink as you glanced up at him.

“Thanks.” You mumbled, tucking your arms inside the toasty wool.

“I can see why you like to take walks out here in the mornings.” He commented, listening to the soothing sound of the waves crashing against the white sand, not another soul insight.

“The people of Saint-Thurney don’t really like coming here.” You confessed to him, casting your gaze out to the Channel.

“Why’s that?”

You chuckled softly. “Things have a habit of washing ashore here.” You explained, pausing to face the water. “Typically they’re dead.”

“But not always.” Gus purred, cocking a brow at you.

“No, not always.” You giggled, nudging his side with your shoulder. “But it disturbs them, so they don’t come here. The official office sends some men out once a week or so to comb the length and take care of anything they might discover.”

“You’re not worried about…well, I guess you’re not concerned with finding something, given what you did find.”

“I’m not. It’s a cycle of life.” You shook your head, brow pinching. “However, other than the occasional dead sea animal, you’re the first thing I’ve ever discovered on the beach. So, I guess either whoever's job it is to clear the beach of such things is quite good or the villagers are superstitious.” You hummed, pressing your lips together in thought, but shrugged. “Which wouldn’t surprise me.”

“Well,” Gus sighed, hugging his arm around your shoulders. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad that you found me.”

“Oh, are you?” You teased, smirking.

“Yeah!” He grinned back. “It was either dying, the Germans or you. I’d really rather not die and the Germans have such sour faces. But you, my love, are just right.”

“Your Goldilocks, am I!” You laughed, shaking your head.

“Indeed.” He cooed, daring to kiss you again.

“You are frisky today, March-Phillipss!” You gasped, breaking away from him, biting back a blush.

“What can I say? I love my fiancée.” He teased, winking at you.

You tisked at him, shaking your head. “Naughty boy.”

“Guilty.” Gus confessed with an impish grin, as his eyes moved over your head, observing something back towards home. “Suppose Edmund wants to know how everything went.” He commented, a gentle furrow between his brows.

“What?” You frowned, turning to find your brother coming up the beach towards you. “He seems a bit ants in his pants.” You noted the expression on his face. “What’s wrong, Eddie?” You asked, meeting him halfway. “Is Papa all right?” You inquired, feeling a cold twinge in your stomach.

“Pops is fine.” He assured you, waving it off. “But we have another issue all together.”

“What?” Gus asked, coming up behind you, his hand resting on your hip.

“Trottier is at the house.” Edmund informed you, biting his lip, and rubbing the link of his pocket watch in his agitated state.

“Oh, hells.” You whimpered under your breath.

“Who the hell is that?”

“He’s the Director General of the Village.” You answered, a lump in your throat.

“Rat fuck is in the pocket of the Germans.”

“Now, Edmund, we don’t know that for certain.” You scolded your brother, scurrying by him, anxious to get home before Trottier could traumatize your father without you there.

[m0th-person]

divorced couple , KoF & Normandy

[vampmilf]

usamerican self centrism off the charts once again in the tags of this post where i make a joke about how when a post asks to share where you're from, usamericans are the only ones to say their state instead of the country

"its helpful to us" this is not just about you though. i know this is hard to understand but not everyone on this website is usamerican and if the question is to the broader public asking which country everyone is from, this is not just about you. the answers should not make sense only to you.

"america is very big and culturally very different" are you under the assumption that there are no regional cultural differences in other countries? i can tell you with absolute certainty that yes, even countries smaller than half the north american continent have regional differences. shocker, i know. every country in europe has regionally different cultures and history, maybe with the exception of the countries that are only one big city. i can tell you from just the two countries that ive lived in (germany, norway) there are big cultural differences depending on what part you live in. theres differences between west and east germany, theres differences between people living on the north coast vs north-east coast vs in the south vs in the middle of the country. theres differences in regions depending on what other country they border with. some dialiects dont even understand each other. the regions have different history leading to different cultures leading to different mindsets and behavioural patterns, it is very noticeable to germans. you will still never catch a german answering a polls with "im from nrw" bc thats not helpful for anyone and even though there are these big regional differences, on a broader level, germany as a whole still has one uniting culture. plus, you still do live in the same country which means that the economy, laws, etc define your lived experiences (although even here there are regional differences) which is why the question is "where are you from?"

norway even has two different languages, that are spoken in different parts of the country, and hundreds of regional dialects. if you told norwegians in the north and in the south theyre essentially the same they would look at you like youre crazy. still they would all answer with "im from norway"

there are a lot of countries around the world that speak different languages in different regions of it. theres countries that are now one big whole, but used to be two or more smaller countries that then got joined together, combining different languages, cultural dresses, traditions, etc. i can assure you people from every country around the world will tell you that there is distinct cultural differences within the country that they would notice immediately, but on an international poll asking where they are from, they will still answer with their country.

usamericans are the only ones giving you letter codes for different states. and if youre thinking "well i dont notice any difference between two people from the same country even if theyre from different regions" i can assure you, that is how the rest of the world feels about usamericans. your regional differences are there and noticeable to you, but not to the rest of the world. to us, youre from the usa. that is it.

[davidcashuk]

*took

[dreamconsumer]

Rollo (died in 933), Count of Rouen and first ruler of Normandy.

[francepittoresque]

25 novembre 885 : siège de Paris par les Normands ➽ http://bit.ly/Siege-Paris-Normands Après leur défaite par les milices de la Neustrie, en 884, les Normands restèrent pendant une année sans reparaître sur les rives de la Seine. Ils y revinrent en 885, et entrèrent dans le fleuve avec sept cents vaisseaux à voiles, et un nombre d’autres petits navires si considérable qu’ils « couvraient les eaux de la Seine sur un espace d’un peu plus de deux lieues »

[merovingian-marvels]

The grave of Childerik I

Childerik (sometimes written as Chilperik) was the son of Merovech, the namegiver to the Merovingian dynasty.

Childerik I was the last fully pagan king of the Frankish era. He was buried at the Belgian town Doornik/Tournai, which borders France in the Picardian region.

During works nearby St. Brixius church in Tournai anno 1653, a deaf and mute stonemason stumbled across the grave of the late Merovingian king and army leader. According to legend, the screams of the otherwise mute Adrien Quinquin gathered a crowd. Wholesome detail, the stonemason was rewarded for finding the grave.

The grave itself is incredibly rich. It contained 21 sacrificed horses, a complete armor/weapons set, a coin hoard and gold-garnet jewelry.

His signet ring is made completely in Roman style, but the portrait shows a man in long hair. This is indicative of not only his Germanic origin, but also shows how he identified.

The whole gravesite was recorded by order of Leopold Wilhelm of Austria. All the finds were described in detail and copper etchings were made. This account is regarded as the earliest archaeological recording of a (grave) site.

The treasure was gifted to Louis XIV in 1665, after the death of Leopold. The whole grave set was stored in the Louvre palace.

On the faithful night of 5-6 November 1831, about 80 kg of treasures were stolen from the Louvre, including the Childerik treasures. Later, the police discovered that all artifacts in gold had been melted. Only the garnet-inlayed pieces had survived, hidden in bags, lowered into the Seine.

Later excavations of the Tournai site showed that Childerik was buried under a burial mount which measured 20 meters in width.

Unfortunately, 70-90% of the treasure is permanently lost. Painful detail is that because of the 17th century copper etchings, researchers know exactly which pieces are missing. The original bees have become an icon for the hoard, even inspiring Napoleon Bonaparte to use bees as a contrasting symbol to the French royalist Fleur-de-Lys.

All pictures of the “complete” hoard are replica’s made for museum display.

Image credit:

Drawing by Jacob van Werden for copper engravings by Cornelis Galle the Younger. Drawings published by Jean Jacques Chiflet in 1655 by order of Leopold Wilhelm of Austria.

[aarontveitisonfire]

alexanderludwig IG #EARTHABIDES @/mgmplus DECEMBER 1!

aarontveit

LEGGO!

[illustratus]

Charlemagne observes the arrival of Viking drakkars on the Seine in the 9th century

by Jacques Onfroy de Bréville

[canuterex]

Rölfr, or rather Rollo, founder of Normandy. Here in the Chronicles of the Dukes of Normandy.

[artthatgivesmefeelings]

Évariste Vital Luminais (French, 1821-1896) The Invasion, ca.1872

[viking-raider]

Salt in Our Wounds - Chapter II

Summary-> You've brought the unconscious and injured man into your home. Now, you and Edmund attempt to get him medical attention, while figuring out who he is, and what side he's on.

Pairing-> Gus March-Phillipps/Reader

Word Count-> 4.8k

Chapters-> I

Warnings-> PG: Blood, Language, Infidelity, Fluff, Medical Treatment

Inspiration-> Since my favorite demon, @littlefreya, asked so nicely. The one and only Chaos Major, Gus March-Phillipps.

Author’s Note-> I hope you enjoy! Line divider by @FIREFLY-GRAPHICS!

-> If you would like to get notifications for my writing! Just follow my Tag List blog, @VIKING-RAIDER-TAGLIST as well as my @VIKING-RAIDER-LIBRARY and turn on the notifications for it! It’s that easy!’

“What are we going to tell Papa, Edmund?” You whispered, looking at him suddenly.

Edmund pushed his jaw forward and rubbed his palms over the steering wheel. “You just leave that to me, Peanut.” He replied, hitting the village round-a-bout. “I'll talk to him. What we need to worry about is how we're going to get his bullet wound treated.”

“Oh, no!” You gasped, feeling ridiculous for forgetting that.

“Relax.” Edmund cooed, turning onto your street. “I might have someone in mind, who could help us and keep their mouth shut.” He said, parking against your curb, instead of his.

“Who?” You frowned, blinking at him.

“Old man Tremblay.” He said, killing the engine. “He used to be the village's doctor, before his son-in-law, Thomas, took over for him. They both hate the Germans. So, I might be able to talk to Dr. Tremblay about coming over to the house. I'll say we need him to look at Pops. No offense to Thomas, but he's more comfortable with the old man, which is true. Once he's here, I'll explain the situation to him.”

“If he doesn't help us?” You asked, chewing on your lip, worried.

“Then, we'll wing it.” He huffed, shoving his door open and getting out.

“Wing it.” You sighed, your hands trembling. “Right. Wing it.” You gulped, getting out and meeting your brother at the tailgate. “What end are we picking up first?” You asked, quietly.

“I'll grab his top end.” Edmund replied, casually. “No need for you to drop the poor bastard on his head. He's got enough issues.” He sighed, climbing into the truck. “We all do.” He mumbled under his breath. “Go, open the front door.” He said, jerking his head towards your modest cottage.

“Fair.” You replied, scurrying over and pushing the door open. “Papa, me and Edmund are bringing something in! Don't close the door, please!” You called inside, before rushing back to the truck, helping Edmund with your load.

You slide him half off the truck, enabling you to wrap your arms around his knees and calves, before Edmund managed the rest. Shuffling across the sidewalk and turning, so Edmund went in first, you stepped over the threshold into the cottage, feeling the heat of the fire your father had roaring in the grate.

“What in God's sake are you two bringing in!” Your father griped from the sitting room, where he occupied his favorite armchair.

“I'll explain in a minute, Pops!” Edmund wheezed back, kicking open the door to the cellar. “You go down first.” He bid you with a jerk of his chin. “Your side vision is better than mine, so you hopefully won't stubble down the stairs, while looking over your shoulder.”

“That's fine.” You nodded, turning so you could carefully go down the narrow steps into the dark basement below.

It was slow and cumbersome, but you and Edmund made it to the bottom. You sat your package down and unwrapped him. There were no windows into the basement, so there wasn't a need to hide or conceal him anymore.

“We can't lay him on the floor, Edmund.” You hissed at him, quietly.

“We're not, silly!” He growled back, shaking his head. “Pops has a camp bed up in the attic. Go, get it and bring it down here. We'll set it up in the cellar, he can lay on it.”

Nodding, you went back upstairs, peeking at your father as you came up, but found, to your relief, he had dozed off. Going upstairs and down the hallway, you reached up for a cord hanging from the ceiling and pulled it, revealing a hidden, folded ladder, leading up to the half attic. It took a few minutes for you to finally find the folded up, military green and canvas, camp bed. Once you were back in the basement with it, Edmund had the cellar door open and was waiting for you. He put the bed together like an expert, having gone on countless camping trips with it over his life.

“That should do it.” He sighed, wiping his face. “Let's get him in it, then I'll go talk to Dr. Tremblay.”

“All right.” You sighed back. “He doesn't seem to be bleeding as much.” You commented, once he was resting in the bed.

“Seems so.” Edmund agreed, narrowing his eyes at the wound in the dim lighting. “Whether or not it's a good or bad sign is yet to be determined.”

“Then, you should hurry and get the doctor.” You urged him, brow creasing gently as you looked up at him.

“I'm going. I'm going.” He defended, holding his hands up. “Can't a man take a breather?” He asked, wide eyed.

You reached out and took Edmund's hand. “I'm sorry. I'm just-”

“I know, Peanut.” Edmund interrupted, shaking his head at you. “You have a heart worth more than gold, itself.” He said softly, bending to kiss the top of your head. “With luck, I'll be back soon with Dr. Tremblay.” He called, heading out.

“You hear that?” You said, looking at the man. “We're going to get you looked after. You'll be right as rain again soon.” You smiled at him, though you weren't sure why. “How about I grab you a blanket?” You continued to babble at him. “You might get blood on it though.” You frowned, biting the corner of your lip, but scurried upstairs for a blanket and pillow anyway.

“What's that for, Peanut?” Your father asked, still half dozing.

“Oh, I just thought the basement spirit would like something comfortable to nap with.” You answered, pausing at the basement door, smirking over at him, knowing he wasn't listening.

“That's nice of you, love.” He slurred, head lolling forward.

You chuckled, continuing on. “Well, my father now thinks the basement is haunted.” You quipped, lightly spreading the blanket over your new housemate, then gently tucked the pillow under his head, noticing how sweaty his unruly, but short, curls were. “You've caught a fever.” You cooed, turning your hand to delicately rest it on his damp forehead. “Thankfully, it's cool down here.” You said, using the cuff of your blouse to dab at his sweaty brow.

“I'll be right back.” You hurried back upstairs, to the kitchen.

You grabbed a bowl from the cabinet and a dish towel from its hanger. Tossing the towel over your shoulder, you filled the bowl halfway with water and turned to the ice box and chipped ice from it, dropping some into the bowl. You made two trips between the upstairs and the cellar, taking a chair down there, before taking down the chilled water, so you had something to sit on as you gingerly dabbed his flushed forehead and face.

“Well, whoever you are.” You said, balancing the bowl in your lap. “It's a right mess this is.” You chuckled, before introducing yourself, feeling silly just sitting there in the silence. “I hope you're on our side or Edmund is going to have us both shot.”

Some of the heat in his skin cooled as you lightly draped the folded dish towel over his forehead, making you relieved to see him not so flushed.

You heard the door upstairs creak open and the floorboards overhead groan as heavy feet strode and shuffled over them. “That must be Edmund with Dr. Tremblay.” You commented, looking up at the dusty ceiling. “I should go up and check on them.” You said, standing up, setting the now warm bowl of water in your place on the chair.

“Edmund?” You called softly, appearing in the kitchen, where he was standing with a short, gray haired man, dressed in a wrinkled, brown three piece suit.

“Sshh.” He hushed you, casting an eye towards the sitting room and waved you closer. “As I was saying, Dr. Tremblay, I've brought you here not for my father, but for another matter entirely.” He continued, his voice low so as not to disturb your father.

Dr. Tremblay's bushy brows drew closer together, reminding you of a caterpillar. “Is that so?” He hummed, bringing his arthritic hand up to his chin. “Then, what was it you summoned me here for?”

Edmund's eyes twitched to yours for a moment, you nodded at him and he looked back to the good doctor. “I know you have no love for our occupiers, Dr. Tremblay, like I, myself, don't.”

“Ha!” He laughed, his head tipping back as he grinned. “Fripouilles!” He spat, with no small amount of venom.

“I agree, sir.” Edmund chuckled, smirking. “But, to the heart of the matter. My dear sister here, on her daily morning walk along the beach found something—someone, washed ashore.” He explained, his voice calm and steady, revealing no emotion or opinion. “We're sure he's of our morals. But he's been injured.”

“Injured?” Dr. Tremblay frowned, narrowing his ordinarily kind, but currently and understandably suspicious, brown eyes at him. “Injured how? Show me.”

“I would rather tell you.” Edmund answered, biting his lip. “In case, you wish not to have any further dealings in this matter.”

“Nonsense!” Tremblay huffed, waving his hand dismissively at the two of you. “Let me see this man.”

Edmund didn't move for a moment, before nodding and leading him down the basement stairs. “He was shot in the side.” He explained, entering the cellar, where your guest laid.

“I discovered he'd developed a fever.” You spoke up from the door. “So, I applied a cool compress to his skin.”

“That was a good thing.” Dr. Tremblay answered, distractedly, folding back the blanket and resting his hands on the man's injured side. “Has he regained consciousness at any time?”

“No.” Edmund replied, shaking his head and looking at you.

“He hasn't.” You confirmed, nervously.

Dr. Tremblay pulled a pair of wired spectacles out of the inside pocket of his suit jacket, before untucking the shirt from the unconscious man's trousers, for a clearer view, and began fussing around the wound. “Help me turn him on his side, Edmund.” He bid, waving your brother over. “Yes, good. Very good.” He nodded, examining his back. “The bullet went clean through to the other side.” He said, indicating the exit area, just above his hip.

“Then, why is he still comatose?” You asked, concerned.

“He may have struck his head on something, while in the water.” He answered, allowing Edmund to rest him on his back, before moving up to his head and gently working his fingers through his curls, feeling for any bumps or soft spots on his scalp. “Ah, just here.” He smiled, finding a faint knot at the back, just behind his left ear.

“Well, get my bag from upstairs. I'll treat him.” Tremblay sighed at Edmund. “Are you squeamish, young lady?” He asked, while he pulled the chair closer to the bed and sat down.

You thought of the Patrol Officer for a split second, before answering him. “No, sir. I am not.”

“Very good.” He said, crooking a finger at you. “You'll be taking care of this, when I'm not here to check on him.” He informed you, bluntly.

“That's fine.” You gulped, biting your lip and moving to stand beside him. “What will I need to do?”

“The dressing on both the entry and exit wounds will need to be changed.” He explained to you, calmly. “You'll make sure there's no sign of infection or the stitches I need to put in place have not come untied. As well as keep them clean.”

You nodded your head, somewhat apprehensive at the thought of doing all of this, but knew there was no other option, if you wanted to keep this man alive.

“You were correct in assuming he has a fever.” Dr. Tremblay said, lifting the damp towel and laying his hand on the man's forehead, feeling the heat there. “It's possible there's an infection in his wound from his time in the water.” He replaced the towel and looked up at Edmund as he rejoined the two of you, holding Tremblay's black, large and leather doctor's bag.

“I will show you how to give him penicillin shots.” He told you, taking his bag and setting it down between his feet.

“You mean with a needle?” You squeaked, startled, looking over at Edmund.

“Certainly not with a glass, mon chéri.” Tremblay chuckled, grinning at the contents of his bag.

The seasoned doctor removed an emerald, glass bottle of liquid antiseptic, a small package of silk sutures with a wickedly sharp needle, a tiny vial of a clear substance and a glass syringe. He laid them out on a small space on the bed, turning his attention back to the angry looking entry wound.

“Do you have any hand towels you could part with?” He asked, looking up at you. “It will help me clean these wounds.”

“Yes, of course.” You nodded, darting back upstairs and grabbing a couple of the dish towels you had that were in sad condition, bringing them back down as Edmund was wrestling an old nightstand into the room.

“Give him something to put his instruments on.” He explained to your expression.

“Ah.” You nodded, understanding.

Everything set up, you watched closely as Dr. Tremblay drew the milky antibiotic through into the syringe, pushing up the plunger slightly to remove any air, then set it aside and studied his patient for a moment, before letting out a sigh that sounded as if he was inconvenienced.

“We must remove his trousers.” He said, tapping his foot.

“Why?” Edmund blurted out, brows going up with surprised shock.

“So I may administer the shot to him.” Tremblay replied, with an air of impatience.

“Well!” Edmund started to protest.

“Men!” You huffed, shaking your head.

“Don't you dare!” He snapped at you, watching as you moved around the good doctor and removed the blanket you had laid over the injured man, but you ignored him.

First, untying his boots and dropping them at the foot of the bed, then reached up and unbuttoned his suspenders, followed by the button of his trousers.

“What if he's not wearing an undergarment?” Your brother protested further.

“Then, we will be finding out presently, brother.” You replied, shooting him a look as you tugged the zipper down, much to your relief finding the hint of white and blue striped shorts. “See, you're fretting for nothing.” You said, tugging the rough wool pants down off his surprisingly thick thighs.

“Possibly of questionable allegiance, but properly dressed.” You quipped, folding them.

“Watch closely, mon chéri.” Tremblay hummed and picked the syringe back up, with a practiced hand, squeezed the muscle at the top of his thigh and injected him, slowly pushing down the plunger. “That is how it is done.” He said, looking up at you.

“It seems simple enough.” You answered, attempting to appear confident in your ability to replicate it.

“Very good.” He nodded, turning his bespeckled eyes to the bullet wound on the man's abdomen.

Grabbing one of the hand towels you set on the table, he poured antiseptic on it and pressed it to the wound, eliciting one of the first major reactions out of your beached stranger with the stinging liquid to the open and bleeding puncture. He whined, brows drawing together as he shook his head, sluggishly lifting his hand. You moved back around to the head of the bed, hushing him gently and picking up the now wilted towel as it slipped from his forehead. You caressed his damp curls off his forehead and temple, attempting to offer some semblance of comfort as Dr. Tremblay continued to disinfect his wound and the area around it.

“You're all right.” You whispered to him, quietly. “We're just trying to help you.” You tried to explain to him, not sure if he could hear you or not. “You're safe here with us.” You mumbled, watching Tremblay set the cloth aside to pick up the needle and thread, you unconsciously took the man's limp hand in yours and hugged it to your chest.

“Is there no more light to be had in this room, Edmund!” Tremblay asked, leaning forward to stare at the wound in the dusky light of the single, naked bulb overhead.

“I may be able to find you a lantern.” Edmund replied, turning back into the basement and rummaged around the items, until he found an oil lamp. He shook it gently, hearing what oil that was left inside slosh about. “I found it!” He called out, before going upstairs, setting that lamp on the kitchen counter and crossing into the sitting room, where the once roaring fire was, but now only flickered.

He took one of the fire sticks from the holder bolted to the brick that made up the fireplace and lit it with one of the remaining flames. Carefully carrying it back to the lamp, Edmund lit its soaked wick and blew the fire stick out, before tossing it into the sink.

“Here.” Edmund sighed, setting the lamp down on the table. “I hope it's enough.”

“Yes, yes.” The doctor nodded, satisfied.

With all he needed, Tremblay squinted and made the first pick of the needle. The patient huffed, his stomach muscles flexing in response, but it didn't deter Dr. Tremblay in the slightest as he continued. You stroked his forearm and squeezed his hand, watching with an uneasy stomach as the old doctor made smooth sutures. Those sutures placed, Edmund helped roll him onto his side, so the wound on his lower back could be likewise treated with antiseptic and stitched closed.

“I will come back in a day or two, to check on his wound and ensure the fever has broken. Give him the next shot in the morning.” Tremblay said, arranging his bag and closing it. “Should he grow worse in that time, send for me.”

“We will.” You answered, staring down at him, concerned with the flush to his face.

Edmund showed the kind doctor back upstairs, while you gently tended to your sick house guest. Carefully pulling down his shirt and covering him back up, as not to leave him only laying in the camp bed in a long sleeved shirt and his boxers. Picking up the basin of water, you carried it back upstairs and dumped it out in the sink, refilling it with fresh water and a little ice, before taking it back to the cellar, resting it on the table. Dipping the folded cloth in the chilled water and ringing it out, then gently pressing it to his flushed and bearded cheeks wiping away the droplets of blossoming sweat at his brow.

“He's going to need some nursing.” You said, hearing your brother coming back.

“I can see that.” Edmund replied, folding his arms and leaning against the door frame.

“Is there any prospect of finding him a more comfortable bed?” You asked Edmund, looking the camp bed over, how it dipped under his weight, the only support were the ties that kept the canvas middle secure to the frame.

He narrowed his eyes at you. “Between both houses, while Willa and I have a guest bed, that he's not welcome to, for obvious reasons. We don't have a bed to spare.” He told you, but saw the glint in your eye. “I could piece something for him.” He continued, stopping you from asking the question that was on the tip of your tongue. “Topping it with the mattress from my spare bed.”

“That would be better for him, I think.” You said, worried about the safety of the sutures on his back.

“Well, for now, it'll have to wait until tomorrow.” Edmund sighed, scratching the underside of his jaw. “It's your turn to make dinner tonight, by the way.” He reminded you, watching you fuss with the stranger as if he was someone you knew.

“I remember, brother.” You replied, catching the edge in his voice. “I got a good bit of minced beef from Remi last afternoon, with some Swedes.” You told him, dipping the cloth in the cool basin, then lightly laid it over the resting man's forehead. “Juliette told me a recipe yesterday as well. It's called Beef Loaf.” You stood, planting your hands on your hips and massaging the small of your back, sore from so much bending.

“I thought we would try it tonight.” You said, turning towards him, with a lifted brow.

“Sounds interesting.” He answered, cocking a brow back at you. “You should get to it.” He added, looking at his watch. “Supper starts in two hours. You know how the Major is, when dinner isn't prompt.”

You chuckled softly, nodding. “Yes, I do.” You replied, casting your eyes down to your soiled skirt. “But, I should change first. If he sees me like this, he'll likely ask questions.”

“Very true.” Edmund nodded, squinting at your skirt and just making out the stains. “Off you trot, then. I'll stay with our friend for a little while, in case he wakes.” He sighed, pushing off the door frame towards the chair. “You mind popping over to my place and grabbing my sketch pad, after you're finished freshening up? I need to make some figures on the shelves I'm putting down here.”

“Of course.” You nodded, picking the basin. “Do you have another lantern or oil? So you have more light to work by?”

“I believe so.” He frowned, slouching in the chair. “Willa can find them.”

Nodding again, you left back upstairs, setting the bowl in the sink and headed up to your bedroom. Sighing, you unbuttoned your skirt and let it slip in a puddle around your ankles, before stepping out of it and opened your little closet. Reaching blindly in for a fresh skirt, pulling out a wool, black and green, plaid skirt and slipped it on. Smoothing your hands over the garment, you hurried outside and to Edmund and Willa's home across the street, knocking lightly as you pushed the door open.

“Willa!” You called out for your sister-in-law, looking about for the slight brunette. “Lila!” You shouted, crossing to the back of the house, where they had a small garden, finding your sister-in-law there. She sat at a small table, slightly sideways in her chair, as she held one of her Debs Rose-Tips between her slender fingers, her eyes staring off over the garden wall.

“Willa.” You hailed, stepping out onto the patio.

Head jerking as she startled and taking a deep breath, Willa blinked several times and looked around at you. “Oh, it's you.” She sighed, rolling her hazel eyes. “What do you want?”

“I came for Edmund's sketch book. I also wanted to know if you had a lantern or lantern oil?” You explained to her, ignoring her look of annoyance at being bothered in whatever she was doing.

“Fine.” Willa huffed, standing up and heading inside, you following after her.

Willa opened a closet in the living room, removing a lantern and a bottle of oil, handing them over to you, before finding Edmund's sketch pad and his graphite pencil in the kitchen, motioning to them. “Will my husband need anything else?” She asked, with an air of almost callousness.

“I should think not.” You answered, taking the book and pencil up. “I'll have dinner ready soon.” You informed her, juggling all of your items. “If you're going to grace us with your presence.” You added, with an edge of your own.

“I'll think about it.” She answered, lifting an arched brow at you.

“Right, I'll have Edmund get you, when it's finished.” You said, turning for the door. “If not, I'll make you a plate.”

You were gently turning out the mixture of mince meat, dry breadcrumbs, fine onion, an egg, a pinch of salt and a can of cream of mushroom into your four by eight loaf pan, when your brother came tromping up the basement stairs.

“You'll wake the dead with all that noise, Captain.” You quipped, lightly patting the meat concoction into shape in the pan.

“That I will.” Edmund chuckled, moving to stand beside you, peeking over your shoulder to see in the baking pan. “Is that the beef loaf?” He asked, giving it a questionable brow lift.

“It is.” You nodded, sighing at it, praying you had mixed it all properly. “Now, it's supposed to cook for an hour.”

“Well, hopefully it'll look prettier by then.” Edmund chuckled, smirking at you, then brought up his sketch pad. “I finished up the drawing for the shelves down there. What do you think?” He asked, cocking his head at the dark lines.

Opening the blazing oven and grabbing the pan in a thick towel, you paused for a moment to give your brother's picture a look. “They look good, Eddie.” You told him, smiling encouragingly, bending to slide the pan onto the middle rack and shut the door. “How are we to open and close the secret door you've made there?” You asked, pointing it out, careful not to touch it so you didn't smudge the graphite.

“The lock is magnetic.” He replied, pointing it out in the sketch. “We'll put something on the shelf that'll connect to it, so when it's moved, the mechanism is tripped and the door swings up.”

“That's pretty incredible.” You grinned, enchanted by the whole thing.

“It shouldn't take me more than two days to build.” Edmund said, sounding as confident as he could as he examined the drawing a bit more, slowly turning away to head over to the kitchen table, seating himself to refine it a bit more.

“What are we building?” Your father's voice asked as he made careful steps coming down stairs.

You and Edmund exchanged a quick glance at each other and you turned away to mind the violet and dusky yellow Swedes that sat boiling in a pot of salted water top of the stove. There was a lump in your throat, waiting to hear what excuse Edmund was going to give your father for the changes downstairs in the basement. Neither of you really worried about him going down there, he struggled with stairs because of his advancing arthritis, choosing to sleep in his armchair in the sitting room most nights and only making the arduous journey upstairs to his bedroom when he needed to change his clothes or shower.

However any change to the house, seen or unseen, would draw his attention.

“I'm going to build some shelves against the cellar wall, in the basement, for her.” Edmund replied, calmly, making an adjustment to his plans. “So she can tidy things up a bit down there.”

“And what of the cellar?” Mael asked, shuffling over to his chair.

“We haven't used it once for anything since we lived here, Pops.” He chuckled, smirking at the old man's back. “Might as well close it up.”

Mael made a sound as he lowered himself into his chair, something between a dismissive grunt and a stiff groan. “Very well.” He sighed, settling himself and tossing his knitted blanket over his lap. “If it makes Peanut happy.”

You chucked, smiling. “It does, Papa.” You assured him, draining the water out of the Swedes pot and looking over your shoulder at Edmund, who winked at you.

Mashing the Swedes and getting them nice and creamy, you set them aside and checked the Beef Loaf. Opening the oven door and filling the space with a rather mouthwatering aroma, but the dish still needed a few more minutes to cook, so you shut door and started pulling down plates, setting them on the stove to warm up.

“Dinner will be ready soon.” You announced to Edmund and your father. “Do you want to see if Willa is joining us?” You asked Edmund, biting the corner of your lip.

Edmund took a deep breath, setting his pencil down and rubbed at the smudged graphite dust on his fingers for a moment. “I think we both know the answer to that, sister.” He mumbled, a hardness coming to his eyes.

“I suppose.” You whispered back, heart sore for him. “I'll make a plate for her.”

“Best bet.” He sighed, pushing his chair back and standing, moving over to the sink to wash his hands.

[mapsontheweb]

Viking raids in West Francia, 9th century.

by @LegendesCarto